Asylum, prologue

It was a dark, foggy evening in London, the newspapers from the day before slightly wet for condensation of water.

Doctor John Watson was walking down the streets, his mind wondering about the rare case of high fever he had that morning at work.

When he arrived home, that evening, he found a note attached to his front door, from Mrs Hudson, his best firend's landlady. He ran back outside and headed to 221b Baker st, where he lived. Sherlock Holmes. The detective.

He walked fast on the pavements he knew so well and reached Baker st in about fifteen minutes, almost panting in worry and anticipation.

John knocked on the thick wooden door, anxiously waiting for the lady to let him in.

When Mrs Hudson opened the door, she hugged him so tight he almost choked, but she pulled away soon enough for him to see the tears wetting her eyes.

-Oh, John, I'm so glad you came... He's been locked in his flat for three days straight now, he hasn't eaten, drunk or got out... Please help him, you're the only one capable of doing that... He won't let me in...- she paused for a moment, looking the doctor straight in the eye. -john... please... you're the only one who can move him...-

john nodded slowly and approached to the stairs, looking back to Mrs Hudson just once before actually stepping on the first step and started going up the stairs. he stopped walking right on the doorstep, already scared of what he could have found behind that door.

he pushed away the thought of Sherlock using again and softly knocked on the door, discoverong it was unlocked, opening it slowly.

the detective was lying on the floor, eyes open wide and staring at the ceiling completely focus less.

john's heart skipped a beat, as adrenaline started rushing through his body and the oxygen in his brain started consuming way faster than normal.

-SHERLOCK!- He cried, when he got the got the strength to move his body again, running onto him.

-Sherlock please, tell me you're okay...- he was checking the other's heartbeats, insanely slow...

after a couple more calls, Sherlock finally started responding and his heartbeat came back to something close to normal. He wasn't really capable of answering properly, he only managed to murmur something but john knew him and the detective's eyes spoke for him; they were wet and implorant, the light shade of the iris almost melting in the red of the irritated corneas.

John helped him up and carried him to bed. He took care of him; he fed Sherlock some bread and dry food, held him a glass of water, changed his dirty ( and frankly rather smelly, God only knows how long Sherlock had had them on) clothes and put him in his bed, rolling the sheets up.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, john sitting next to him, when he spoke.

-John...- he muttered. - I'm not sure I can make it this time... John noticed his eyes getting wet again and adjusted himself on the bed.

He shook his head, then asked what Sherlock meant by that.

- Moriarty...- said the detective in his baritonal voice, looking at the ceiling.

-er... Sorry, who?- John asked, confused.

- professor Jim Moriarty... It's a case I had along time agoo,before we even met. Ten years ago, I found a net. A deep, murderous net of killers and criminals, guided by a mayfly man, a crazy, psychopathic mayfly man. Jim Moriarty. It's then I started using. That one is the case that drove me mad. And he's back, John. My archnemesis.