"Which way?" John exclaimed, frantically turning about on the sidewalk, not seeing the blonde man in either direction.
"Left!" Steve took off down the sidewalk, with little hesitation.
John strove to keep up. "Why?" he yelled.
"Does it matter?" Steve shouted back, skirting around a large elderly woman, who gave a little scream as they went past.
"I'd like to know!"
"A hunch, then!"
"What?!" John nearly tripped over a small dog. The owner yanked it out of the way, looking horrified. "Should we not split up, take each way?"
"No!" Steve didn't turn. "I'm sure he went this way! Back to Baker Street!"
"A hunch?!"
Steve didn't answer; he only continued his attempts at hailing a cab on the run.
Cab luck, unfortunately, wasn't with them that night. Their run continued all the way to Baker Street, and with every step John couldn't banish the thought that their quarry was more and more out of their reach. By the time 221 was within view John felt the air straining in his lungs, and his legs felt curiously numb.
"Keep by the building walls!" Steve panted, steering towards them. John obeyed, skimming the brick as they ran down the empty sidewalk. They were on the opposite side of the street where John's flat resided.
Steve kept going steadfastly, checking each door that they flew by, though for what John hadn't the slightest idea. He had never seen Steve so determined, and he never would have guessed the heavy build to move so fast and for so long. John didn't consider himself too far gone, yet he felt nearly drained, and even more so as he watched Steve's darting movements back and forth, from running to door to running again.
They were nearing the opposite of 221 when Steve let out a huff of excitement. "Here!" he hissed, motioning to the door he had quite suddenly stopped at.
Immensely grateful, John also came to a halt, and resisted the urge to bend over gasping with his hands on his knees. "Why…here…" he panted.
"The knob." He gestured to the knob on the plain door. John leaned over to look. "Do you see? The frost? It's been turned, and recently."
"Oh!" John saw that he was indeed right. Clear finger marks were upon the metal knob, melted through the frost as it was grabbed. "Good thinking!"
"Saw it on a programme." Without another word, Steve reached for the knob. In a manner completely contrasting the recent burst of speed, he turned it slowly, halting every time it gave the slightest noise. Finally, the door opened, with the smallest creak.
Darkness. John squinted, trying to distinguish shapes or figures in the gloom, but could only see the first few feet of faded green carpet. Suddenly remembering the reason they were there, John felt his heart quicken once more. He was hit with the overwhelming urge to have his pistol in his hand. Or perhaps something bigger.
Steve put a finger to his bearded lips, unnecessarily signalling John to be quiet. With a quick movement he darted inside, and John only hesitated a moment before silently following.
John didn't close the door behind him. The thought of complete darkness in the ominous place chilled his blood, as even the partial dimness was setting him on edge. Steve, however, soon remedied this, taking out his phone and finding a flashlight function. The light was brighter then John expected, and he now saw quite clearly the outline of a staircase. Without a pause Steve started up, staying to the sides, as with the sidewalk. John realised this to be a wise move; he supposed that creaking was invariably in the middle, where feet usually tread.
Steve moved quickly now, up two flights without a sound. John gripped the banister tightly, fearing his feet to be less skilful in staying silent. He breathed easier when Steve stopped climbing at the third floor, and stood still, looking at the apartment door.
It was only then that John knew this to be the right place; how else could they get into an apartment building, where the front door is usually locked? The man must have his own key, or else broke the lock somehow. The door they were facing was closed, yet John swore he saw a faint glow at the bottom, as though a small flashlight or candle was lit inside.
He must have taken a cab, John thought, his mind whirling to the insignificant details, as it often did when he was under pressure.
Steve turned off his phone and put it in his pocket, then slowly reached for the knob. John wanted to stop him, but held back. They had the element of surprise, which was their only advantage now. There was no longer the option of calling the police, which John now realised how stupid it was not to have called straightaway. Even the tapping of the keyboard on his phone would sound like castanets in the dead silence of the building.
Before taking hold of the knob, John saw Steve reach into the inside of his jacket. Without the slightest ruffle of cloth he brought out a pistol, and the sight of it gave John a rush of profound relief.
Holding the gun at the ready, Steve gripped the knob. He gave John a look, and John nodded reluctantly, wishing again for his own weapon, snugly hidden in his dresser drawer at home.
Steve started turning the knob, slowly, surgically. It went smoothly, miraculously with no sound, and John saw Steve smile with relief. And then, as the knob ended its revolution, the mechanism inside gave a resounding click.
John felt his heart in his throat, and for one ringing moment everything was frozen. Then, in a movement so sudden and quick it was nearly invisible, Steve shot backwards, away from the door, flinging out an arm that caught John's chest and forcing him nearly off his feet. A millisecond later a deafening crack ripped through the silence, mingling with the splintering of wood, and John saw a hole explode in the door. Steve regained his balance and sank into a crouch, moving forward and hitting his shoulder against the door, which crashed open. Another shot rang out and John ducked as well, feeling pieces of drywall hit his back from the wall opposite the door.
Straightening, Steve raised his gun and fired, once, twice, three times. John ran forward, half with the intention to yank Steve to the ground again. But no blast followed. John looked into the dimly lit room, and just saw the man outlined against the window fall forward, first his knees then his face hitting the hardwood with a sickening crunch. Out of his slack grip fell a rifle, which clattered on the floor in front of him.
Upon seeing the rifle fall, John strode into the apartment and kicked it away, sending it sliding across the room. It went farther then he expected, being much lighter then he imagined when he first saw it. Though, on a quick second glace, he saw the characteristics required to collapse to a small bundle, small enough to fit in the poolstick case. The stock, the stand, the scope; all capable of folding in on themselves, or entirely removable. Though, the gun wasn't the thing occupying John's attention at the moment. He was more preoccupied with the man bleeding profusely on the floor in front of him.
Grabbing the man's jacket, John flipped him on his back. He saw straight away the blond-haired man was still alive, but his breathing was weak and uneven, and he felt that the pulse was feeble in his wrist. "Steve, hand me something to staunch the bleeding."
"Why?" the inspector replied coldly from the doorway.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" John asked angrily. "Give me something!"
There was a rustle, and John felt something soft hit the side of his head. He snatched it up and saw that it was Steve's scarf. He bundled it up and pressed it into the three close set bullet holes in the sniper's chest. "Call the Yard. Get them to send an ambulance. We want him alive; we want this bastard on trial."
John heard the sound of a number being dialled, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was shocked at Steve's cold blooded attitude, even if it was towards a murderer. He must take the case seriously. Probably because it started near his home. Maybe he knew one of the victims. John pressed the scarf harder, feeling the blood seep through. "Don't you die." he muttered. "You aren't getting away that easy."
"They'll be here within minutes." Steve said, slipping away his phone.
"Good. He won't last long without treatment. We need him to identify his clients, if anything."
While John did his damndest to keep the sniper alive, Steve moved instead towards the gun. Silently, without John noticing, he picked it up off the ground. It was an intricate design; extremely modern, lightweight, with collapsible bits that could fold down into the stock and barrel. Steve looked it over, studying the mechanics of the weapon closely. Fiddling with the scope, looking through it, pointing the gun at different parts of the room.
And then, he pointed it across the room, at the side of John's head.
His facial features twitched, taking on a look of livid triumph, glaring into the scope. John didn't turn; the man on the floor was fading fast, and it was all he could do to keep the blood in. For a couple of heartbeats Steve kept the gun pointed, and John swore under his breath, his eyes only on the ineffective compress and his blood soaked hands.
Then, out of the open window, a faint siren screamed, getting louder. Steve lowered the gun. His face was pallid under the beard and ruddy complexion, and though his expression was now neutral, his eyes burned with barely concealed hatred as he looked down to where John was treating the dying man.
"Steve, have you anything else?" John fairly yelled. "He's losing too much blood!"
Before Steve could answer, if he was even planning to, the man on the floor let out a gurgling gasp. His eyes glazed over, and his head fell to the side.
"Oh no you—" John rammed a thumb into his neck, feeling for a pulse. "He's gone. He's damn well gone."
No sooner had he uttered the words that the sound of thundering footsteps was heard on the stairs.
"A therapist. That was his front."
John watched the medical examiner draw a white sheet over the dead man. The pool player, one of the players he'd glanced over for months. One of the regulars at Peggy's. He felt sickened just thinking about it, so he instead focused on Steve, who had taken the liberty of explaining the situation to a stunned Lestrade.
"A therapist?" Lestrade repeated.
"The perfect excuse to hear people's problems, and the perfect place to find those people. A pub is the centre for the angry and desperate, no wonder he chose it as his hunting grounds."
"So, he found out if they had issues with other people…"
"And handed out his cards like fliers. He might have given them reasons to believe he was more then he said, or maybe he trusted the clue in the name to make the customers savvy. Either way, it was all within shadows. The people probably didn't even know for sure what they were paying for, though they most likely guessed."
"That must have been his card, then!" Lestrade said, amazed. "In the third victim's pocket! It probably came from his wife's purse. No wonder it didn't work when I called, he probably changed his number after every couple of hits."
"And that's why they were all within this area." John added, glancing out the window, where the front of 221 was just visible. "Nobody travels far from home to go to a pub."
"Good god…" Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, this certainly is an end not short on the dramatics."
"At least it's an end at all." John remarked. "It was mainly luck that closed it. Thank God he gave that woman his card." And that she was drunk enough to drop it.
"Oh, give yourself some credit." Lestrade said good-naturedly. "Listen, are you two okay? No injuries? I saw that he'd taken a couple of shots at you."
"Just missed."
"Any shock?" Lestrade pressed.
John smiled wanly. "I've been through worse. Steve, you alright?"
"Fine." He didn't smile. He just slipped his hands in his pockets, looking around the room.
"We'll get a full statement tomorrow, yeah?" Lestrade glanced at John's hands, which were caked in dried blood. "There's a sink over there, John."
"Oh. Right." John went to the sink in the little kitchenette and scrubbed his hands, watching the brown water swirl down the drain. "All that effort, and he dies on me. I suppose we'll never get his account."
"Ah, we'll find enough evidence to get some of them, John. The important thing is that he can't continue."
"I suppose. Though Steve lost a scarf. Sorry, mate."
"It's expendable."
"We're going to be closing off the scene now." Anderson's voice drilled through John's eardrums like the buzz of a florescent light. "I'll have to ask you two to leave."
John didn't bother pointing out how very little Anderson's words meant, and turned to Lestrade instead. "Suppose we'll be off, then," he said, waving his hands to dry them, being careful to send a few flicks of water in Anderson's direction.
Lestrade shrugged, looking apologetic. "Yeah, there's not much more here." He yawned into his arm, looking around. "Gonna stay a bit, phone around, then I'm off home as well. Get some sleep that I've missed the past while."
"Right, well. You'll call tomorrow then?"
"Will do. And John, Steve," Lestrade gave a little salute. "Prepare to be heroes in tomorrow's papers."
"Oh, fantastic." John said with not a little sarcasm, as they left through the perforated door. "I'm looking forward to the calls I'll be getting tomorrow." Harry's going to go mental. Again.
Steve didn't look very thrilled at the prospect either, but stayed silent as they made their way down the stairs. It was only when they had exited the apartment building onto the sidewalk that he spoke for the first time since leaving the scene. "Do you want to get something to eat?"
"Hmm? Something to eat?" John checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight, is anything even open?"
"I have one in mind." Steve gestured in an indiscriminate direction. "Its location is…odd, but the food is quite edible."
"Well, why didn't you say so." John said, smiling tiredly. "I do enjoy food that's edible."
Steve's phone vibrated. He took it out of his pocket, checked it, and put it back after silencing the ring. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Piss right off."
They walked silently for a bit longer down the frosty sidewalk, waiting for a cab to stop. Steve managed to finally hail one, and they got in, John gratefully sitting down for the first time since their wild chase began. Steve gave the address to the cabbie.
"I don't remember any restaurants in that area." John said, surprised. "Has it just recently opened?"
"No, it's hidden behind the main buildings. I told you it was in a strange spot."
"Ah." John settled back. "If I contract food poisoning from this place, Steve, I'm not going to be pleased." It was then that Steve suddenly became preoccupied with his phone.
There was no more talking after that; the cab stayed as quiet as the empty streets it drove down. It was as if the sudden conclusion to the horrific excitement of the case had settled them both into a haze of weary relief. Though as John looked out the window, he was surprised at the feeling of nostalgia that hit him just then, and he smiled sadly as he watched the blur of frozen London slip silently by.
Greg Lestrade had just finished the arduous task of filling in the Chief Superintendent, and hung up his phone with a feeling of relief. Stretching furtively, he took a few moments rest, and watched the forensics team pack up. He had been living off of less then five hours sleep a night recently, and he had exhaustion that was bone deep. He just wanted to go home and collapse into bed.
Though there was one more call he needed to make. With another insuppressible yawn, he put in a call to the police headquarters in Dublin. He needed the information that Steve had promised—and evidentially forgot—to send him, on the first victim and also the shootings they had experienced. The ID in this man's wallet had labelled him an Irishman, and Lestrade was willing to bet that it was indeed the same man, as Steve had guessed.
"Hi, this is DI Lestrade from London." He proceeded to put in his request, which the dispatch readily obliged, and promised to fax it as quickly as possible.
"Isn't a problem." she said cheerfully at his grateful thanks. "Anything else you need?"
"Think that about covers it. This case has been hell; I'm about ready to just conk out. If it wasn't for your inspector I'd still be up to my ears, to be honest."
"Our inspector?" she asked, sounding puzzled.
"Yeah," Lestrade said, surprised. "Steve Daniel. Helped quite a bit. Made the actual capture, as a matter of fact."
"Steve Daniel…" she mused. Lestrade heard the distant sound of her keyboard clacking. "Daniel, Daniel…no, we don't seem to have a Steve Daniel here."
Lestrade didn't answer for a moment. "No? But…" He tried to remember back when John had introduced Steve. He had said Dublin, he was sure…was he sure? But he also remembered Steve saying it once more to Anderson. Lestrade knew he hadn't misheard twice. "Does he go by a different name? Maybe he has some dreadful first name that he never uses except for official business."
More clicking. "Ah…no, doesn't look it," she said after a while. "No horrid names that I can see. There's an Aaron Danielson, but that's about it. And I know for a fact that Aaron's in the break room getting himself a muffin."
Suddenly, Lestrade didn't feel as tired as he did five minutes before. He thanked the dispatcher and hung up, feeling uneasy.
He tried to think of a logical explanation, but none surfaced in his fatigued brain. There was only one that his mind kept falling back on, and it was this that drove him to pull out his phone and place a call John's mobile.
He paced back and forth, listening to it ring, and after six he hung up, swearing under his breath. With an ominous feeling now in his gut, he sent him a text, and resolved to give it fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and if there was no reply by then, he was going to set a search. He only prayed that what his mind kept circling around was far from the truth.