Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
"Bit risky, don't you think?" a soft voice purred.
Sherlock didn't jump. He knew that someone had been following him for a while now, but since he didn't want to be late for his own funeral, he decided against confronting her earlier. He remained staring straight ahead at his friend, who was now standing alone next to the grave. It felt strange to see people grieving for him. Before he met John, he could easily block out human sentiments, especially since he knew that nobody really cared about him. He could fake his own death and nobody would bat an eyelid. There were times in his drug-taking days when he thought that he would just keel over and die. It wouldn't matter. But now he felt a pang of guilt upon seeing the look of bereavement on John's face as the soldier limped away from the grave.
"You're not very good at this fake-death malarky, are you?" the female voice asked. "I thought the whole idea was to keep a low profile. Kinda defeats the whole point when you turn up to your own funeral. A bit narcissistic, too."
"How did you kno-" he started.
"Oh, come on. It doesn't take a genius to figure it all out," she said, rolling her eyes. She smirked and reached forward to touch his face, but stopped herself at the last minute. "You're much more handsome in person, but I almost didn't recognise you without the hat. I can see why Jimmy was so fascinated. I mean, look at you."
"Jimmy?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow while her eyes raked down his body.
She shook her head and laughed. "My goodness, I thought you were the big genius man. Please don't tell me that you're just another fraud. Come on, where else have you recognised a sweet, Dublin accent in the past few days? Think. Or are you too distracted by my breasts?"
"Now who is being narcissistic?" he asked.
"Think," she demanded, her voice firm.
It didn't take long for the clues to click together. She had been on a short plane journey about five days ago, which was quite a spur-of-the-moment decision in reaction to some bad news she had received. Five days ago, Sherlock Holmes had been officially declared as 'deceased'. She was obviously connected to his psychopathic ex-nemesis, Jim Moriarty. He would say that she was a lover, but all the signs made her seem like someone closer and more protective. She was someone who had known him her whole life. She looked about thirty years old, leading him to deduce that she was none other than Moriarty's sister. He blinked. It was odd to think about that psycho having family.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he muttered.
"No you're not," she smiled, a passing hint of sadness in her eyes. "He was a doofus, right till the very end. Mum and Dad thought they could cure him by sending him to a loony bin, but you know. The bloody healthcare system did nothing for him. They probably made him even crazier than when he went in."
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm glad you asked, Mr Holmes. Direct and straight to the point. I like it," she said. "Thing is... you killed my brother. Sure, you didn't put the gun to his head, but I hold you personally responsible for what happened to him, so consider this a warning. You've seen what my brother is... was, capable of. You've seen what he can do, how much trouble he caused for you. That's only a teensy fraction of what I can do. I just wanted to say that you might have escaped death this time, but your days are numbered. I'm coming for you. I'm coming for everyone you care for and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
"I'm quivering in my boots," Sherlock said in a deadpan voice.
She laughed and stepped closer, leaning forwards to whisper against his ear as though she knew that he was just putting up a façade. He closed his eyes, feeling her hot breath on his skin.
"You should be," she whispered.
She reached inside her pocket and produced a black marker, taking off the lid with her teeth. She grabbed his arm roughly and pulled back his sleeve. Sherlock did nothing to stop the woman. Nor did he question what she was doing. They merely stood in silence while she wrote a series of numbers on the back of his hand.
"Jen...Moriarty," he read her signature aloud.
"Figured that you might need my mobile number one day," she said. "After all, I'm the woman who is going to kill you."
"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said, looking down at her.
"I won't need to try. This is going to be a piece of cake," she laughed, stuffing her hands in her pockets, then she started to walk away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock Holmes."
As her heels clicked down the path, Sherlock looked at the woman with curiosity and tried to brush the niggling worry at the back of his head. He looked back at where John had been standing merely minutes before and hoped that his fake death hadn't been performed in vain.
A/N: I shouldn't be writing this. I should be studying. But never mind. Please be so kind as to leave a review!