The rubber ball is Chekhov's gun, by feigning dead The Game is won. -?

John lowered his phone and sighed. Somebody must have posted his mobile number somewhere, there was no other explanation for these strange texts he had been receiving as of late from an unknown number. As a matter of fact, they were starting to irritate him: every time his phone gave a gentle buzz he jumped, hoping it would be Mycroft or Lestrade or anyone bringing the news that Sherlock wasn't really dead, or better still, Sherlock himself texting with news of a new case, as if the fall had never happened in the first place.

Of course, thought John, that was only wishful thinking. He had seen Sherlock hit the ground, observed the blood pooling by his head, felt his wrist for a pulse that simply wasn't there. Blood could be obtained by other means, after all, Sherlock had jumped from the roof of an hospital, but there was just no way Sherlock could have stifled his pulse.

Was there?

As John pondered this his phone vibrated again, more insistently this time. Reading the number, which was the same as the one that had sent him the last text, he grudgingly brought up the new message on the small screen.

If you can't spot the tourniquet, find an easier game to play. -?

Well, that was spooky, John thought. It was as though whichever young hooligan with a penchant for poetry was texting him could read his thoughts, and was completing them. Giving him a clue in a familiar infuriating way...

John couldn't stop himself, his phalanges were already composing a retaliation and before he had realised what he was doing he had sent his response.

What the hell? -JW

John sat in silence staring at his phone, compelling it to vibrate and give him the answers to all of the questions swirling around in his brain. Who was texting him? What exactly were the implications of their cryptic messages? How did they seem to know precisely what he was thinking?

The phone buzzed.

Doctor Watson, you're no me but you're not stupid. If you're going to deign to respond to me, the least you could do is to make your response intelligible. What do you want to know?

John could hardly allow himself to breathe. The writing style, the subtle hints of a telling-off, the willingness to answer questions, albeit only as an afterthought, it was all too familiar, even though it ought to have been impossible. John composed another text to send to the number, hoping against hope that this wasn't some wind-up merchant out to get his hopes up and break his heart again. However, before he had finished typing out his first question the phone vibrated again and another message popped up.

Then again, I think you've already worked it out for yourself...

-SH