"Do not be angry with the rain;

it simply does not know how to fall upwards."

-Vladimir Nabokov

The rain was coming down in sheets. It had been doing this all day, and the people of London were once again being reminded of why they enjoy their vacation days. John had never particularly hated the rain, but today he despised it. It was water, falling down from the sky, and for some reason this bothered John beyond belief. There was no reasonable explanation for him to be bothered by this fact, but nonetheless, he was.

Maybe it was because John was simply tired of the rain, or maybe it was because it made it more difficult to escape the tension within his flat. Because indeed, today there was plenty of tense air within 221B, and John had no idea why.

"John," came a familiar low voice from the living room, "phone."

John looked up from that morning's paper and glanced at Sherlock, his hand was outstretched, waiting for John's phone patiently. He placed it in the open palm and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on; on a day when it never stops raining, the least anyone can do for themselves is make a cup of tea.

"Do you want some tea Sherlock?"

"No," he answered abruptly.

Now this was unusual. Not his short, cold tone, but the answer. No? No to a cup tea? John poured two cups anyways.

"John, do you remember when I received a text this morning?"

John sipped his tea casually, "No Sherlock, I guess I just wasn't paying enough attention to every sound your phone was making." He smirked and added with sass, "my sincerest apologies." Sherlock raised his eyebrows; he knew it was the constant rain that was causing John to be short with him, but that didn't impair his ability to overlook it. John drank some more of his tea; it slowly made him feel better, "So, a text this morning?"

"Yes, a text."

"From who?"

Sherlock stared into space for a moment, hands clasped together under his chin, "From 'JM'"

John nearly spat out his tea, "JM? As in Jim Moriarty? Moriarty, he's back?"

"It only said 'JM', John, let's not jump to conclusions."

"It's hardly a jump Sherlock, not even a step, more like a small tip-toe. 'JM', who else could that be? Hold on, what did it say?" John stood in awe of his flatmate. How could he be so calm right now? Jim Moriarty. That man had strapped enough explosives to blow up a building to John's chest and used him just like a puppet. John was not going to be calm.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before answering. He looked John in the eyes, but John could tell it wasn't calmness he was seeing on Sherlock's face, it was a mask.

"It said, 'I'm back, we should grab lunch some time. Tell everyone else I said hi- JM', that's all it said."

"And what did you reply back?"

"Do you take me for an idiot John?"

"Sometimes," John replied, "Here's your tea."

"I didn't ask for tea." Sherlock looked annoyed, but he got no response, so he took a sip of the tea anyways, "I didn't reply to him. I wanted to tell you first and then tell Lestrade. Maybe even let Mycroft know as well."

There was a minute of silence within 221B, broken only by the clinking of tea cups on their plates. John was at a loss for words, in fact, John was at a loss for reactions. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? What could he do?

"Sherlock, are we safe?" He finally asked to break the unbearable silence.

Sherlock's mask fell off. Even though it was just barely for a second John knew well him well enough to know when Sherlock was faking his composure. This was one of those times.

"I don't know John."

The rain was still coming down in sheets. What was with this weather today? Thought John. Yes, it's England and rain isn't necessarily a strange weather pattern for the British, but today was different for some reason. It had been raining since before he had woken up, it was raining when Sherlock had told him that Moriarty was back, and even now, almost an hour since Sherlock left to see Lestrade, it was still raining.

Sherlock said that he would be back thirty minutes ago. John thought with annoyance.

He looked around; it was quite peaceful inside the flat. Regardless of the papers and books sprawled everywhere and the 'experiments' in their refrigerator, John really did think it was wonderful inside their flat. It was home after all.

Then there was a sudden sound from behind him. Barely a sound really, more like a whisper of a floorboard shifting in its place. This shouldn't have made John jump. This shouldn't have scared him in the slightest. This shouldn't have caused him to abruptly turn around to see an intruder standing in the doorway to his living room

But it did.

And there was Moriarty; hands in his pockets and a faint smirk upon his lips.

Hatred in his heart.

"Hello John."