How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 4: The Last Sniper

Sherlock

My eyes bore into the plain ceiling. I hear Mycroft in the next room, I hop up from the sofa quickly. My body literally struggles to contain itself, this is intolerable. Insufferable!

I burst through the door into the adjacent room and almost run into Mycroft. His controlled posture welcomes me calmly. His thin yet round face remains calm and expressionless. The short dark hair on his head is receding further, getting thinner. His sharp eyes look me over.

"Brother," he says with a level tone, "I see you've been out."

"That was ages ago!" I dismiss his remark. He sits gracefully in the chair behind his massive desk. He toils with a pen in his long fingers.

"You're getting careless." He warns me. I roll my eyes.

"Oh, please." I scoff at him.

"Don't forget I also thought you were dead, Sherlock." I can almost sense annoyance in his voice, "Stop playing around!" Definitely annoyance.

"I had something to take care of." I announce nonchalantly.

"John is perfectly fine without you meddling in his affairs."

"Molly, actually." Now I'm trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.

He tilts his head toward me with his eyebrows raised, wrinkles creased into his long forehead. He rises from his chair and places the pen upon his desk. He sighs.

"I can't keep watch over you while you prance about-"

"I don't need your watching." I cut him off.

"You did once." He reminds me. "Someone had to be there to clean up the mess you made."

"How's our sniper doing? Well, I presume?" I tease him.

He folds his hands into the pockets of his suit, "Stay here, would you? We can't afford another Bartholomew on our hands."

"Everything is under control. I don't see why I have to remain caged here like an animal." I spit the words out. I only came to him after my fake suicide to acquire information about Moriarty's snipers. It just so happened that staying here was a better outcome than staying in hiding somewhere else. Being here gives me access, unbeknown by Mycroft, to a wealth of information. Certainly an advantage.

He seems to resign a little and reaches for a file on his desk behind him. He hands it to me, "Don't be so dramatic. I've work to do, Sherlock. Try and behave." He walks past me and leaves the office. I open the folder and find a picture of a young man resting within, under which lie papers. I quickly read through the papers.

A Russian name stares back at me, as well as personal information. Date of birth, parents names, personal history. Professional history, including a list of people. It takes less than a second for me to recognize what it is. A list of his hits. Something swells in my stomach when I realize this is the last sniper. I analyze his photograph, short dark hair, brown eyes, square face, a hard line resting on his thin lips. I imagine those cold eyes staring down a rifle viewfinder at John's unsuspecting head.

I memorize his name, Grigory Volkov. I memorize every line and curve of his face. I commit to memory every detail of his file. The picture of him was taken from a short distance, giving me a good amount of detail. He's wearing a dark cap, black coat. He seems to be looking around him, a scrawl on his face.

He's left handed, a wrist watch on his right wrist suggest he's better with his left hand. He also leads with his left foot, he's sitting in the photograph, his left foot placed over his right. His tan skin tells me he spends a lot of time outside, in a hotter climate than Russia or England. He's last assignment must have been closer to the equator.