Well, I'm back! *Waves* So, how have you all been? God, so much has happened since I last updated my Sherlock stories! Anyway, you'll all be pleased to know that I've definately got the Sherlock bug back and both this and Best Intentions will once again be updated regularily! Anyone who did read the first part of this ages ago and actually didn't forget about it, thank you so much! I hope you like this second part, its been a long time coming! This one is for anybody who has been waiting for me to update! This isn't beta-ed so sorry for any mistakes. If anyone would like to beta this (and the next part of Best Intentions which I'll have ready to send to anyone who wants it tomorrow) please let me know! Enjoy this and please review :) Oh, and its good to be back!

Heroes Don't Exist

Chapter Two

Sherlock let out a loud sigh. He walked to the window, and glanced out. He heard voices from down below and he frowned, unable to see who John was talking to. Sherlock actually wondered whether he should take the opportunity to run downstairs, and apologise to John. He knew he had gone to far, was very aware that he had been rude and unkind. And he had actually hurt John's feelings. Not something he was proud of.

He watched as John moved into his field of vision and then hurry away, crossing the street as quickly as possible. Sherlock moved away from the window, shaking his head slightly.

He would call John later. He'd sort this whole mess out with him then.

He heard the door being slammed downstairs and his ears pricked up. Interesting. Whoever John was talking to, they had been allowed entry by him.

By the time the newcomer was half way up the steps, Sherlock had already recognised the man's footsteps.

He turned, arms placed across his chest, and waited for his visitor to come bounding through the door. Sure enough, two seconds later, Detective Lestrade had rushed into the room.

"Sherlock," he boomed, as soon as he was through the door. "I need you to come with me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You do advertise your presence, you know, Lestrade. Like a herd of elephants. Maybe try lighter footsteps from now on? You might even catch some criminals if they didn't hear you come from the next street..."

Lestrade was breathing heavily, clearly trying to catch his, having recently been running He placed his hands on hips, and fixed Sherlock with a glare.

"John said you were in one of your arsey moods, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes he did, but I don't have time to play your childish games. We need to leave right now, so get your coat."

Sherlock did not appreciate being ordered around at the best of times, especially by Lestrade.

"What's the rush," he enquired. "I'm assuming that there has been yet another murder that you couldn't possibly hope to solve without my expertise? Well, maybe I'm busy right now."

"Sherlock, get in the car."

Sherlock's stubbornness grew. "Even if I accept the case," he snapped; "I will follow you in a taxi alone. You know the drill."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not this time."

Sherlock glared frostily at Lestrade, trying to think of a witty retort. Deciding he couldn't be bothered, instead he crossed the room, taking a book from the shelf. "Fine then. Shut the door behind you."

Lestrade glowered. "Damn it, Sherlock! I'm not joking, I'm not playing along with you, not today. I need you out of that door. Now." Sherlock didn't respond. Lestrade let out a despairing sigh and then added, after a moment's hesitation; "Please."

That last word threw Sherlock. He looked up, fixing Lestrade with a curious gaze. "You're worried," he announced. "Why?"

Lestrade had reached the end of his tether. He marched forward, took a hold of Sherlock's arm and began to pull the younger man towards the door. Sherlock instantly began to struggle, yelling his displeasure. He wrestled his arm away from Lestrade, pulling free, and then stood directly in front of the other man, his fists clenched.

"I offer my help to you," he hissed, through gritted teeth. "You don't manhandle me anywhere. Am I making myself clear?"

Lestrade stared back. "I can't leave you on your own here, Sherlock." Lestrade replied. "It's too dangerous."

Sherlock blinked. "Dangerous? For me?" He asked, more quietly now. Despite his annoyance, he couldn't deny he was intrigued. "I'm in danger?"

Lestrade looked away. Bloody Sherlock. He didn't want to have to get into the ins and outs of this before they had even left the flat. Couldn't he just do as he was told? Just this once?

Couldn't he see how worried Lestrade was?

Just once in his life, couldn't he care?

"Yes," Lestrade replied, softly. "There's been a murder, one that will highly interest you, trust me. And there's a message," he frowned, looking towards the door. "A message just for you, I think. That's why I don't want to leave you here alone, now that you've managed to upset John. Again." He paused. "You need to see this body, Sherlock. So, are you coming with me, or is throwing your latest tantrum more important to you?"

Sherlock hesitated. He was searching Lestrade's face, trying to figure this all out. He wasn't scared, why should he be? He hadn't even seen this message yet. No, he was interested. But there was something holding him back.

Lestrade read his mind. Which was a first for him.

"Do you want to find John?"

Sherlock turned and looked towards the window again.

"Yes," he muttered. "I actually do."

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, he's welcome to come along, as normal. We could pick him up on the way, if you know where he was heading?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I upset him," Sherlock replied, more to himself. "I said some things..."

Lestrade shook his head wearily. "Well, you could try apologising..."

Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade, grabbing his coat which had been thrown onto the settee. "Best to keep him out of this," he mumbled. "If it's me being targeted, I don't want him in danger again, like last time with Moriarty..."

Lestrade was unimpressed. This sounded like a cop out to him. He watched as Sherlock headed towards the door.

"But maybe John has a right to know, Sherlock?" Lestrade tried again. "He does live with you, after all?"

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood. Were you not in a rush?"

The two men eye balled each other. Lestrade knew he couldn't win.

He frowned, and then, nodded.

He had got what he wanted, he didn't want to push it, not now he actually had Sherlock's full attention. That was the best he could have expected. He wasn't stupid enough to hope for a miracle. Not where Sherlock was concerned..

"After you," he offered, and then watched as Sherlock hurried out of the door. He tried to bury the feeling as foreboding swirling in his gut as he rushed out after him.

XXX

"Nice place." Sherlock noted.

Lestrade gave him an unimpressed look. "Just get this done, Sherlock, so we can all get out of here."

They were standing in a deserted warehouse, a very bleak building on a not very appealing part of the city. The place had not been used for decades and was certainly unsafe. Definitely the perfect place to commit a crime where you knew you wouldn't be disturbed. Both men were gazing down upon the body of what once was a woman and even Sherlock had been somewhat thrown by the state of the corpse. The woman had literally been cut up by the mad man, or men, who had killed her.

"Her name was Fiona Dawkins," Lestrade stated. Sherlock looked up at once. He silently repeated the name.

"You remember?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock nodded. "Our first case together. How could I forget?" He glanced down again. "You have a wallet?"

"Yes," Lestrade responded, "The killer obviously wanted us to know her name."

"I assume that's why she died," Sherlock mused. "Too much of a coincidence."

"I thought the same," Lestrade agreed. He jerked his head. "And I have something else I need you to see, Sherlock."

"He took her heart," Sherlock noted, at once, ignoring his words.

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, and kidneys."

"Same as before." Sherlock blinked. "I don't suppose he left them lying about?"

"No," Lestrade told him grimly. "Nothing has been touched."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. For you."

"Lets get this over with, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped. "I want to get what's left of this poor woman back to the morgue. Then maybe we can actually get on with finding her murderer. This has to be a copy cat killing. And if he, or they, are copying the murders I suspect they are, then we need to find these sickos before they find you." He glared. "If its all the same to you."

Sherlock was still staring down at the body.

"Someone did this just to gain my attention."

"It seems so," Lestrade said softly. "And?"

"They have it." Came the quiet reply.

Lestrade tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow. Sherlock did so. The Inspector led the other man to a different room in the warehouse, and then gestured to the wall. Words were written there. Sherlock moved forward, seeing the message and noting at once that it was written in blood.

The message, scrawled in barely readable letters, was much more interesting.

"121B Bakers Street, London. See you soon, Sherlock. JO'D."

Sherlock repeated the last few letters to himself.

"JOD."

Sherlock gazed at the wall, noting the style of the writing and recalling where he had seen something similar before. In a letter he had once received himself.

"This has been written by an Irishman," he muttered, more to himself. "And his message is only to clear. It's all about me. This woman was killed to get my attention. And he knew it would work. He's clever." He shot a look at Lestrade. "Cleverer than you, at any rate. Obviously not cleverer than me. Because I caught him."

"Okay, impress. How do you know that?"

Sherlock did not look up. "It's blindingly obvious."

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh and a small shake of his head. "No, not this time. I need more than that right now, Sherlock. I need answers."

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "It's not that complicated, Lestrade. Look at the name of the victim, look at the style of writing on the wall. The girl wasn't killed here, there's no blood on the ground, despite being hacked to pieces, so she was killed somewhere else and brought here because this place is a similar warehouse to last time. She was chosen because of her name. I bet they searched high and low for a Fiona Dawkins, and murdered her brutally just because she happened to have the same name as the victim from our first case together. This is not a copy cat killing. Why would it be? This wasn't in the papers, it was kept out of the papers by the girl's rich father so that leads me to deduce that the same gang are involved once again." He paused for breath, and possibly to check that he had Lestrade's undivided attention. Realising he did, he continued on. "This killer could have come after me, or someone close to me, straight away. They didn't, they chose to play a game. Every single clue in this case points to the killers being exactly the same men as before." He fixed Lestrade with a knowing look. "The O'Donnell brothers."

Lestrade paled. That would not be good news. It was also, he was very relieved to remember, impossible.

"They are both still locked up."

Sherlock frowned. "No. Out on good behaviour. Joseph anyway, I don't know about his brother. Joseph is the threat anyway." He narrowed his eyes. "He always was the clever one."

Lestrade shook his head. "How can they let a man like that out?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's your system. You tell me." He pulled out his phone. "You read the message. They're coming after me. And anyone unlucky enough to live with me. I need to contact John and Mrs Hudson now. Are we done here?

Lestrade nodded. With a flustered grimace, he turned away, hurrying quickly back into larger room, calling out instructions to his men. "Get the body moved," he snapped. "And get forensics on this site pronto."

"We would have got started ages ago," Anderson piped up, "If we'd been allowed to."

Sherlock threw Anderson a condescending look. "Don't worry Anderson," he retorted. "I've got what I've needed. Feel free to blunder in and discover absolutely nothing at all."

Anderson took a step forward. "it's you this gang are after then? I wonder why? How could you possibly have insulted anyone enough to want to hurt you? I really can't think."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, at least you can admit it. There's hope for you after all. Now get out of may way, Anderson, since I'm certain you have nothing intelligent to add."

And he pushed past Anderson, leaving the police officer fuming in his wake.

"I have to find John."

Lestrade called after him. "Fine. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. Don't you listen? Like I said, they have our address. We need to stay away from Bakers Street." He fixed Lestrade with a knowing look. "You know what these men are capable of."

Lestrade did. That was why he insides would not stop churning.

"Okay, Sherlock. You find John and Mrs Hudson and then I'll put you under police protection until we know what the deal is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The deal is revenge, Lestrade. Cold, calculated, simple revenge. On me."

The detective was walking quickly, away from Lestrade, his phone pressed to his ear.

"Remember what I said," he called back. "Don't come looking for us. Wait for me to call you."

He listened as John's phone rang once, twice, three times.

There was no answer.

Damn it.

Sherlock's panic continued to increase as he broke into a run.

XXX

Sherlock was still feeling uncomfortable as he stood outside his own front door, having found a taxi without to much bother and demanding that the driver got him to his destination as quickly as possible. He had actually requested for the man to "step on it" twice. He had attempted to call John four times in the taxi ride back to Baker Street but never got an answer. John's phone just rang and rang. It wasn't normal. John knew Sherlock preferred to text, and when the other man became aware that he had four missed calls, surely he would have sensed there was trouble? John could actually be quite intelligent, all things considered,. And he had learnt a lot from Sherlock, well, had begun to any way. To ignore all those signs, even after he and Sherlock had fallen out earlier in the day, was simply out of character for John. And that was what worried Sherlock.

He unlocked the front door and entered, calling out to John as soon as the door slammed shut behind him. There was no reply. Still that feeling of unease would not leave him. Something was not right.

Maybe he is still out with Sarah. Maybe he's staying there tonight. It was not like Sherlock to panic but this whole night had got to him. All the bad memories from the past had come flooding back, and he was only to aware what dangerous men Joseph and Mickey O'Donnell were. And Sherlock had got them locked away for years. It made perfect sense that they would come looking for revenge, and what better way to get to Sherlock than through John.

It seems to be the obvious route taken now. First Moriarty, now the O'Donnell twins. Is there no originality left in the criminal mind? Boring.

"John!" Sherlock called. "Are you here?"

He ran up the stairs two and a time, and he flung open the living room door, adrenalin pumping. The sight that greeted him though stopped him in his tracks. He stared with wide, panicked eyes at John, who was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by three men, who were all facing Sherlock. The detective quickly noted that John's hands were tied, wait, no, cuffed, behind his back, and he was gagged. He also had a nasty bruise beginning to form on his cheek. And he was staring at Sherlock with total helplessness and despair.

Sherlock's gaze fell on the tall man standing beside John, an arm wrapped around the smaller man's shoulders, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in recognition. Joseph O'Donnell was grinning at Sherlock, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, and his grip tightening on John's neck. The other men were not smiling, they were simply watching. As Sherlock quickly looked from face to face, hoping for a glimmer of anything he could use if he got the opportunity, but they were giving nothing away. There was a blank canvas. He also saw no trace of any mercy in any of their cold, staring eyes.

When Sherlock's eyes once more came to rest on John's, he could see that they had both arrived at exactly the same conclusion.

They were in deep trouble.

O' Donnell stepped forward, his small, piggy eyes locked on Sherlock's, shining with triumph. The man grinned widely at Sherlock, showing teeth.

Sherlock glared back, trying to appear a lot more confident than he actually felt. The man's smile only increased as he looked the Detective up and down.

"Hello, Sherlock," he growled. John was struck by just how rich the man's Irish accent was. There was almost a mischievous edge to his tone, something almost even gentle, but John was not fooled. This man was not playing a game, and now, as John watched the other man staring intently at his best friend, he couldn't help but shiver.

Sherlock would think of something. Sherlock always thought of something.

O'Donnell, chuckling as he released his hold on John to walk directly up to the icy-faced Sherlock, offered the other man his hand to shake. Sherlock did not respond.

The Irish man chuckled, and withdrew his hand.

"Good to see you again," he continued, "It's been a long time."

TBC