Well, after nearly giving up, then going on holiday, then forgetting, I have finally figured out how to write another chapter! I can't believe I actually wrote over a thousand words! I would really appreciate any feedback.

Again, this is only fanfiction, as unfortunately I don't own Sherlock...

Thanks for reading!


Far from quiet, far from peace, far from any sort of comfort, a dark shadow flits across the remains of a house. A few drops of blood dampen the ground, mingling with dirt and stones and ash and the memories of what this house held. A bird, unidentifiable in the gloom, tries to settle on a pile of rubble, then thinks better of it and flees from the place, haunted as it is by a menace that laughs at all superstition. The beating of the birds wings startle the shadow, who gasps raggedly and presses himself into a corner, then slides to the ground, ashamed of his fear and pain.

The memories of this broken place are his. They are memories of a young Mycroft Holmes comforting him, when noises like that made him jump. They are memories of finding plants in the garden, testing the earth for metals and searching the cupboards for old jars to hold dubious concoctions. They are memories of a happiness that seems so far away that it is no longer even tangible, and all that is left of it is a tattered ghost, blown about by the winds of hatred and anger.

Another noise, a faint and distant footfall, startles his dirty ears and this time his fear is mixed with determination. For nearly three years he has been hunting down men like these. He has had them imprisoned, with the help of a certain high ranking Government official. In more cases than he would like the justice system has been too flimsy, or they have proved too evasive and dangerous for him, and he has been forced to kill them, leaving them "Missing, presumed dead". Some have simply fled, and are no longer a threat, crippled by a fear of captivity. So it is that after nearly three years only one man remains, yet even after escaping the clutches of so many others, after killing, hunting and beating so many, Sherlock is frightened. This man is more dangerous than any of these others. Trained by the British Military then dishonourably discharged for alcoholism and unprofessional conduct, he was picked up by Moriarty, who recognised his extraordinary talents as a sniper. Sebastian Moran, as he was now called, as he had been forced to drop his previous identity when he entered Moriarty's service, has evaded Sherlock ever since the day his mission began. Almost a year had been wasted searching, interrogating other members of the ring, following leads that went nowhere. Then out of the blue, Mycroft contacted him and told him that their childhood home had burnt to the ground. Whilst it had been empty since their father's death, it was still in the Holmes family, and this was a fact that wasn't concealed. It had been blamed on faulty electrics, and there had been no investigation. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to figure out who was trying to contact him. Moriarty had favoured the 'artistic' approach; games, puzzles, tea-parties. Moran, on the other hand, liked violence. So for three weeks now Sherlock has been in the area, normally sleeping rough in the grounds.

There is also a more personal reason for Sherlock's fear. Interrogating one of Moriarty's other favourite snipers, he found that Moran was the man made responsible for killing John Watson, though his fall had prevented the deadly shot. To fail tonight would be to fail the man whom he has dedicated these three years to. No, he thinks as he steels his nerves. Tonight will end these three years of hell.

Another footstep, closer this time, startles Sherlock out of his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, letting himself get distracted whilst the stakes are so high. His hand slips to the gun concealed in his pocket, and he tenses, peering round the remains of his mothers bedroom wall. Moran had spotted him earlier, as he was trying to determine whether a different spot on the horizon was moving towards him. The talented sniper had tried to shoot Sherlock whilst his back was turned, but a slight crackle of the leaves (a fox, Sherlock later understood) had made him move slightly and the shot only grazed his arm. Knowing that his cover was blown, at least for now, Moran waited until darkness, and Sherlock waited too, growing tense with nerves and stiff from the cold as blood on his arm congealed stiffly and the pain subsided.

Another shadow breaks the moonlight in front of Sherlock; another bird. His ears strain, trying to catch any tiny movement. There it is, barely a whisper, but audible as the sniper places a foot on the dry ground. It is enough to betray his position. Sherlock slowly and carefully moves towards the drawing room. He has the advantage of a three weeks spent here; he knows where to place his feet in order to be silent. Keeping to the shadows, he moves into a better position. Moran has the same idea. Both creep around one another, like players in a game of chess, trying to predict the next move. Impasse; they both know each other's location, yet neither wants to risk being left a move behind. Then, simultaneously, they move towards a doorway. The kitchen doorway, Sherlock's mind supplies uselessly. A shuffle of leaves. Silently, Sherlock takes a breath, blinks, and moves into the open doorway. Yet at the same time, so does Moran. Face to face at last, Sherlock is the first to move, knocking Moran's legs out from under him before he has fully registered Sherlock's presence. Moran tries to aim his gun from the floor as Sherlock tries to aim his from above, whilst trying to kick Moran's arm. Moran fires as Sherlock's boot comes in contact with his elbow with a sickening crunch, and the gun swerves, the bullet hitting Sherlock in the leg. He dives bleeding behind the remains of the kitchen counter, as Moran jumps up, cradling his arm. Trying to ignore the pain in his leg, Sherlock trains his gun on Moran as he stumbles through the dark wreckage, and fires. The shot should be perfect at such a range but Moran is too fast, and the bullet hits him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards. For a moment all Sherlock can think of is John's injury and the pain it caused him, and the thought of inflicting the same pain on such a hated figure gives him a twisted pleasure. Then Moran is moaning, and, wincing as pain shoots through his injured leg, Sherlock manages to make it to his feet. Both are injured now, Moran seriously so. Sherlock knows that a shoulder wound will bleed out quickly, whilst his leg wound was minor, the bullet having somehow missed any arteries.

Half limping and half falling, Sherlock manages to make it to Moran with his gun drawn and pointed. Yet Moran has somehow lifted his own with his uninjured arm, pointing it from the elbow and grunting with the effort.

Stalemate.

"I'll shoot 'ou. Dn't thin' that 'm kiddin. I'll kill 'ou now." Moran's speech is slurred, and Sherlock knows that he's dying already.

Trying hard and forcing himself to take regular breaths, Sherlock manages to reply "You're dying. I can see from here that your hand is shaking. Don't make empty threats if – "

Moran shoots wildly, the desperation of a dying man, and the bullet misses, disappearing into the charred wooden wall and vanishing into the dark.

Sherlock doesn't even bother trying to kill him, and leaves as fast as his injured leg will let him, the bullets flying wildly over him.

A painful death, he thinks, for a man who caused such pain.