Chapter 2

After twenty-five minutes of checking for human-produced dust disturbances in front of every door he could find, and delving into a few crates even when he saw no such disturbances, Sherlock decided that it was unlikely the stash was in this warehouse and that he'd better check the other. He switched off his torch and slipped back out into the gravel yard, the chill breeze greeting him and distant streetlamps casting a pale orange glow over the deserted car park. Sherlock crunched quickly over to the second empty warehouse and located the nearest door, eager to get out of the wind. The door screeched in as much protest as the others had, and after he bundled inside and pulled it shut behind him, he again waited patiently for several minutes to see if anyone was about. Hearing nothing, he turned his torch back on and returned to the search.

The second warehouse was just as cold, just as dirty, just as wind-rattled, and just as lifeless as the first - but it bore fruit, and in plenty. Sherlock repeated his method of ghosting from one door to another, looking for footprints or disturbances in the dust, and after fifteen minutes found precisely that. He paused in front of the metal entryway and smiled in satisfaction as his torchlight played over a wide, circular groove that had been carved in the dust on the floor - the result of someone opening the door over and over. And leading away from the telling mark was a scuffed path of imperfectly disguised prints - the dust had been stirred up to cover it, but it was actually the disturbed dust that helped to show where it was, and now and then Sherlock could even make out a trace of a heel or toe mark that had failed to be completely obliterated as he followed carefully alongside the obvious trail, making sure not to damage it.

It led him directly to a couple of large crates that didn't have nearly as much dust on them as the others. He reached out and opened one.

Inside was what appeared to be a pile of old blankets.

Sherlock snorted - it was as poor a disguise as the attempt to get rid of the footprints. He reached in and hauled the blankets out, piling them on top of the adjacent crate. He only had to go a few deep to find what he was really looking for. He tossed the last blanket aside and adjusted his torchlight to get a better look.

And grinned in absolute glee.

Inside the crate was a number of smaller boxes, carefully organised and clearly full of illegal drugs, helpful paper labels even pinned to their open cardboard flaps. Some of the boxes contained small phials of liquid, others pills, and yet others powders and crystals. He looked mournfully at a large quantity of cocaine baggies, and considered taking a few of them, but the risk was too great if Lestrade managed to find out, and it could muck up the investigation. And Masters, a secretary with obvious organisational skills, clearly knew how much was supposed to be in there. If he realised that some of it was missing, even he could make waves, and at that point Sherlock would probably be number one on his list of people to accuse of anything.

So Sherlock merely took a few pictures with his phone, dumped the tattered blankets back on top of the drugs, closed the crate and opened the second one. It too required a bit of digging in ancient fabrics, but after he got through that bit, he was mildly surprised to come across a safe. It was a bit of a dated model, with a combination lock that Sherlock probably could have broken into without too much effort if he'd tried – though he had little interest in doing so, leave that to the police - but in the hands of most people it was probably secure enough. Masters must be keeping the money he collected in it - of course, he didn't want to take it home where he'd have to either try to hide it or explain it to his mother, and apparently he didn't want to put it in the bank in case somebody bothered to look into his accounts at tax time and wondered where the hell he was getting all of it. So he kept it in here, locked up in case the others tried to steal from him, and took money out of it from time to time.

Actually, Sherlock reflected, it seemed Masters had something of an honor system going with the drugs themselves, since they weren't locked up as he might have expected. An honor system was usually a bad idea with drug addicts, but since all those people seemed quite functional enough to go to work every day, perhaps it wasn't so foolish in this case. Perhaps Masters dipped into the drug stash often to supply his clients, but only took payments every couple of weeks. Not every employee at Harrington Steel would make enough to always be ready to pay upon delivery of the goods – Masters might let his clients take now and pay later, and perhaps he deemed it too cumbersome to lock and unlock the drug stash each time he accessed it. Again, Masters surely knew precisely how much was in there, and so would know immediately if anyone stole from him, and while he clearly wasn't willing to wantonly murder, he wasn't always above a little physical damage. He might employ Sherlock's three attackers as a sort of regulation team, in the event that anyone did steal something – or more likely, if they failed to pay up. And anyway, all of those people had to work together, and Masters, as Harrington's secretary, had had the ear of one of the most powerful men in the company. He could most likely have gotten any troublemakers fired as well as threatened.

Or maybe he was just an idiot about that sort of thing, and hadn't felt like buying two safes.

But apparently he didn't consider whatever precautions he might have in place to protect the drugs enough protection for his actual money. Sherlock supposed that someone could always try to slip in counterfeit - less risky than slipping in fake or low quality drugs and having Masters get a complaint from a client - but still impractical and far more trouble than it was worth. Well, Masters' personal paranoia imbalance was hardly important now. Sherlock could prove that the man was quite a lucrative drug dealer, and from that springboard of motivation he could also prove Masters had murdered Edmund Harrington. Masters' alibi had been falsified, for one thing. He'd gone to the gym that night, and twice - once for the attendant to see him walking in and once for the attendant to see him walking out. But after he'd become a top suspect, Sherlock had gone through the CCTV footage of the most likely route Masters would have had to have taken to the Harrington residence, and lo and behold, the secretary could be seen walking down the pavement when he was supposed to be at his gym.

Sherlock was certain Lestrade would love to hear Masters explain that.

And more evidence would come out once the police began to investigate Masters fully, and Sherlock was given free run over Masters' house. Which he would demand, since Lestrade had been stewing in a sea of uncertainty and endless suspects for the last two days, and now here Sherlock was, cracking it all open in a span of less than six hours. Sherlock took another couple of pictures, tossed the blankets back into the second crate, closed the lid again, and closed the photo app to once more check the time. 6:02. Lestrade's alarm had gone off two minutes ago - Sherlock might as well call him now. He pulled up his contacts and within seconds was listening to Lestrade's phone ring. It took three and a half rings before it was answered.

"Sherlock, I just woke up, this better be good," Lestrade said grumpily, his voice still thick from sleep.

"You didn't read my text, did you?" Sherlock deduced easily. "No matter. I'm at Harrington Steel right now."

"Of course I didn't read your text, I don't read texts the very first thing in the morning. And what are you doing over there, the place isn't even open yet."

"Just solving your case for you," Sherlock answered, not bothering to hide the hint of smugness in his voice. "Phillip Masters is quite the drug lord, I don't suppose you knew that? I'm standing two feet away from his stash in one of the old warehouses at the back of the lot - I'll send you pictures in a moment. He's been making money at work by more than just being a secretary. Harrington almost certainly found out about it and Masters killed him to keep him quiet - he's clever enough when he's got things under control, but if he doesn't he tends to panic and stop thinking clearly. Also, he wasn't at the gym that night, he was heading in the direction of Harrington's house and I can prove it. Enough for a warrant yet?"

"Okay, okay, slow down..." Lestrade yawned, and Sherlock heard something clunk in the background, followed by a muffled curse. Lestrade had knocked over his bedside lamp and only just barely caught it. "Masters - Harrington's secretary? He's dealing drugs? How the hell did you figure that out?"

"Do you really want my explanation now or when you're more awake?"

"Oh all right, fine. Look, I'll be at the Yard when my shift starts, come to my office and we'll go over it. Then we can see about inspecting the warehouses. You say you know right where the stash is?"

"Of course, I just found it," Sherlock said impatiently. "And time is of the essence in this case - I'm fairly certain Masters is planning to sell out completely in the next day or two - get rid of his stock so the police can't find it. That's half of why I came out here so quickly. I want your people out here today, this morning. He'll probably make the sale at night, but with Harrington dead and the board trying to figure out how to replace him, Masters has fewer eyes on him. If he's nervous and stupid enough, he could try to make it on his lunch break."

"Wait, what's gotten him so nervous?" Lestrade asked. "He seemed all right enough when we talked to him the other day. What's changed?"

"Me!" Sherlock practically snapped. "Word must have gotten back to him that I was interested in the warehouses and he snapped. I know because he sent - "

Sherlock broke off abruptly as a horrible screeching sound rent the air.

Someone was coming into the warehouse.

Whom it was Sherlock could guess.

And Sherlock had left nice, clear footprints that led, naturally, directly to where he was standing.

And that didn't lead out.

Sherlock switched his torch off instantly and shoved his phone deep into the dark folds of his coat pocket, effectively blocking the light it was giving out and Lestrade's tinny "Sherlock?" He dodged swiftly back behind the crates and melted into the shadows, trying to figure out the best path to the nearest door without tripping over everything in the blackness. Of course opening the door would blatantly give away his position, but if he could just get outside, he had a much better chance of escape in general...

Torchlight blared whitely of a sudden and the light spun in a sharp arc - then it paused and quickly dimmed as it was directed to the floor. His footsteps had been seen, and of course, not any of the slightly meandering ones from earlier, but the ones that led immediately to the drug stash twenty feet away, as Masters had come in his usual door. Sherlock thought his ears detected a curse as he stepped further back as silently as possible, his eyes struggling to pick out slightly darker shapes in the blackness behind him. His ankle struck something hard as he heard footsteps moving quickly toward him, and he changed direction, risking a glance over his shoulder and trying to crouch as much as possible with his damaged stomach and ribs.

The light flashed up again, but Sherlock had managed to get behind a taller stack of crates, so his position wasn't immediately obvious. He could somewhat use the light to his advantage, as it helped to illuminate the dark he was currently trying to wade through, but he could only use the barest outer tendrils of it or he badly risked being seen. Sherlock eased back from the crates, turned around, and nearly hit himself in the face with a hanging metal chain. He swayed slightly off balance for an instant, caught himself, and moved as quickly and silently as possible toward a dark patch of shadows and what looked like the black shape of a broken down crane.

He froze as he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, his pulse speeding up to beat even more rapidly.

"Okay, I know you're in here," a nervous sounding voice proclaimed, quite terribly failing at being intimidating. At least, the voice was failing - but a skittish person with a gun was never a good thing to be around. Sherlock took another silent step toward the crane, and another. "Just... Just come out, okay? I don't want to have to start shooting. Yet," Masters added, obviously trying to imbue the word with a threat. Sherlock ignored the request and took two more steps. He heard the footsteps behind him start again and saw flashes of light as the torch beam arced wildly, fortunately blocked from touching him by the earlier crates. But it wouldn't last - the footsteps were coming his way, and all Masters had to do to find him was follow his prints.

Sherlock threw caution to the wind and decided it was best he get behind a metal object, whether he was heard getting there or not. He doubled his speed and dove behind the crane a few seconds later, catching his foot against some piece of debris and tripping sideways into the machine. The resultant clang was impossible not to have been heard - and so was Sherlock's sharp gasp. Fortunately, he'd struck his right side - he didn't even want to think about what it would have felt like if he'd struck his left - but it was still painful, banging against his other bruises and the jolt certainly not doing his broken ribs any good. He gritted his teeth to quell his rapid breathing and looked quickly for the next place to move. Near impenetrable darkness presented itself, but he slid toward it anyway as he heard Masters practically running after him.

Perhaps he should just pull out his own torch and make a break for it - but the light would present an obvious target, and if Masters panicked and shot at him... Sherlock hurried into the dark mire, hoping for something to dodge behind, hoping not to trip again or run into any -

He saw the vague shape of the industrial ladder a split second before he slammed into it, his attempt to veer off to the left once again marginally sparing his broken ribs. He hissed in pain and stumbled past the metal frame, light suddenly filling the area and giving him a good view of the row of crates blocking his way. Damn, damn, damn! Maybe if he could get over the smallest group of them... But the light was suddenly centred on him, its attention temporarily blinding, and he nearly tripped again over another piece of something as his body protested its treatment angrily. And then from somewhere behind him Masters was shouting at him.

"Stop! Stop running, hold still or I'll shoot you, I will! I'll shoot you! Stop and put your hands up where I can see them!"

Masters sounded terrified - and therefore completely serious. Sherlock stopped trying to run - not that there was anywhere to go - and slowly turned toward the glaring light, holding his hands up and out and wiping the grimace of pain off his face to avoid showing weakness. He blinked at the harsh light in his eyes and fought to control his breathing, hoping that Masters would at least lower the torch. But Masters didn't seem interested in granting Sherlock's mental wishes, and kept the torch right in his face, leaving Sherlock with only a silhouette and the faint gleam of an unidentifiable gun beyond the glare. Unfortunately, Masters probably realised that it was to his advantage to keep Sherlock blind – though what Sherlock couldn't see at present he could easily imagine.

He remembered Masters well from their first and only meeting – a young man, 28 years old, thin and jittery and intimidated by the confident D.I. asking questions and the tall, imposing consulting detective beside him. Glasses perched on the end of his short nose, his dark eyes turned down to his nervous fingers, fiddling with the papers on his desk as he answered Lestrade's enquiries with a slight stammer. A man who'd clearly landed a job more prestigious than he'd anticipated when he'd been sending out his résumés – personal secretary to a large company's CEO? Clever enough, skilled at his trade, but still finding it hard at times to cope with everything on his plate, and now his employer was dead... of course, Sherlock knew now, that was his own fault. It was surprising, really, that such an unimpressive, quiet man like Masters had managed to set up a large, underground drug business and to hire people far more frightening than himself – it probably would have been amusing to see his first interactions with Sherlock's three attackers. In fact, Sherlock had earlier considered that his nervous demeanour might even have been an act to throw the investigators off track – but now it was quite obvious that his personality was no facade.

"Hello, Phillip," Sherlock said in a calm tone, forcing himself to speak with all the tranquility he could muster. His heart was hammering frantically against his sore ribs, and it was difficult to fight down his own panic, but if he reacted with calm, then perhaps Masters would return to some semblance of serenity, too. At least enough that the gun in his hand would stop shaking. If only he weren't quite so far away! He was nearly ten feet from Sherlock, and showed no signs of coming closer, effectively destroying any chances of suddenly disarming him. Sherlock wondered if he might have done better to try ambushing the man from behind crates, but with his injuries and a nervous trigger finger in the equation that wouldn't exactly have been prudent, either.

"Dammit, why are you here?" Master demanded, barely seeming to have calmed.

"I came here to find your drugs," Sherlock said evenly, marginally lowering his eyelashes against the light. There was no point in denying it - Masters had seen where his footsteps had gone.

"I know, but why?" Masters sounded frustrated and upset. "I warned you to back off..." He tailed off, clearly uncertain that he should have mentioned that.

"Oh don't worry, I already deduced that it was you who sent those men after me. You killed Edmund Harrington - it's quite obvious." Sherlock tried a casual step forward as he talked.

Masters took a step back, the light jerking up for an instant and then landing squarely back on Sherlock's face.

"Stay right where you are!" he hissed, for the first time managing to actually sound rather menacing. Sherlock stopped quite still and attempted to look as though his movement had been completely innocent.

"You don't want to kill me," Sherlock pointed out gently. "Or you would have shot me already."

"No, I really don't want to kill you," Masters admitted, his voice steadying. "But now that you're here, it's not as if I have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice. You can lower the gun, stop choosing to be a murderer."

Masters snorted.

"Oh, that's cute. Really. And then what? Turn myself into the police? Get thrown in prison for the rest of my life?" Masters paused, and his gun hand calmed its tremors, but that was of little comfort to Sherlock as Masters went on cynically. "I can't stop being a murderer, Mr. Holmes, I can only hide it. And that means I kill you, too."

"I would really rather you didn't."

"Well, it's your own fault!" Masters snapped, his tone sharp and accusatory. "I didn't ask you to come out here! I even tried to stop you!" He paused, waving the light up and down over Sherlock's face and forcing him to blink rapidly against the glare. "Anyway, you look terrible. How are you even standing? You're supposed to be in a hospital bed."

"Oh yes, so you can sell out today or tomorrow? Your attack was very ill-advised - I could have solved this case from hospital if necessary," Sherlock said, his eyes starting to water. "Seems your minions failed to inform you that I got away from them," he added reflectively. "So you didn't come here looking for me."

"They're professionals," Masters answered, sounding surprised at Sherlock's statement. "I assumed you were either in A&E or the gutter at this point. How did you get away, then?"

"A little knowledge of an obscure martial art," Sherlock said with a smile. "Perhaps they were too embarrassed to tell you. In that case, you're very early to work."

"I come in early a lot," Masters said. "To check on the stash and make sure no one's been stealing. My clients are pretty trustworthy, but you know how addicts are."

Ah, so that was why Masters had suddenly appeared, when Sherlock had imagined he had nearly another hour before the company's employees arrived at all. Stupid! Sherlock berated himself for not anticipating the possibility.

"And you came in today to double check that everything was ready for your big sale," Sherlock concluded. He'd suspected as much when he'd first heard the door open, but he should have thought of it sooner... Still, an entire hour early? Masters was a paranoid man.

"Yeah," Masters agreed. He sighed heavily. "Except now I've got to deal with you instead."

He sounded regretful. He wasn't a man who enjoyed killing, and Sherlock could use this to his advantage.

"Edmund wasn't looking at you when you shot him, was he?" he said suddenly.

He heard Masters swallow hard.

"No... What does that have to do with - "

"He never saw it coming," Sherlock pressed. "He died instantly, no suffering. He didn't even know he'd been killed."

"I don't like causing pain... unnecessarily," Masters said pointedly, gesturing at the injuries on Sherlock's face with the gun for emphasis.

"I know. Ah, but Phillip, I'm very much aware. I'll be looking right at you if you kill me. And that bothers you, doesn't it?"

Masters shook his head. He seemed to be steeling himself.

"It doesn't matter. I can't let you live."

To Sherlock's horror, the gun slowly adjusted, aiming for his forehead.

"But the police already know!" he said quickly. "If you kill me, all you'll do is add one more murder charge!"

He hadn't really wanted to let Masters know that - it gave him more opportunity for escape. But if it was between giving Masters a better chance of avoiding jail and a bullet between the eyes, Sherlock was going to pick survival. If he lived, he could easily track Masters down. Besides, he hadn't told Masters that he'd been on the phone with Lestrade the moment the man had walked in. Lestrade had heard him cut off - and Sherlock's phone was still on in his pocket, although if Lestrade hadn't ended the call yet, it was doubtful that he was getting much beyond cloth rustling and the occasional garbled shout. But Lestrade wasn't stupid, no matter how many times Sherlock called him an idiot, and he would have realised that something was wrong. With any luck, he could be on his way now. And if Masters killed Sherlock anyway, at least Lestrade had the tools now to go after him.

Sherlock really hoped Masters didn't decide to kill him anyway.

"You're bluffing," Masters said confidently, the response taking Sherlock by surprise. "You don't really work with the police - you barely tolerate each other, from what I saw. And you came here in the middle of the night. Like you'd bother to call them at five in the morning."

Sherlock paused momentarily, searching for what to say next. He hadn't expected Masters to disbelieve him. Well, this was a new one.

"I called not long before you came in," Sherlock said truthfully. "The police do have a night shift, you know," he added, less truthfully, but in the same earnest tone.

One thing he wasn't going to tell Masters was that he'd only called Lestrade - no sense proffering another single target when could imply that the whole force knew. Of course, Lestrade might have called it in by now, but either way, Sherlock wasn't going to give Masters the idea that it was only the Detective Inspector who knew. Because then he might go after Lestrade, too.

"You're bluffing," Masters repeated, although for a flicker of an instant he sounded more as if he were trying to convince himself. "You're just trying to save your skin. No private detective calls the police in the middle of the night."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected, blinking hard and keeping his eyes past the light, on the edge of Masters' shadow. Technically, he was both, but anything to keep Masters talking. "And I'm not an ordinary one."

"Look, it doesn't matter!" Masters snapped. "It's quarter after six, and I don't have a lot of time. I need to kill you now."

No, no! Sherlock needed more time, he needed to stall - how many minutes had it been since his conversation with Lestrade had been interrupted? Assuming Masters' statement of quarter after six was accurate, about ten minutes, though it didn't feel as if that much time had passed. More likely Masters was rounding and it had really only been five minutes, or seven – but Lestrade's house actually wasn't too far away. And the seconds ticked by, became minutes, as long as Masters kept hesitating... if Sherlock could just engage him, could just keep him talking...

"But don't you want to know how I found out it was you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even and not blurt the question out too quickly. "Aren't you a little bit curious?"

There was a pause before Masters answered.

"Why would you tell me that?"

Yes. Masters was interested.

"I like to share the reasoning I use in my work," Sherlock said casually, once again being completely truthful. Not that there was anyone who actually much cared to listen. "I could tell you where you slipped up, make it easier for you to evade the police. And you want to do that, of course."

Masters snorted, the gun jolting slightly at the action and making Sherlock's heart jump.

"And I ask again, why would you tell me that?"

"We could make a deal."

Another lie. Sherlock would promise him Heaven and Earth if it would get him out of this, and gladly give Masters over to the police as soon as they arrived. ...Assuming Lestrade was coming... When Masters again hesitated, Sherlock pressed on.

"We could make a deal. You let me live, I keep quiet about you and help you to slip through the investigation. The police will find you without my help."

"No," Masters said sharply, shaking his head. "I can't trust that you'd keep quiet. You're a liability."

Sherlock's insides turned cold at Masters' response, but he kept up an unruffled exterior.

"You said yourself that the police and I barely tolerate each other," he pointed out. "Do you think I have much loyalty to them?"

"You, uh..." Masters floundered.

"Most of them despise me," Sherlock interrupted him. "You know I only work with them because solving puzzles is fun? That's all cases are to me, ask any of them." Sherlock licked his lips, warming to his embellishments. "I don't really care about catching the criminals, only figuring out who they are and showing the police that I did it. But I can forgo the latter if it keeps me alive."

Masters was silent again for a couple of seconds while Sherlock blinked his smarting eyes and, despite the torchlight, tried to keep them more or less pointed in the direction of the man with the gun.

"The information could be very useful to you," he continued, "You'd have a much better chance of covering your tracks." Hope lightened Sherlock's heart as Masters appeared to be considering. "You've left an obvious trail, really," he stressed. "The police will find it for themselves soon enough if you don't act."

A complete lie, naturally - the police wouldn't have managed to figure out Masters' drug dealing if he'd kept his cocaine in his filing cabinet. And of course Sherlock didn't intend to give Masters any real tips on hiding himself - but if he could fabricate, if he could buy a few more minutes, he might still have a chance. But Masters was shaking his head again.

"No. I still can't trust that anything you tell me will be true."

"But can you afford not to hear it at all?" Sherlock prodded.

"I can't afford to let you distract me!" Masters looked visibly upset, but unfortunately determined.

"And what if someone else finds out?" Sherlock said sharply as Masters steadied the gun again. "Are you going to kill them, too? Just keep on killing? Become a serial killer to keep up this little charade?"

"I'm not a serial killer!" Masters shouted. "I kill you, I sell, and I'm done, okay? I'll end it."

"Well that's certainly a lot of comfort to me," Sherlock said bitingly. "I'm sure Edmund would agree - it's not as if he had anything to live for. Just a company, and a family, and a niece who loved hi - "

"Edmund was a sociopath!"

Masters actually took a step forward at the declaration, and Sherlock paused in surprise at the vehemence in his voice.

The wind whistled distantly outside, and for a brief moment, the words hung in the air.

"...A sociopath."

Sherlock kept his own voice steady with effort. From behind the glare of the torchlight, Masters nodded.

"Yeah. That's what I'd call him, anyway. You didn't know him. Well, I did. Edmund was an egotistical bastard whose own family couldn't stand him! Killing him? I don't think I really did anything that wrong." Surprisingly, Masters' voice carried hardly any guilt. "You'll notice how many suspects you had besides me - lots of people hated him. And he didn't even care! All he cared about was his job and efficiency and making other people feel like idiots!"

Masters look another small step at his last outburst and Sherlock considered that switching tactics to goad him into anger might actually be a better idea. But he was still much too far away, and infuriating the man who was convinced he needed to kill you was not generally a good idea. Particularly since Masters felt little guilt over killing his first victim - someone who'd apparently been a lot like the man he was now holding at gunpoint. Sherlock had known that Edmund was not well-liked among his family and peers, but to have the word he so often used to describe himself thrown in his face as justification for the man's murder... He swallowed hard and resorted to an accusatory stance. If he could get Masters to feel any real guilt over Edmund's death, he had better odds of survival.

"So you were just looking for an excuse to kill him, was that it?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes smarting badly from the constant light by now.

"No!" Masters protested, sounding badly insulted. "I'm not like he was - I actually care about people!"

"Which is why you're going to kill me," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"I never wanted to kill you!" Masters insisted. "I didn't want you involved! But you came out here - even though I warned you not to. So... So it's not my fault if you did!"

"It's your fault if you pull the trigger!" Sherlock said harshly, putting as much barb into his voice as possible.

"All right, look!"

Masters took deep breath to calm himself, trembling as he did so.

"Look, I've got a whole stash of drugs over there," he said, irritatingly gesturing with his head so he could keep the gun on Sherlock. "Including tranquilisers and sedatives. Would you rather take a bunch of those and just go to sleep? That won't hurt, and then I don't have to deal with blood."

Sherlock laughed.

The suggestion was so ludicrous that the light-induced tears he'd been fighting to hold back finally spilled over onto his cheeks with the hilarity.

"Oh," he said breathlessly, swiping liquid off the left side of his face with the back of his thumb. Masters waved the gun reflexively, but otherwise didn't protest the gesture. "Oh, of course," Sherlock agreed. "Then you won't have to deal with blood. Of course, I'll be happy to die in the manner that's most convenient to you." He laughed again, helplessly, his laughter full of sarcasm and bitterness.

"Well fine, then," Masters said heavily. "I'll just shoot you instead."

Something in his tone made Sherlock's blood chill - and he knew that in that instant that Masters was pulling the trigger.

He dove to one side as the gun went off, actually hearing the bullet whistle past his ear. His laughing expression had no doubt switched to one of panic, and seeing his victim visibly frightened seemed to give Masters pause for a precious second. Sherlock pulled out his torch and hurled it in Masters' direction, following it blindly in a crouching leap, spots exploding in his vision as the glaring light finally subsided. He heard the torch connect, the thunk of metal against flesh, Masters grunted and the gun went off again, deafeningly loud, but it obviously missed because Sherlock was still alive and he was almost there, he could vaguely see Masters behind the floating blue burn in his retinas...

And then Masters swung the gun instead of firing it.

It caught him high on the forehead, the sudden pain sweeping through his skull and making him stagger back, dizzy. He blinked hard, struggling to focus, and through his hazy vision he could make out Masters readjusting his aim, preparing to shoot him again. Sherlock ducked his head, forcing another readjustment, lunged forward diagonally and lashed out with his right fist, slamming into Masters' gun hand and knocking the weapon to the floor. It went off again on impact, and Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't been hit yet. Of course, he meant with bullets not with fists, because as his sudden momentum flung his upper body forward, the dizziness rushed back abruptly, weakening his knees and making him feel nauseous. And while he stumbled and fought to stay upright on unsteady legs, what he could only assume was Masters' fist crashed sharply into his right ear and sent him flying sideways into the floor.

On his left side.

He screamed with agony as his ribs slammed into the concrete, the white hot splash of pain spreading up to numb all other sensations and bringing hot, unwanted tears to his eyes. He tipped instinctively onto his back, his vision blacking out as he gasped and jerked uncontrollably, his body trying to curl up to protect itself and failing to manage it. He felt sick again from the intensity, and he turned his head sideways as his stomach clenched and forced him to vomit, but nothing came out and he only gagged on dry heaves that made the pain worse. He could almost feel his eyes rolling back in his head, and he fought against the loss of consciousness with some vague but deep and desperate instinct of survival, because really he wanted nothing more than to embrace the blackness so that please, the pain would go away.

He floundered in a dark, confused world as his brain struggled to regain control, the sounds of his own agonised gasps seeming disconnected and far away. He could only just feel his own body beyond the sharp, unforgiving pulse in his side, the pain drowning out everything but the brush of his clothes and the hard concrete beneath his back. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids refused even to flutter, and no light seeped between them to guide him back to reality. He started to groan in frustration – and then he suddenly found that he was unable to cry out anymore. There was a pressure on his throat that was stopping him, blocking his efforts to vent his agony in the only way he could. He tried to reach up to move it away, but his arms felt leaden and useless, and all he managed to do was to raise his hands feebly and twitch before his limbs collapsed again and he stopped moving altogether.

Somewhere beyond the background clamor of his own blood vessels roaring in his ears, he heard a horrible screeching noise, like someone dragging a handful of sewing needles across glass. In his current state he couldn't identify it, but if he'd still been able to force sound past his throat, he would have thought it was just him screaming again. He felt himself go limp and nearly numb, and yet he was conscious of his chest beginning to ache, a dull, persistent throb that slowly grew to constrict his heart. His ribs were still burning up the side of his body, and now his lungs too were on fire, but he couldn't do anything about it, no matter how hard he tried to move his body wouldn't obey him and he was fading away... A distant voice echoed strangely in his ears and he had trouble processing what it was saying.

All right, step away from him! Right now! D'you hear me, right now! Sherlock! Sherlock!

Something grabbed his shoulder and yanked him upright, rocketing him forward into a sitting position, and he tried to cry out in protest as pain flared up afresh, but he couldn't get any noise through his blocked throat - all he could get it to do was hurt.

Sherlock! Can you hear me? Can you breathe? Are you breathing?

He was being rocked back and forth gently, but the motion tore at his ribs, and he managed a pained whimper, which only made the burning in his throat worse. Something pressed hard into his stomach, and the bruises there protested angrily, and as he tried reflexively to whimper again a sharp feeling built up in the back of his throat and suddenly exploded outward in a cough that seared his insides and his throat and his lungs and he started to gasp in agony, but the air seemed to get caught as it tried to enter and he choked on nothing and then he was struggling to breathe, which he suddenly realised he hadn't been doing for a while.

He was pushed gently forward again, and it felt like there was a hand on his face. He tried to shy away from the touch, but then he coughed again, his shoulders jerking, and though it ripped through his insides as keenly as before, this time the pain was followed by air. Cold air flowed into his lungs, shocking him back into a vague semblance of alertness, and with the help of whatever was still pushing him forwards, he leaned over his knees and fought for more. He gasped and wheezed, and hissed as his desperate bids for oxygen pulsed hot and agonising in his left side, but his body forced him to keep breathing, drawing in air through his raw esophagus and he slumped forward with tears still leaking out of his eyes, inhaling and exhaling labouriously.

Oh, thank God. Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?

Slowly the jumble of pain and noise and vague sensation started to coalesce, and the fuzzy voice that had come to him through layers of cotton solidified into Lestrade at his side, holding him up from the back and pressing a hand against his forehead. He gave a faint moan, speech still beyond his capabilities, and reached up to push Lestrade's hand away, swatting clumsily and ineffectually at the D.I.'s wrist, while Lestrade merely clamped on tighter.

"Just relax, okay?" Lestrade told him. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

Bleeding? Belatedly he remembered Masters' strike on his forehead. The gun must have cut into his skin, and now that Lestrade mentioned it, he could feel liquid on his face, warm and wet, though rapidly cooling. He dabbed at the right side of his face and came away with dark red soaking into his glove. He frowned. Now he would have to get his glove cleaned. He glanced around the room, trying to get his bearings, and noted with annoyance that everything was still bruised over with blue and purple. He blinked rapidly, and the wide, round images flashed, still hanging in his vision. Where was Masters? He couldn't see!

"Where... Where'masters?" he asked, his voice coming out rough and squeaky and difficult to control.

"Oh, he ran off," Lestrade answered. "I got hold of the gun and threatened him with it, that's how I got him off you, but I couldn't focus on you and him at the same time, so he managed to... Oi, what are you doing? Hold still!"

"Don' le' 'im," Sherlock wheezed, struggling to get up against Lestrade's grip. "Don't let him... get away..." Sherlock managed to more or less form a regular sentence, although his voice was still badly strained. He inhaled sharply as he jarred his ribs, and quickly stopped fighting Lestrade, contenting himself with pulling out his phone instead.

"Call an ambulance," Lestrade advised, moving his hand back to Sherlock's blood flow. "This isn't stopping."

"Head wounds... eah... bleed a lot," he coughed. "It's fine, A&E later." He pushed the phone at Lestrade. "Call out a man, cough, man hunt on him."

Lestrade glared at the phone, then took his arm off of Sherlock's shoulder blades to reach for it. Unexpectedly deprived of his support, Sherlock started to tip backwards, his tired body startled by the loss and unable to catch itself. Lestade abandoned going for the phone and quickly caught at Sherlock's back again, stopping him from falling, but the jolt was enough to make Sherlock whimper. Lestrade eyed Sherlock's torso critically.

"What else is wrong with you? Something else is wrong with you, you keep doing that."

"It's fine," Sherlock repeated, taking a gulp of air and feeling his voice start to even out a bit. "I'll call, then."

He remembered Sergeant Donovan's number - she should be up by now.

"Sherlock, call an ambulance!" Lestrade said in exasperation as Sherlock punched in a sequence of numbers that was clearly not 999. Sherlock ignored him and put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. After two rings, it picked up.

"Hello?" Donovan said uncertainly, the usual response to a call from an unknown number.

"Sally," Sherlock said as evenly as he was able. "Phillip Masters. Need the Met to find him, he..." Sherlock paused to cough and Lestrade grappled for the phone, his attempts hindered by trying to both keep Sherlock upright and avoid spilling a handful of blood.

"Give me that!" Lestrade demanded, lunging for Sherlock's sleeve and backing off as Sherlock winced.

"What's going on, Freak?" Sally also demanded, her voice echoing up through the phone.

Sherlock sighed in frustration and put his mobile on speakerphone.

"You talk to her," he rasped, shoving the phone in Lestrade's direction again. He didn't want to deal with being caught between of the two of them. On top of all his other pains, his head was really beginning to hurt. Lestrade leaned over the phone in Sherlock's hand and addressed his team's sergeant.

"Donovan?"

"Sir? What's going on?"

"I need you to alert the Met, we need to find Phillip Masters. Edmund Harrington's secretary, from our case? He did it."

"Masters? You sure?"

They both knew this question was asked because she knew Sherlock had supplied the accusation.

"Yes, very sure," Lestrade answered, while Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to will his pain away.

"All right, I'll call in and send out his photo. Any information on where he's going, what's he's wearing...?"

"He was wearing a suit for work, last I saw him. Uh, green shirt, yellow tie. I think. He's probably in his car, so look up the plate number. Don't know where he's going."

"Ugh," Sherlock huffed in frustration. "None of you pay attention to anything. He knows you'll be searching for his car so he'll have left it after about ten minutes and gone off on foot. He'll probably get a taxi or take the Tube next, depending on how much cash he has..." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "How soon did you hear the door? He had a safe in one of his crates, he may have picked it up. Probably left the drugs, though."

"I don't know when I heard the door," Lestrade said uncertainly. "I was a bit busy checking on you. There could have been a pause, yeah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, too-slowly fading afterimages flashing at him annoyingly.

"If he has that money things will be easier for him. Start calling cab companies, but look at the Tube too, of course. He'll have taken off his suit jacket and tie at the very least, so mention that in the physical description. And where he's headed is easy, he'll be trying for Lowestoft."

"Lowestoft?" Sally said sceptically.

"His childhood home before he came to London," Sherlock elaborated. "I went all through his file last night. He's still got friends there who might be willing to help him, and there's a port where he can conceivably catch a freighter to the rest of Europe. Check the train stations to see who's buying tickets to Lowestoft, and if they're paying in cash."

"Anything else, Freak?" Sally asked sarcastically.

Sherlock shook his head automatically, and Lestrade made a noise of protest as drops of blood flew through the air. Sherlock ignored him.

"No, that's everything relevant. Unfortunately I couldn't see him very well, so I can't provide much more data."

"It's plenty," Lestrade said firmly. "Find him and arrest him," he said to Donovan. "As soon as possible."

"And charge him with the murder of Edmund Harrington?" Sally asked.

"The murder of Edmund Harrington, the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes, and the possession and intent to sell illegal substances. All three."

"Two," Sherlock remanded. "Leave me out of it."

"Sherlock, he tried to kill you - "

"I wasn't here," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not pressing charges. You've got plenty on him already."

Lestrade sighed.

"We'll talk about it later," he said long-sufferingly. "All right Donovan, just charge him with the other two for now."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"No, that's all," Sherlock answered for him, and promptly rang off. He shoved the phone into his pocket again and sagged back into Lestrade's arm. In addition to the sharp ache spreading through his skull, he was starting to feel a bit light headed.

"Sherlock, ambulance," Lestrade insisted.

"I don't want an ambulance," Sherlock said shallowly. "I'll take a cab. Or you can drive me."

"Ambulance," Lestrade repeated. "And what happened to you before this? Masters didn't give you that black eye, and he didn't supply you with sticking plasters, either."

"Altercation. He sent three men after me earlier - wanted me in hospital." The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upward in an ironic smile. "I suppose he's got his wish now, though a bit too late to be useful to him."

"You were attacked earlier tonight?" Lestrade demanded. "Why didn't you report it?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, his eyelids drooping half-shut.

"It wouldn't have done any good. They could have been anywhere by the time I got home," he pointed out wearily. "It was the middle of the night and I didn't get any sort of look at them - and I was a bit preoccupied with getting them off of me to notice much about them except how good they were at their job. Reporting it would have been a waste of time. And I had work to do."

Lestrade sighed too, his exhalation showing a similar amount of exasperation. But he accepted Sherlock's explanation without further complaint.

"Well, we'll be sure to ask Masters about it when get him in for questioning." He readjusted his grip on Sherlock's shoulders. "Now we should get you an ambulance."

"Yes, we should go, there's nothing more I can do here..." Sherlock agreed. He took a breath. "But drive me, will you? I just solved your case."

"And I just saved your life, so you're not in any position to make demands."

"Drive me," Sherlock said again.

Lestrade sighed a third time and checked Sherlock's forehead.

"Your head's still bleeding. Can you even stand up?"

Sherlock struggled to get his legs underneath himself, and with a massive effort clawed his way upward, using Lestrade as a ladder and completely ignoring his cries of "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He only had one chance to get himself standing - he knew if he fell back before he was all the way up he'd never make it again. Over half of the voluntary muscles in his body were screaming at him, and his head and ribs ached. He pushed off of Lestrade's shoulder and stood completely, swaying, his eyes going out of focus as dizziness washed back over him. He managed to catch himself on Lestrade again as the D.I. stood up next to him, and leaned heavily on him for support, feeling his legs growing weak and shaky.

"Easy, Sherlock," Lestrade said, his face too close for comfort and his forehead creased in worry. "Do you want me to help you go back down?"

"No," Sherlock said hoarsely, shutting his eyes in an attempt to combat the dizziness. It was making him nauseous again, and he didn't want to have dry heaves, especially not from a standing position and especially not with Lestrade here. He had figured out from his vague memories as he was sliding into unconsciousness precisely when Lestrade came into the picture, and although he was probably outside when Sherlock screamed, he would have been thankfully still out there when Sherlock was attempting to vomit. No need to enlighten him about what he'd missed. Sherlock leaned against Lestrade on his right side and waited desperately for the dizziness to pass. When it finally lifted, he opened his eyes slowly, pleased to see the ghosts over his retinas finally starting to fade in earnest. With an effort, he managed to regain control of his legs, and started for the exit.

"Careful, we don't want to disturb the crime scene," he mumbled, veering off to avoid stepping on Masters' dust footprint path.

"Slow down," Lestrade said quickly, as he struggled to keep up - a condition that only lasted a few seconds as Sherlock suddenly sagged against Lestrade again, dangerously close to blacking out. He felt confused and exhausted, his battered brain failing at intervals and his transport betraying him. It was the blood loss that had to be causing most of it - Lestrade was still trying to stem the flow from his forehead as they walked, but it wasn't yet letting up. Although Sherlock supposed his lack of sleep over that past couple of days might also have something to do with it... He stumbled badly, allowing Lestrade to guide him to and out the door, his eyes barely open until they reached the cold wind again and it woke him up a bit.

"Should have called an ambulance," Lestrade muttered as they wended their way to the squad car. He opened the passenger door as they reached it and carefully lowered Sherlock in. Sherlock collapsed completely as soon as he hit the seat, his entire body giving up its earlier stubbornness and melting wholeheartedly into the vinyl cushions. Lestrade started to pull the seat belt over him, but Sherlock pushed it away weakly.

"No sea'bel'd," he requested in a voice slurred from exhaustion. "Id'll hurt."

"All right," Lestrade conceded, as Sherlock's eyes fell shut. "I'll be setting a bad example, but we'll just make sure not to crash."

Sherlock heard Lestrade walk around the front of the car and get into the driver's seat. The door slammed, annoying Sherlock's headache, there was a rustling, and then Lestrade pressed something soft into his right hand. After a moment's struggle he managed to open his eyes to look at it... and it appeared to be a pile of paper fast food napkins.

"For your head," Lestrade said, wiping his crimson fingers on one of them. "I can't staunch your blood flow and drive at the same time, so you'll have to do it. Just press as hard as you can." Sherlock stared stupidly at the napkins, for some reason finding himself unable to grasp what he was supposed to do with them. Lestrade sighed, then grabbed the back of his hand and pressed the palm full of napkins against Sherlock's forehead. "As hard as you can," Lestrade repeated, hesitantly letting go to see if Sherlock's fingers would stay where they were supposed to be. Incredibly, they did. "Sherlock, can you keep that up?" Sherlock mumbled an affirmative and tried to press a little harder. His arm felt half dead and he was so tired...

He heard Lestrade start the car as his eyes fell half shut again, and he tried to prop his arm against the door's armrest to keep it in place. It seemed to work. A moment later they were moving, and gravel crunched under the car's tyres as Lestrade maneuvered them out of the car park and onto the street. The drive seemed endless. Sherlock slumped against the car door with his body curled protectively around his ribs, staring faintly out the window as the streetlights flickered past. His eyelids drooped lower and lower, and his view of the streets grew dark and smeary, everything melding into a seamless world of purple and black, the background hum of the engine soothing in his ears, the occasional hump jolting him slightly more awake with a wince.

His arm got too tired, so he turned and pressed his head against the window glass, trapping the napkins between flesh and bone and liquid sand, his blood running down the side of the door and staining the black vinyl, leaching out across the glass in a spiderweb and where it flowed the glass cracked, and white flecks of cocaine appeared among the red even though he hadn't been using, he'd been on a case and hadn't needed it, so perhaps Masters was trying to implicate him in the drug ring to make his case less sound...

There was a sudden click and the door disappeared and he was caught by several hands as he tumbled sideways. They bumped into his ribs and pain blossomed and he hissed and curled up and tried to pull away from them, but they were pulling him up and out, away from his warm, shadowed womb and out into the cold and light - though they were taking care to avoid his ribs now and were moving him quickly and gently. They took off his coat and he whimpered at the loss of heat, reaching out desperately for it but it was whisked away, and he tried to ask for it back but he couldn't form words. The world turned horizontal, yet he kept moving, and suddenly a sharp, bright light was shone in his eyes and he flinched, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to get away from it, not wanting to go through Masters pointing a torch in his face for so long again. He'd finally got rid of the afterimages, and he didn't want them back.

A plastic gloved hand came down and peeled back his eyelids, and he tried to reach up to stop it, but he couldn't move his arms. They were dead or numb or disappeared, or something had him by the wrists. The light flashed over his eyes again and he cried out faintly as it hurt, unable to shut his lids this time because of the fingers holding them in place. He struggled to speak, to tell them to stop, he didn't want light in his eyes again, no, he didn't want to be shot, Edmund Harrington was already dead and how much longer could he keep Masters talking...? His lips moved desperately, and he managed to croak out one pathetic syllable.

"No."

The fingers on his eyelids went away and the light vanished with them. He shut his eyes again, tightly, gratefully, not sure if they'd understood him and granted him mercy or if they'd merely finished and the timing was coincidental. Plastic suddenly covered his mouth and nose, and it annoyed him, but again he couldn't lift his fingers to tear it off. He tried shaking his head from side to side, but that brought fresh pain, and in any case, the movement was too weak and slow to be effective. Several moments later he realised that breathing had suddenly gotten easier, so he stopped worrying about what must be an oxygen mask and concentrating on trying to make said breathing less painful. His throat still ached and swallowing burned and smarted.

He kept getting colder and colder, and by the time his teeth chattered and he found himself shivering he discovered that somehow his shirt was gone. He was lying, his torso bare, on some kind of bed with papery sheets that crinkled at the slightest movement. Hands were running over his injuries, pressing here and there and he hated it, especially when they started prodding the spot on his left side and he cried out in desperate agony, trying to move, trying to stop them but his limbs refused to respond. The fingers pressed there once more, and tears leaked out of his eyes, and then he felt a prick in his right arm and a soft cloth wiped the tears from his face and a hand was on his forehead. Presumably that was supposed to be some form of comfort, but the hand disappeared after a couple of seconds and then a thermometre was pushed into his mouth.

And then the most wonderful, glorious thing happened.

The pain started to fade away.

Mycroft would be angry - they'd given him morphine, he could tell by the cloud like sensation and the gentle high his mind suddenly coasted upon as it trickled into his veins. The hot, aching throb in his side that had plagued him for so many hours receded in the wake of the cool, pleasant sensation that the drug wrought in his body. The pain in his head was carried off by a summer breeze, the roughness in his throat melted and vaporised, the cuts and the bruises and the black eye vanished clean away, and he sighed in utter, absolute relief, his entire existence transformed into bliss as his whole body seemed to slowly turn into liquid. He tried to say thank you to whomever had done that for him, he tried to lift his head as the thermometre was taken away, but he still had no strength and the morphine was quickly sapping was what left of his conscious energy. His lips formed the words, but he couldn't push out the sound, so he gave up after a few tries and hoped they understood.

Something cold was lain across his forehead, and then another on his stomach, and he shivered again, but it wasn't too unpleasant because now he had the morphine to comfort him. Something poked his left side, where it used to hurt, but now he felt only pressure, not a hint of pain from his nerve endings, and when whatever had poked him slid in between his ribs it didn't bother him at all. He tried to open his eyes again, vaguely curious about his surroundings now that his body was no longer shrieking in agony, but all he managed to see was a little white light, glowing in from the thin gap between his eyelids, and he shied away from such illumination again, preferring to stay in darkness than once again weather its bright glare. And he was tired. He could always observe after some sleep. The case was solved, and he could afford to rest now, especially now that his pain had been taken away. Yes, he would do that. With the soft cloud of the morphine singing gently through his veins, he relaxed the last tendrils of his hold on reality and slipped pleasantly into sleep.

ooo00ooo

So, since I posted the first chapter of this, an evil flip top desk tossed my laptop to the floor and screwed up my hard drive, I spent about two months unable to access any of my files, then I went home and started working almost immediately and was quite busy, then I starting borrowing someone else's computer to get online and such, then the files were finally gotten off of the first hard drive and onto an external one , then I transferred the folder of my writings to the computer of the person whom I was borrowing from, then I started working more on Chapter 3 but still wasn't satisfied with Chapter 2, then I went to an internship for five weeks where I was quite ridiculously busy and wrote zero fan fiction (except notes and ramblings in my head), and then I came back home and started actually writing again and finally, FINALLY I have gotten the second chapter of this up.

Took a bit.

Anyway, all of that happened, and this story is becoming much more extensive than it was originally planned to be, so I hope you enjoyed this long, juicy chapter because I don't know when I'll update next, but I will bloody well try. Of course, the fact that I'm an annoying procrastinator and keep trying to write five others things before I've completely finished one thing doesn't help, but it's not as if I'm being paid for this. Still, I feel like I should ATTEMPT to show some responsibility to my readers, all twelve of them, so this is me trying. By explaining why it's not done.

Shutting up now.

Review?