Author's note: Sorry, this one is going to be a bit short – I have to rush. Again.

Also, I got more reviews for the last chapter than I had expected – it was sneaky Lestrade, wasn't it? Hot DIs running around and manipulating everyone. Always works.

I don't own anything, please review.

Thankfully, Anderson gave up after three tries to make the bullet match the gun again and reluctantly called Greg – or rather he called Donavan, naturally, who then told Greg about his findings. This time, he didn't have to hide his relief, although it was for another reason than the Sergeant supposed. Knowing Sherlock, he was already bored out of his mind, and not even John would keep him in the safe house much longer when he could be out there hunting for Moran.

He sent a text to the blocked number Mycroft had called him from earlier – maybe, if his brother told him the news, Sherlock would be a bit more patient – then made sure the news got out to every police station in the city. The sooner they got Sherlock out of a safe house that belonged to his brother the better.

After having done this, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. At least he had got John of the hook. True, he had committed the murder he had been sought for, but in the end – he had tried to help Moran out of instinct not because he'd wanted to kill the poor young man.

Greg couldn't deny that Moran's plan had been a good one, however, and would have worked if Sherlock's brother didn't happen to be the British Government. They had to catch him soon, before he decided to take his revenge in a different way –

John had told him about Moran's unrequited love for Moriarty. So the ex-sniper would probably try to take away the one thing John couldn't live without...

Greg swallowed. Sherlock. The consulting detective was in danger. He had to speak with them both as soon as they were back at 221B, to make sure they (or rather John, he would never make Sherlock see sense) took some precautions. At least Mycroft would certainly upgrade their surveillance status now.

Sherlock was still (or again, depending how you looked at it) pacing up and down the living room, and John was considering praying for a quick solution when Mycroft sent another text and the consulting detective told him that he had been proven innocent – or, rather, had been made innocent – and that they would soon be able to leave the house. John winced when Sherlock used the term "made innocent", and his friend seemed to notice because he immediately started talking about the case again – or, rather, their lack of a case against Moran.

John agreed with him that it was frustrating, especially since he had seen Moran commit several crimes. But there was no way they could prove that he committed them, not until they found the man who had...

It was as if the proverbial light bulb had been turned on over his head, and, for once, he swore openly.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"John?"

"The gun" John explained, jumping up and doing his own pacing – "You said light and easy to conceal?"

Sherlock nodded, for once not understanding what John wanted.

"When I was stationed in Afghanistan" the doctor explained, "Now and then, there would be some talk of a new kind of sniper rifle. Just rumours, mind, I don't believe the weapon ever saw a battle, but it should have been a very accurate rifle, small and –"

"Light?" Sherlock asked, comprehending immediately, his eyes starting to shine.

John nodded. "If I remember correctly, the project was said to have been abandoned later, although I can't say why. But, if there was such a project –"

"Mycroft has access to the information" Sherlock finished the sentence excitedly before taking out the phone he'd found in the house and texting Mycroft. John sat down again, happy that he'd finally done something of importance. Mycroft would find out, Mycroft always found out. And then they could trace the manufacturer.

Mycroft told Sherlock that he'd need some time – so the file must be buried deep – but that they were free to go and that DI Lestrade wants to see them at the Yard. Naturally, Sherlock grumbled that he had to follow up this lead, but John shot him a stern look and reminded him that Greg had just done them a huge favour – in fact, he wasn't sure how he would ever repay the detective – and so they left the house and took a cab to Scotland Yard.

Donavan was waiting for them, disdain evident on her face. Sherlock, as usual, swept past her without a second glance, John followed, trying to keep a blank face.

She, however, wasn't ready to let it go.

"How did you do it?" she asked, casually, following him.

"Do what?" John replied just as casually.

"You know what I mean – the bullet was a match only yesterday, Anderson showed me. Today it#s not. So, what happened? Did your freak safe you?"

"I didn't do it" John answered, surprised how easy it was to lie. "That is the reason. If Anderson can't do his work correctly it's not my fault. Oh, and Sherlock is not a freak".

"Not so sure about which one of you is anymore myself" she spat, sitting down at her desk.

John was a little bit shocked at himself that he wasn't angry with her, but rather amused at her annoyance. He finally made his way into Greg's office, where Sherlock was already waiting, and knew as soon as he saw the DI'S face that his friend must have said something to shock him.

"Sherlock..." he warned, turning to Greg to apologize, but the DI shook his head.

"Relax, John – he just – he thanked me. That's all".

John chuckled. "Not used to it?"

"You could say that". They grinned at each other as Sherlock huffed. "John made it clear that he expected me to thank you for your endeavours, and I did. Can we now please concentrate at the task at hand?"

"Of course" Greg answered, waving away John's tries to thank him. "You don't have to thank me too, John; I did it because I wanted to. You don't deserve to go to jail".

"According to Donavan, I do. I think she's going to start calling me freak now too".

"Creativity has never been her strong suit" Sherlock mumbled, looking at his phone – he had turned it on again as soon as Mycroft had informed them they were allowed to leave the house – and reading the text that only Mycroft could have sent.

"John, you were right" he exclaimed happily "the army considered trying out the rifles, but in the end it was decided that they were too expensive. The manufacturer – and inventor, according to the patent – is a German living in London called Herder. Mycroft has already found out his address".

"Of course he has" John muttered, and Greg winked at him.

"Come on John, let's go" Sherlock announced, strolling out of the office, and the doctor shot Greg an apologetic look.

"Don't worry, I know how he is" the DI smiled.

John shook his head. "Alright, but one of these days I am buying you a pint".

"Okay by me. And call me if there's any problem".

"I will".

They shook hands and John turned to follow Sherlock.

The detective had already hailed a cab and was impatiently bouncing on the pavement. John said nothing and got in the cab.

The ride to Herder's house wasn't long and Sherlock explained to John that they'd simply ask him whether he'd sold any of his rifles lately – his reaction would probably be enough to tell them what they wanted to know, and maybe they could find a link to Moran. John agreed and continued looking out of the window, a strange sense of foreboding in his mind.

As it turned out, he had been right, because Herder's front door stood open when they got out of the cab.

Sherlock, instantly alert, murmured, "Alright. Let's take a look".

"Sherlock, shouldn't we – "

But the consulting detective was already in the house, so John simply sighed and took out his phone. He sent a text to Greg requesting assistance, knowing that it would be useless to contact Mycroft, since the older Holmes probably already knew where they were, and hurried towards the front door, before Sherlock could –

A shot rang out inside the house.

Author's note: Shorter chapter, I know, but I really wanted to keep my schedule (I'd hate to let my readers down) and I can promise that this will be longer than "That Might Have Been My Fate" – it already has more chapters, and soon it'll have more words too. But the next chapter is probably going to be the last. Don't want to drag this out too long.

Cliffhanger? What cliffhanger? (Looks at floor and starts to whistle). I don't know what you are talking about.

I hope you liked it, please review.