Jim Moriarty should have, by any measure, been somewhat pleased with himself. Such was not the case. "Why did he have to feckin' jump?" he said to himself. "I didn't actually want him to kill himself." Ah, but you see Jim, you overestimated him. Thought he wouldn't panic, didn't you? Even put the fail-safe code in your pocket to make sure he found it. But he didn't think. He just went for it. That's what happens when you threaten a man's friends. They do anything they can to protect them. At least now he knew Sherlock had a heart. But it doesn't matter because he's fuckin' dead! Then it hit Jim. It hit him like a rock. Sherlock Holmes didn't kill himself, oh no. Jim had done all the killing that day. Jim killed Sherlock Holmes. This made him a little more despairing, knowing he had killed the only thing he lived for.
But let's say he was alive; let's say that, by some buck-wild miracle, Mr Holmes lived through the ordeal. Well he had been keeping a low profile, that's for sure. Even those wacky conspiracy theorists hadn't said anything. So then, back to playing with the ordinary people. Or was it? Jim remembered the other one. Watson. Oh yeah. He liked to think he was special, just because he spent his time with the famous consulting detective. That really got Jimmy's goat, people thinking they were better than what they were. He saw that justice needed to be dispensed. And who better to serve justice than the man who was best at destroying it? All of a sudden, Jim wasn't bored anymore. He thought of his plans. A devious mystery! Watson would never be able to solve it. And then, when the moment was right, the mastermind would strike.
John hadn't been having the best of months. Sherlock was only the beginning. There were TV crews, and journalists, and fangirls breaking down and crying at the front door. He hadn't left 221B Baker Street since the funeral, and it was beginning to show. There was hardly any food left, the place was stinking, and Mrs Hudson….. Well, she wasn't being as nice to him as she used to be. Even so, he couldn't live there forever. He was mainly relying on donations to his blog to keep up rent, but it wouldn't be enough. He would have to move out. He wasn't sure if he could do that. Yes, the place reminded him of Sherlock every waking minute, but it did have a certain charm to it. It felt like Holmes was still in there, in the walls and the plumbing and the bullet holes. But he was dead, no doubt. John had seen the blood all over the street.
There was no point in denying it; he would have to get up. He needed milk. He couldn't just stay here and rot and watch telly forever. He needed milk. But the phone went. He had a text. Number withheld.
"STAND UP"
John did so. He had been in these situations a thousand times. Who was it? Mycroft? Lestrade?
"GO DOWNSTAIRS"
Nah, Mycroft always preferred to just phone him.
"ANSWER IT"
Ding Dong. It was Lestrade. "John, we need your help on a case." He said.
"I'm not a detective, I'm a doctor. Now please go away."
"I thought you might say that. That's why I brought this along. Found it at the crime scene."
Lestrade held up a simple piece of paper. John knew there was something familiar about it. And then he saw it. Bohemian stationary. Fountain pen. Written on this piece of paper were four words.
"Mark of the Jaguar."