It really has been AGES since I wrote anything. Let's just hope my enthusiasm for this story lasts. Reviews are always helpful in this regard. If you do like or would like to give some constructive criticism, please consider reviewing this story. It really does help.
Summary: After The Fall, John seemingly disappears without a trace only to be found three years later. Sherlock knows the capabilities of the mind better than any man, but can he save a man from his own mind?
Triggers
Prologue
In a room few can find, a darkened room with seemingly no doors and windows, a wall glows with the harsh light of many computer screens.
Each one displays the many crowded streets, the tall buildings, the back alley ways, the history, the laughter, the anger, and then sum that make up the city of London. Some of the cameras periodically move and sweep the area, collecting more data for the viewers of these secret screens.
If one were to pay very close attention, they would notice something, ever so slightly amiss. If someone were to pay extra special attention, they would notice a figure frequenting the screens.
This man, not too particularly tall, with short blonde hand, a black coat, and what appeared to be a slight limp, would occasional appear on one screen and when that camera could no longer fix it's view on him, another would move in to fill the gap. No one camera could follow him, but a series a cameras did the trick and so every step that was taken was monitored.
The behavior of keeping a camera on this particular man was so for 6 months and 2 days.
On May 23 at precisely 20:00 hour and 3 minutes, the man stood on the side of the street, a parcel in his one hand. He waited for the light to change, giving him clearance to cross. It was at this exact moment, that one of the screens became blue, the words "Transmission Lost" came in substitution of the cameras view.
Seconds later, another screen did the same.
Then another.
And another.
In total, 27 screens blinked out and turned blue that night.
All of them seemed to be cameras of a particular three square block radius of one spot in London.
Within 23 minutes the bug that had caused the problem had been corrected and the cameras were back online.
The police reported three acts of vandalism and 2 bar scuffles, but nothing else out of the ordinary took place that night.
"Mycroft"
A man put his face into his hands and began to rub, trying to maybe to rid himself of just a small amount of frustration and anger that was welling up inside him. The man who stood across from him, however, was silent. Not an ounce of emotion broke through his stone features.
The man sitting at the desk rung his hand through his hair and looked at the tall, imposing figure.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Mycroft. If you're men can't find him, what do you expect my people to do?"
The tall man look unimpressed and his tone was placid when he spoke. "I don't expect your men to do anything, Lestrade, they're not nearly component enough."
Lestrade narrowed his brows and looked at the man known as Mycroft pointedly.
"I expect you, Lestrade, to help me."
"Look, John is a good friend of mine and, contrary to popular believe, no one here has any hard feelings towards him. You tell me to and I'll have a good chunk of the police force out looking for him and..."
"No." Mycroft abruptly cut in. "No, I don't want any form of extra public attention on this. This needs to be done discreetly. I need you, Lestrade, JUST you."
Lestrade sighed heavily and looked up at him, his brows relaxing into a sad expression. "What can I do?"
"Just be available. You and him are friends, there is a possibility that he might try and contact you."
"And Mrs. Hudson? Molly? The people at the hospital John works for?"
"I've already spoken to Mrs. Hudson when I made the arrangements for the flat. I'll need you to personally inform the others to keep themselves just as available. Now, if you'll excuse me."
As Mycroft turned to leave, Lestrade stood up to see him out. "Mycroft, wait!"
Myrcroft turned to look at him as Lestrade stood with him at the office door. "What do you think we're dealing with?"
"What do you think we are dealing with?" Mycroft returned the question.
"If I were to guess, I'd say a grudge. Sherlock..." Lestrade dipped his head away for a moment, looking suddenly unsure of his wording.
"Go on, Lestrade." Mycroft implored in a rather exhausted sort of tone.
Lestrade looked at him straight on. "Sherlock had a lot of enemies. I wouldn't be surprised if someone thought that Sherlocks blood wasn't enough...but..."
"But who could have the capability to hack our network?" Mycroft finished for him. Lestrade said nothing, waiting for Mycroft to answer the question. "That does narrow down the playing field, doesn't it?" he retorted with a smug smile
"We carted him off, Mycroft. We BOTH looked at the body. There's no way it could be..."
"I never said it was." Mycroft interjected. When Lestrade said nothing Mycroft looked mockingly disappointed. "Come now, Lestrade, isn't it obvious? My God, how did Sherlock work with you."
"Mycroft..."
"Fine, I'll be plain. Morriarity built a legacy. A network, a clientele list, that was more expansive than our wildest dreams. When a spider dies, if the web still remains, flies do get caught in it, don't they?"
With this Mycroft opened the door and left, walking into the hustle and bustle of Scotland Yard before disappearing around the corner as Lestrade leaned against the doorframe of his office in silent frustration.