A/N It was truly an idiotic time for me to write this fanfic -_- I'm busier than a bee and twice as tired and all my brain supplies when I try to write is "You're gonna suuuuuuuck" Which is real mature, obviously (*puts on a Bones McCoy voice "Dammit brain, I'm a writer not a coward!") So thanks once again for waiting for me my dearest dears! And thanks once more for the reviews, you are all so kind and wonderful, I don't honestly know what I'd do without you :') (It makes me feel kinda mean that the following chapter is so evil… or not :D)
To MasterRet, I still have a few more chapters planned out but we are indeed nearing the end for If! :S Thanks very much for the review, it was so lovely of you :')
To my Anonymous Moriarty: It is decided, you are most certainly my Moriarty ;D I'm happy you like cliffhangers as I have a nice one in this very chapter… :P
Warning: There are several uses of blasphemy and profanity in this chapter, you have been warned...
Disclaimer: I was overjoyed about my high vantage point until I realised something rather unfortunate… Sherlock Holmes tends not to be native to mountains… unless…the Fall… Moriarty… NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Lestrade hadn't joined the police force because he had wanted to use a gun. In fact, it had been one of the most attractive bits of his contract that had stated that "use of firearms was strictly prohibited and accepted in emergency situations only". It wasn't even that he was a bad shot, although, admittedly, he had enough awareness of his abilities to know that he wasn't a great shot either. It was the whole idea of it. Police work was about justice, about using common sense and fairness to do the right thing. The idea of using force, of killing someone, seemed to go directly in the face of everything he was told when Scotland Yard signed him up.
Unfortunately however, it seemed as though guns had become alarmingly necessary in the war zone that was Sherlock Holmes's London.
The warehouse that loomed over him now seemed to frown disapprovingly into the rapidly darkening skyline and the sun had finally dipped reluctantly below the rooftops. The team behind him shuffled, each and every pair of eyes flickering to the gun in his hand, watching for any nervous movement, any sign of hesitation that was mimicked in their own weapons. Surreptitiously, Lestrade glanced at the familiar officers behind him. Anderson was apparently as laughably nervous as he was and fighting just as hard not to show it in front of Donovan who was squeezing the weapon a little to tightly to be safe, a steeled, determined frown on her face. Lestrade couldn't be sure himself of why he'd decided to allow Anderson onto the team when the man had asked, scurrying quickly after Sally, he was forensics after all, not a marksman. He looked at the gun in his own hand, reminding himself that he too was not a marksman. And, even if Lestrade felt guilty about it, the familiar faces gave him the courage he had lacked just a few hours ago when he had requested the firearms.
Two newer officers crowded close behind them. Lestrade vaguely rcognised them, but had been assured that they were the best shots on the force. It seemed unlikely. The smaller of the two barely even looked twenty-one, his floppy brown fringe and blue puppy eyes only enhancing the nervously bitten lip. His name was Jackson, if Lestrade remembered rightly, but he only knew that from telling the boy off at the photocopier once for leaving his half filled coffee cup on the cartridge dock. The other officer was perhaps only a few years older, but he was taller, stockier and his slanted, passive expression gave Lestrade a little hope that at least one of the pair had fired a gun somewhere other than a training centre.
"Alright," Lestrade said, fighting to keep his voice level, "Sebastian Moran, as far as Sherlock has told us, was an associate of Moriarty and a military sniper, so it's safe to assume that he's armed and dangerous. So…everyone be careful, alright?" He kicked himself internally, wishing he had been able to find better words. He cringed as he saw Anderson lift an eyebrow, giving a snort.
"Sherlock Holmes? As far as Sherlock Holmes has told us?" he laughed bitterly, "Sherlock Holmes doesn't tell anyone anything if I remember right. And now we're to believe that his dad's a nutcase too?"
"Anderson, I'm not interesting in hearing it, do you understand me?" Lestrade snapped. Ever since Sherlock had returned, Anderson had been like a water-cooler gossip at Scotland Yard, muttering resentful comments at the very mention of the consultant.
"I'm only saying Sir that we've made this mistake once, are we really going to-"
"Anderson, that's an order! If you're arguing with command now, there's no way I'm bringing you into what may well be a dangerous situation. Do you hear me?"
Anderson narrowed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. To Lestrade's surprise, Donovan gave the man a steely glare.
"Stop it, it's not worth it," she spat. Anderson looked like he was about to protest but there was a silent exchange between them that Lestrade pretended not to catch; an exchange of glances that explained Donovan's tired eyes and uneasy agitation. If Lestrade didn't know Donovan as well as he did, he'd take a guess that guilt, guilt over the "freak" that she had apparently despised, had driven it's way into her sleep, into the nights shared with Anderson who made it no better by spiting about it. Lestrade didn't comment on it, allowing Donovan to stare the other officer down until Anderson's jaw clenched in reluctant submission.
"Yes. Sir," he clipped out.
Lestrade nodded, saying no more. Anderson was no perfect officer, but then again, D.I. Gregory Lestrade was no perfect detective, evidenced surely, he thought, by his apparent inability to solve cases without the help of Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade stopped that thought in its tracks, halting the climbing sensation of inadequacy. Right now was not the time to start doubting himself, no time to give into worry when he was supposed to be keeping a brave face. A brave face when confronted with what could easily be the last night he ever lived. He wished suddenly that he had waited, called in a specialist team rather than doing what Sherlock had told him to, as always, rushing out to grab the suspect while he was still not expecting them. Wait any longer and he'll be gone, Lestrade reminded himself.
"God help me," Lestrade muttered to himself before he straightened slightly, raising his voice to just above a low murmur for his mock-troops to hear him, "Nobody do anything unless I tell you too, alright? And for God's sake, be careful."
The small company of officers nodded and cautiously followed as Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath and opened the side door.
The warehouse was, typically, pitch black as they entered. Lestrade's insides felt like they were curling in on themselves as he assessed the dark expanse of space stretched out before him. He swallowed hard, shuffling his way into the warehouse, cringing with the fear of making a sound. He heard Donavon whisper a curse behind him.
"Alright," Lestrade muttered, "Torches on, quiet as you can make it. Jackson, Meyer, you take the left and sweep it out; Anderson, Donavon, you're with me. You find anything, radio it in"
"And if we find anyone?" Jackson whispered, his voice shaking a little. Lestrade felt almost sorry for the boy.
"Don't shoot unless you're in trouble."
"What constitutes as trouble Sir?" Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Well, if he bloody starts shooting at you," he growled. Jackson's eyes widened and it looked as if the young officer was about to ask if he could leave before Meyer put a gentle hand on his shoulder and led him away, giving a pained nod at Lestrade. Lestrade could only watch them go for a few paces before the darkness swallowed them.
"Okay, let's go," Lestrade breathed. Anderson gave him an apprehensive look and Lestrade swore that he could see the man shift closer to Donavon as they began to make their way across the floor of the warehouse.
The warehouse had been cleared out months ago, from the records, so thankfully the floor was mostly clear except from the odd scattering of empty boxes and piles of sawdust. Sweat made Lestrade's grip on his torch unsteady and several times he almost dropped it in surprise when he caught a glimpse of a particularly tall stack of boxes, or even his own officers. He could hear Donovan's footsteps becoming more and more tentative as they progressed, as if their very presence there was drawing the attention of some dangerous beast with every passing second. Lestrade gulped down the gathering saliva in his throat, trying not to think about the monster that could be lurking in the shadows, just out of range of his torchlight, rifle already taking aim.
A sharp slam somewhere to his left drew his attention and he spun, silence be damned, his mouth already opened to shout.
"Meyer? Jackson? You alright?" No answer. Not even a pin drop in the darkness, the short strain of light from his torch latching onto nothingness. He shot a glance at his own two officers, their shocked faces instantly turning passive as he looked at them, quickly asserting a mask of bravery as they raised their weapons. Lestrade felt a surge of pride.
The darkness still gave no answer. Where the hell were his officers? Was Moran even in here? Surely by now he'd be onto them if he was. Lestrade heard a beep at his side and he jumped, hand darting to the source of the noise, breathing a sigh of relief as his fumbling fingers found his walkie talkie.
"What happened?" Lestrade said. For a moment there was nothing but crackling over the walkie talkie and Lestrade felt a pit open in his stomach.
"Jackson? Meyer?" The crackle seemed to change pitch and a moment later, the stop and start of words began to make their way through the white noise.
"Jackson…Jackson's dead Sir."
Lestrade froze. A minute ago, Jackson had been the nervous kid whose coffee had spilt onto the copy machine and now… there was a cold body lying in this warehouse with that kid's face on it.
"Jesus Christ," Lestrade cursed, blinking away the initial shock.
"M-Moran's definitely in here Sir," Meyer stuttered, "Jackson was shot, some kind of silenced weapon Sir, it hit – I couldn't- It was straight to the head Sir, there was nothing I could-"
"Just calm down Meyer, we're coming to you," Lestrade said, waving at the two officers behind him to follow his movements as he began to make his way towards the source of the thud.
"Sir, I don't think it's s-"
Lestrade didn't need to hear the strangled grunt that came next, the sound of life dribbling out across the crackling to know that Meyer was gone within seconds. A soft crumple of a body echoed across the warehouse, maybe only a few feet away, maybe more, Lestrade couldn't tell.
"Sir?" Donovan's wide eyes met Lestrade's and there wasn't much he could do about the panic on his own face as he realised just how trapped they were. Trapped with a damn near invisible sniper in the dark.
"Sir, what do we do?" Donovan asked, words spilling rapidly from her.
"We need to get out of here," Anderson said.
"Moran is in here! We either try to arrest him or he tries to get us, it's one or the other!"
"He's killed Jackson and Paul, Sally," Anderson spat. Lestrade cringed, realising with a bite to his stomach that Anderson evidently knew Meyer.
"And he'll kill us too if we don't do something"
"Give it a rest, the both of you," Lestrade snapped, "Sherlock wouldn't have sent us in if he didn't think we were capable, now both of you shut up while I think of what the bloody hell we're going to do." Anderson opened his mouth to say something but closed it a second later.
Another sound, much quieter than the sickening thuds that had preceded it, echoed out above them, as if someone had dropped something metallic. Lestrade felt like he was going to be sick.
Moran was above them.
"Shit," he cursed, "There's stairs somewhere, he's above us!" He didn't wait to give orders, thanking God that the two officers followed him all the same as he raced towards the direction of the sound. If Moran was above them, they were sitting ducks.
Something exploded into a stack of boxes just next to Lestrade's head and he ducked, nearly stumbling over the shards of cardboard that flung out across the floor. Donovan gave a sharp cry behind him as another bullet sailed through the air and Lestrade's balance was almost tipped in his attempt to look back at her. A steel pipe to her right took the bullet and Lestrade didn't waste any time in ducking back momentarily, pushing her into the nearest sheltered area he could find, ducked behind a stack of crates. His hand found Anderson's jacket and he yanked, pulling the other man to crouch beside him.
"Jesus Christ, bloody hell-" Anderson swore. His chest was heaving, hand shaking on the gun as he squatted next to the Inspector.
"Are both of you alright?" Lestrade said. Neither of them replied, both of them breathing heavily.
"Oi, are you alright?" Lestrade repeated. Donovan gave a shaky nod, Anderson following suit.
"We need to get up there," Lestrade said, "If we can't see him, there's no way of even leaving the warehouse. We need to find him and-"
"What? Arrest him? We can't even get a shot at him," Donovan gasped. Lestrade wished he had an answer.
"On my three count, we make for that corner. If there are stairs, that's where they will be," Lestrade pointed, cautiously ensuring that he was still well tucked in behind the crates.
The two officers nodded.
"One, two, three," Lestrade heaved himself up, darting out from behind the crates. A shot fired off almost immediately and Lestrade wasn't certain where the bullet connected until he noted the still smoking hole in the floor, just centimetres from his foot.
"Sir, look out!"
He heard Donovan's cry too late, the momentary panic lasting only long enough for him to throw his arms wide, almost instinctively, as if he truly believed that he could shield either of his officers from an oncoming bullet simply by that one gesture.
The bullet slammed into his chest like a freight train.
Lestrade's heart stopped before he hit the ground.
A/N Ahahaha, I know, I'm evil XD I decided that I'd like to leave John in danger for a little it longer while we took a look at what Lestrade is doing :P Well, you know the saying "2 cliffhangers is better than 1!" …Or is that the saying?
I don't actually think that what I've written is anywhere even close to police procedure however in England, police officers are very rarely armed and I know that they must request the use of firearms for certain arrests. Also, I'm not sure that we have "crack teams" as such to take down people such as Moran. We obviously have a terrorist force but Moran is not only "just" a sniper, he's also only a tip from a once-shamed detective and with Mycroft in hospital, the government wouldn't want to be taking any risks, thus I thought that Lestrade might dash ahead, regardless of waiting for people to finally do something about it, and try to arrest Moran before it's too late. Mostly I just wanted a chapter for Lestrade to finally have his culmination of his suspicions of Robert and be able to get stuck in :D
I wanted to show Lestrade in this chapter as the incredibly brave character he is. Unlike John, he doesn't love the chase, he simply wants justice. And he is afraid of failing and he is afraid of making the wrong choices and of not being good enough, but he still continues to fight through all this because he believes in doing the right thing no matter what. It's easy to be reckless and not care about danger, but to acknowledge danger and still to face it is true courage I think :)
Anyways, enough analysis, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, I certainly did and I shall be writing soon (I promise, I've already got half of it written!) with the next chapter. Till then my friends, thanks for reading!