Huddled over his coffee table Greg, once again, dumped the files onto the table as he waited for his ancient laptop to sputter to life. John sat beside him, watching the proceedings with the calm acceptance of a man with vast experience in the erratic behavior of questionably stable individuals.

"Look!" Greg said. Fumbling with the blanket of papers, he snatched up the graffiti photograph.

His laptop pinged in awareness and he shoved the photo into John's hands. Greg pecked out his pass code on the database and started scrolling. It took him a few moments to find the bloody email but there it was, buried beneath the pileup that had accrued in his absence.

"Greg." John's voice was hoarse and dark. "What the hell…?"

Greg pushed the laptop in front of the doctor and waited. He watched John's eyes slide across the screen then double back a few times, rereading the material again and again.

"When was this taken?" he finally murmured.

"Soon after you fled the scene."

"And the windows?"

"Spotted later, the next morning."

"How the…" John cocked his head, brow furrowed, and stared again at the photograph. "He did this. Moriarty. He was leaving a message."

"A warning?" Greg tried. This was always the hard part, assembling the pieces to form the picture (especially when the pieces were covered in the blood of a friend).

"But to what end?" John demanded. "We knew he was coming, it was only a matter of time."

"Playing the game? Taunting, heckling. It's all part of it."

"So why leave a calling card at the flat? Paint up the Yard and Baker Street? It's got to be more than that. These are places Sherlock went all the time." John closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "Moriarty is a bomber."

Greg considered that for a moment, recalling that awful case. "What, they're targets? Blow the Yard, your flat? But then why two warnings at Baker Street? Sherlock would never have stayed if he thought the place rigged, not with Mrs. Hudson in potential danger, you think?"

John chuckled without humor and ran a hand over his eyes. "No, Mrs. Hudson couldn't leave Baker Street. England would…" John suddenly went very still and all the color drained from his face.

"John, what is it? England would what?"

John's answer was faint as a breeze: "Fall." He stared at the photograph of the three-lettered graffiti. "Mrs. Hudson." He glanced at the email. "Greg." He nodded faintly and his eyes slid shut. "Me."

John leaned forward and laid the photo on the coffee table next to the soft glow of the laptop.

His voice was soft but flat when he next spoke. "Awhile back I suggested Mrs. Hudson take a holiday. Sherlock laughed and claimed that if Mrs. Hudson were to ever leave Baker Street "England would fall.'" He pointed to the winged graffiti. "That's for Mrs. Hudson."

He turned to the laptop. "Even HR was able to figure out the IOU was obviously for the Yard, not the marketing firm. But not for all of Scotland Yard. You, Greg. You're the only one who could work with him. The painted windows were for you."

And suddenly he understood. "It's you," Greg breathed. "The apple was your warning, your pip. It was a hit list."

John was ashen, his voice hollow. "And we're not dead."

But someone is.

It was a sucker punch to the gut, so violent Greg had to bolt to the kitchen and wretch into the sink.

Oh my God. "Moriarty made him do it." It wasn't a question.

John's reply was haunted. "What other answer is there?"

Thanks for coming along on the ride! If you enjoyed yourself, do stop and say hello! That little review box down there is very nice and doesn't bite. I promise.