"Did you miss me?"
Sherlock awoke in a cold sweat. No sunlight filtered through the closed curtains. It took him a full minute to realize he was no longer dreaming.
It had been nearly six months since his sister Eurus played a series of "games" with himself, Mycroft, and John. Apart from almost dying themselves, they had endangered countless lives by encouraging her. Sherlock still blamed Mycroft for the indirect corruption of his sister, caused by Moriarty.
Moriarty. The consulting detective blanched at the mere thought of his name. It's no wonder Eurus was so clever. Sherlock pulled the blankets off of himself and went into the closet to get dressed. He headed down the hallway and sat on the couch, attempting to clear all memory of the dream.
He received the phone call only three minutes later.
"Hello, brother dear."
Sherlock angrily resisted the urge to hang up and spoke harshly, through clenched teeth. "What do you want, Mycroft? It must be terribly important, otherwise you wouldn't have called."
"It is. Turn on the television."
The detective complied and switched on his TV set. The newswoman behind the desk appeared stern. "Last night, an unprecedented breakout from a max-security facility known as Sherrinford commenced. Only one patient is missing, with no clues as to her whereabouts. Authorities still have no leads."
Sherlock froze. Surely he had misheard her?
The news anchor vanished and the familiar face of DI Lestrade filled the screen. "Yes, well, we're trying to get the camera feed, but it's as if they turned off during the breakout. Just—" here he made a noise like a buzzing insect "—gone."
"There was a small clue, though, right?" The reporter asked eagerly. "Something about a parking lot?"
"Ah, yes, that," Lestrade said, rubbing his hands together. "There was a message written in skid marks in the parking lot of New Scotland Yard. We found it by looking out one of the top floor windows this morning."
"And what did it say?" Pressed the reporter.
"It's a bit silly, really," Lestrade replied nervously. "It said 'I HATE MYCROFT.'"
"Did you find anything else, Inspector?"
"Yes." Lestrade swallowed, looking anxiously around him. "There was a note found in the missing patient's cell."
"And…?" The reporter prompted him.
"It was signed '-Jack Moriarty.'"
Sherlock sat in stunned silence. A breakout from Sherrinford? A message insulting his brother? And worst of all… something to do with Moriarty. Wordlessly, he held the phone up to his ear.
"Do you see what I mean?" Mycroft asked.
"I'm afraid I do," Sherlock responded automatically.
"Moriarty has returned. They didn't mention it on the telly, but Eurus is the one who escaped. I have no idea how it happened."
"There's really nothing?"
He heard Mycroft sigh on the other end. "If you'll allow it, I'd like to come there. It'll all be plainer when I arrive."
"Mycroft, Moriarty is dead!" Sherlock insisted.
"I'm afraid not, brother dear."
Sherlock heard a faint click and the call disconnected.
John came into the sitting room, casually dressed. "Morning, Sherlo-"
He noticed the very odd expression on his flatmate's face. Sherlock was staring, petrified, at the receiver, which he held around a foot from his face.
"Everything okay, Sherlock?" John asked, concerned.
The detective shook his head numbly.
Whether Sherlock liked it or not, his worst nightmare was beginning to come true.
—