Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original story

Sherlock sat at a table outside the café, in the old town of Tbilisi, Georgia, waiting. It was late, and there were hardly any people walking the cobbled streets.

Through a number of shady contacts, he and John had tracked down Ludmila Dyachenko the last but one member of Moriarty's network. The Russian killer was moonlighting another contract.

Taking a sip of his bitter black coffee the sharp grey eyes scanned the street, waiting for the lady, hoping she wouldn't recognise 'Mr Locke' as the man she had been paid to kill.

A warm breeze stirred the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine as he recognised John's touch.

'She's on her way'

Sherlock picked up his newspaper, the only sign the killer would have that she had the right man. She took a seat at his table.

"May I?" she asked in heavily accented English.

The young detective lowered the paper, his eyes meeting hers as she gasped in surprise.

"But you're dead!"

"He's not," John spoke into her ear "But you are."

As John snapped the killer's neck Sherlock closed his eyes; he hated to see the pain these actions caused his friend.

Slipping quietly away John and Sherlock headed to the station, and boarded the night train to Batumi

A/N: And this 221B means I've reached my target! YAY!