Author's note: I'm so sorry, but I had to rectify a big mistake in the first two chapters – I was somehow convinced that the victim in "The Empty House" was called Aldair instead of Adair. I'm so sorry. And ashamed. Seriously, how could this happen?

But more importantly: I forgot to thank Beawolf's Pen, who loved the first story so much I realized I could write a sequel. And is also my second official fangirl. Thank you.

Oh and: I have followers! Who would've thought? Anyway, on with the story.

Hints of (past) Mormor.

I don't own anything, please review.

Sherlock unceremoniously ripped the out off the lightning rod and put it in a pocket of his coat. Noticing John's look, he explained, "I don't think Moran would like us to tell others about his threat. They would be in danger, too".

John nodded, reminding himself to use this the next time Sherlock said anything about Greg's intellect; there was no one else in the police force he could mean. Although, despite the fact that he'd worked for Moriarty, it hurt to know that Sherlock should take a threat on his life so casually.

A moment later, when he saw Sherlock take out his phone, he felt ashamed for the thought.

"Mycroft?" he inquired.

"Of course. Who else?"

John nodded again. Sherlock might not admit it, but he and Mycroft cared about each other, and his older brother was the one person he would turn to if not even John could help. "What are you telling him?"

"The truth. Moran is after you and he has to increase the surveillance".

John had already suspected that they were constantly watched; still, it wasn't a pleasant thought. To make sure, he asked, "And with surveillance, you mean..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Security, John. Don't worry, I disabled the cameras long ago – and Moriarty's explosion took care of the ones I couldn't find.

It was reassuring to know that he wasn't filmed in the shower, at least.

"So we are going to tell Greg – "

"That we found the spot the sniper used to shoot Aldair. We don't have to tell him about the note – I will make tests, of course, but I think that Moran is too intelligent to leave any prove behind".

Sherlock sounded excited, and John would have liked to be angry with him – no, that wasn't quite right. He would have liked to be able to be angry with him. But he couldn't. He could feel the same excitement coursing through his veins. And he and Sherlock were on the side of the angels, and somehow, that was all the reassurance he needed.

They went down the stairs – Sherlock trying to act like he didn't slow down on purpose again – and were soon back on the street, waiting for the police.

Greg arrived only a few minutes later. He looked undeniably happy – so no wonder he got along with Sherlock, he was probably as much an adrenaline junkie as John, without admitting it – but still thought it necessary to reprimand the consulting detective, which was probably not a bad thought, all things considered. "So you found it. And you couldn't take anyone with you because..."

"There was no reason to" Sherlock answered simply. "I have John".

And the simple trust this implied would have been enough to make John cry, if he hadn't had the presence of mind to clear his throat and to ask, "Sherlock, can we grab something to eat? I haven't had anything since breakfast".

Sherlock had nothing against it, and so he and John – who ignored Greg mouthing "How did you do that?" behind his friend's back – slowly walked over to a small restaurant, where John tried to make Sherlock eat, once more without success. He was used to it by now.

Afterwards, Sherlock insisted they go back to the flat because he wanted to "examine the flat in a controlled environment", but John knew better. And, true enough, when they entered the flat, Mycroft was already sitting in John's chair.

"Sherlock". His brother grumbled something and hung his coat up.

"John". He smiled politely at the doctor and John smiled back, sitting down on the sofa. "Mycroft".

The British Government cleared his throat and said, "Your text was a little cryptic, brother mine, but I understand that Doctor Watson is in danger?"

Sherlock reluctantly showed him the note before letting himself fall into his chair.

Mycroft didn't seem particularly concerned (John had to admit, however, that the older Holmes was a lot harder to read than his brother). "So Sebastian Moran is out for revenge because he lost his boss". He focused his piercing gaze once again at John. "Jim Moriarty was his boss, wasn't he?"

John hadn't talked much about his time as Moriarty's henchman – not even to Sherlock, who just seemed to think that, as long as it didn't concern a case, John didn't have to talk about it, for which the doctor was grateful. But this – this development meant that he had to remember, that he had to talk about it.

And naturally, being Mycroft, Sherlock's brother had asked the question he had wanted to ask, but not directly. John answered it anyway. "He was in love with Moriarty. I think he thought that, if he only waited long enough, Moriarty would return his feelings. And maybe he slept with him, I don't know".

"So he is not simply trying to prove a point – stand in my way and you die – but he wants to avenge the death of a loved one." Mycroft's eyes bored into John's. "I have pulled Moran's file - It wasn't easy, not even for me, which proves that it would be almost impossible for everyone else."

He stood up and, to John's surprise, handed him the file instead of Sherlock, who, for once, raised no objection.

John opened the file and read the first page.

Tours in Iraq and in Afghanistan – he even got a few medals – and several recommendations. Quite a few secret missions too, and all concluded satisfactory. John shook his head. "That is the career of an honourable soldier".

Mycroft nodded and twirled his ever-present umbrella in his hand. "He did well up to a certain point, there can be no doubt of that. But there are some trees which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. You may observe the same tendency in some humans. Something in his blood, or maybe in his upbringing, who can say, ultimately led him to a life of crime. Without any open scandal, he still made it impossible for himself to stay in the army, so he retired and returned to London. He might have stayed a petty criminal, however, if he hadn't met Jim Moriarty". Mycroft looked at John, raising an eyebrow, and this time, it really wasn't difficult to realized what the older Holmes thought. John swallowed. Sherlock frowned.

"Mycroft, why are you here?"

"Can't I be concerned about my brother and his best friend when a sniper decides to target them? Plus, I wanted to bring you the file."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll ask again: Why are you here instead of organizing a better surveillance?"

"Ah, now we understand each other. Don't worry, Sherlock, I have already arranged a better surveillance – don't bother looking for them, John, you won't see them. Nothing will happen to either of you". He looked at his watch. "Now, if you excuse me, I have an appointment at Downing Street".

He stood up and left, Sherlock having adopted his thinking pose and not looking at his brother, while John stood up and walked over to the window, only to hear, "John, he is a sniper. I wouldn't stand there if I were you".

"Of course". He walked back to the sofa and sat down, clearing his throat. "Sherlock..." But the consulting detective was already lost in his mind palace. "Sherlock!"

His best friend turned around.

"I am not going to wait here until Mycroft's people catch Moran. This is between him and me, and I am with you every step of the way".

The consulting detective's eyes sparkled. "I wouldn't have it any other way". They smiled at one another, and John sighed with relief. At least he would be able to watch Sherlock's back.

"Moran must have a plan" Sherlock announced. "You don't leave a note like that unless you have a plan, and he learned from the best. The question is – what is the plan?"

John, who was on his way to the kitchen to make tea, turned around and looked at him, confused. "What do you mean? Moran isn't Moriarty. He wants to kill me. Plain and simple. Not everyone has to have a diabolical plan, Sherlock".

"No, I suppose not..."

The consulting detective's eyes followed John into the kitchen. He was trying to hide (and apparently succeeding) how worried he was; he might not be a dangerous as Moriarty had been, but Moran had been in the army and he was an excellent fighter and sniper. And, if he had been as besotted as John seemed to think – and John was a better judge of such matters than him – he had probably hung around the consulting criminal a lot, and picked up some of his tricks.

John didn't seem particularly concerned, and it was likely the adrenaline the death threat hanging over his head gave him was doing him some good. And yet –

The doctor wasn't completely healthy. Not yet. He wouldn't admit it, of course, but Sherlock could tell that the wound still bothered. In time, his would disappear completely – but that might be another reason Moran had decided to set his plan in motion now. When John was still vulnerable, or as vulnerable as the ex-army doctor could get.

Normally, Sherlock wouldn't have called Mycroft – but this was his friend that was threatened. His only friend. The only person who would and had taken a bullet for him. And he had to keep him safe.

He got a text. It was from Lestrade – or Greg, Sherlock had decided not to delete his first name.

I tried to get my hand on Moran's service records. Any idea why I can't access them?
GL

The DI wasn't as intolerable as the rest of the imbeciles at Scotland Yard, Sherlock would give him that. He listened to the consulting detective, for example.

So he decided to answer.

I have the file here.
SH

Lestrade needed less than a minute to reply.

Mycroft?
GL

Sherlock almost snorted; could he really think of another explanation?

Of course.
SH

The DI needed even less time to type his last message (impressive, considering he'd needed several minutes for a simple "I need you" when Sherlock had started working with him).

On my way.
GL

"Let the kettle on, Greg is coming" Sherlock shouted. John emerged with two cups and raised an eyebrow. "You actually listen to what I have to say?"

"If there aren't more important things that require my undivided attention".

John shot him an exasperated look that wasn't without fondness; he recognized it from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and realized with surprised that he wasn't annoyed by it anymore.

Lestrade came half an hour later.

"We didn't find anything on the rooftop – although you were right, Adair was definitely shot from there. But we have nothing to connect anyone with his murder".

Sherlock handed him the file as he settled down on the sofa. He read it through and then put it down, looking at Sherlock and John.

"Catching him won't be easy".

"No" Sherlock admitted.

The Di nodded and stood up, walking to the window and looking out, then turning around and returning to the sofa. Sherlock huffed.

"If you have questions, Lestrade, then ask. Your pacing hinders my thought process".

The DI swallowed and nodded, but didn't look at Sherlock. Instead, he looked in the doctor's eyes.

"John..." he said slowly. "I know that it may be difficult to remember, living with Sherlock, but I'm not stupid. There has been no "soldier's reunion" where you could have met Moran. And, although I'm sure I would find some report about an accident you had – being friends with the little brother of the British Government has its advantages – I recognized the way you moved. You were shot. In the chest, I'd say. So, please, tell me: How do you know Moran?"

John stared at Sherlock, who looked surprised for once.

Author's note: I hadn't thought I'd let Lestrade find out this soon, but I realized it would make a good end of the chapter.

Inner fangirl: Plus, he is h-

Me: Just to clarify, my inner fangirl has just now replaced my mind.

Inner fangirl: Yes.

Me: As in a few days ago.

Inner fangirl: Yes. Why?

Me: (looking over fanfiction I've written): No reason.

I hope you liked it, please review.