I hope you enjoy this. Another possible "empty house" scene... Two years passed since the fall. John's path didn't come across Moran's path. He by accident visited the old flat at a wrong time, or was it a right time? All the characters are fictional. Thank you for reading. Comments are very welcome:)

I had to modify a little: this happens two years after the fall.

It was just like any other nights.

Friday after a hectic week.

John had just finished his shift, grabbed his jacket, and was passing by the lobby. There had been a surge of cold and flu patients for days despite the season - June. Weather extremes... The place looked almost abandoned now.

There was an old lady who was supported by a woman, possibly her daughter. She looked starkly like his former landlady. Mrs. Hudson had invited him over dinner last week. At the last minute, the doctor had ask for a rain check because he had to work a longer shift. John decided to call Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello."

"Hello. Mrs. Hudson."

"John. It's lovely to hear your voice. How are you?"

"Good. I'm sorry that I had to cancel it last week. So many flu patients… How are you? Your voice is…"

"Cold, I guess… A couple of paracetamol will do."

"I can check on you if you like."

"Oh, John. I'm so glad to hear it. I've just made a potful of cheese and onion soup."

"Sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson. I'm leaving now. Given the traffic, twenty minutes... half an hour?"

"Hold on. Someone's outside the door. I'll be right back."

John could hear her footsteps, a click of the door, a silence for seconds, and her outcry.

"Mrs. Hudson, Are you there? Are you okay? Mrs. Hudson…"

There was no answer.

Panicked, John dashed outside and headed to his old flat. He called Lestrade, not 999. He thought it would be quicker and quieter – it could be nothing, just his overreaction again. Lestrade answered his second call.

"John?"

"Greg. By any chance, can you check on Mrs. Hudson?"

John tersely explained what had just happened. The DI sounded worried: luckily he was in the vicinity of the flat, at less than five-minute-car-ride distance. He promised to call back.

The traffic thinned out without a warning near Baker Street. John was outside the building after fifteen minutes, much earlier than his expectation. The street seemed to have been abandoned. No sign of pedestrians, a few cars that he could recognize like the white Mini, the one of Speedy's owner, and a couple of unfamiliar grey vans without windows caught his eyes at the opposite sides of the street.

John noticed the door was ajar - possibly Greg had just made it. The cafe was closed. There was a memo that said they had closed earlier today.

It's weird. Mr. Chatterje's car is still there. Greg... Where is his car?

Wondering, John walked in, calling out Mrs. Hudson and Greg.

Silence.

The door of 221A was open. He looked around the sitting room: tidy-as-ever. Smells of her onion soup and grilled cheese. His mouth watered. Only the receiver of her phone was off the hook. He placed it back. Empty. No sign of forced entry and struggles.

Then he heard it. Music from upstairs. To come to think of it, the upstairs was lighted when he walked in. Much relieved, he headed to the staircase.

It had been six months that he moved out: the commute to his new job was the excuse, but the real reason was that he didn't want to live on "favor" from Mycroft: the older Holmes still paid for the flat in full. John hadn't given it a thought up to now. For two years, he had kept paying money for his dead brother's flat. Walking upstairs, he started to wonder why. He called out her name again.

"Mrs. Hudson. Did you turn the music on?"

At the half landing, he stopped. It was violin music. Bach's violin sonata... His favorite.

It can't be. Is it a joke?

John ran up the rest of the stairs. He was about to dash into the sitting room when someone grabbed him from behind. John struggled hard to break free but the man was unbelievably strong. Instantly he was overpowered. A gag on his mouth: his muffled cry was barely audible. The stranger pointed at his chest with a pistol, gesturing the doctor to follow.

Did I just walk into an armed robbery? Impossible. The flat's under surveillance. That's what Mycroft had told me last time. If it were, then he would know immediately.

Something caught his eyes. John stopped resisting. A silhouette of a dark-haired man in blue dressing gown with a violin in his hand at the window near the fire-place.

It looked like him. No. Am I hallucinating?

One more poke from the gun. John headed to the upstairs bedroom, his old room. There was another standing guard near the window. A woman was peeking out the window. The men were well-armed. Their eyes, the way that they acted…- they were not robbers. They were specially trained agents or soldiers from Special Forces.

The room was very dark. The drape was almost pulled down without light.

John could see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade when his eyes got used to darkness. Greg removed the gag for John. John didn't have any idea about what it was all about. He gave the Di a quizzical look. The DI shrugged it off, hinting that he was as clueless as the doctor was except that they were in the middle of a military operation.

Ten minutes.. Twenty minutes... Thirty minutes... They could hear the music repeating itself.

A crack. The sounds of breaking glass. Then a thump with china shattering.

John was almost screaming the name of his friend, "Sherlock". Then he heard it: the sound of a couple shots from a sniper rifle from the next room.

There was a scurry of movements downstairs – footsteps, radio communications, closing sirens of emergency vehicles. The man who had attacked John opened the door and gestured the trio out.

They blinked their eyes for seconds and staggered downstairs. Lestrade helped Mrs. Hudson as John dashed into the sitting room. On the floor was a very sophisticated mannequin - not a common faceless one that you can see in shop windows - with its head burst off from its neck. A big porcelain vase fell, broken into pieces on the carpet. He noticed,

Accuracy of Fire. A shot from a sniper, by someone with an excellent marksmanship.

A curly black wig, his blue night-gown, his violin cracked. No, it was a cheap version. The MP3 player kept playing the violin sonata.

Is this a prank? Why? Special military operation. Mycroft's behind this?

His mind was busy putting the pieces of new information into a plausible story. He just couldn't.

Mycroft had told us that there were snipers. Why the mannequin, not us? Someone was still after him. Does that mean he is not dead?

His heart was pounding hard. A small hope that hadn't died away flickered back. Feeling his face burning, he turned off the player and looked out the cracked window.

The shot must have been fired from the opposite building. The street wasn't deserted anymore. Emergency vehicles filled the street. A few soldiers of Special Forces unit were surrounding the unmarked windowless vans. A coroner's van had just arrived. A trolley with a body bag was wheeled out from the opposite building. Overhead one chopper roared as its blade churned the air.

He didn't notice that a man had just entered the sitting room at the moment; Mycroft followed. Greg muttered out a short cry of shock. Mrs. Hudson started to sob hysterically. In alarm, the doctor was about to turn around when he heard the low voice, his voice.

"John"

His eyes found a ghost of his friend next to Mycroft.

He's…Sherlock Holmes.

John's legs gave in and everything just swirled into darkness.

An hour later, the detective was sitting on the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson. She was holding both hands of the sleuth tight and he didn't dare to break free. John was on his old armchair, Lestrade on the other. Mycroft was standing near the fireplace. They mostly listened while the sleuth talked. There was a tray of soup bowls but it was forgotten by everyone in the room.