Sherlock stood there, looking over the edge of the hospital, down to the street below, where he had taken his "deadly" fall. How long had it been since that moment? Since Moriarty had forced him to chose between his own life or that of his friends. Sherlock was lucky that Molly had helped him, that Moriarty had not seen her as a real threat. However, even now as he stood on the rooftop of 's, he found it hard to think back to the fall. His reasoning for this was illogical and he hated himself for allowing any emotion to stop him from thinking. He was upset over John, knowing that his only true friend thought that he was dead and was mourning over a false body. However, Sherlock realized that nothing could be done, that he would need to leave John in this state for a while until the time was right. What truly bothered Sherlock was the emotion he felt over this very spot. The spot where Jim Moriarty had pulled a gun out of his coat and shot himself, so that Sherlock had no choice but to jump off the building. Sherlock remembered everything so vividly, every last detail of Moriarty's final action etched into his mind, as if Moriarty had sewn it there himself. Sherlock felt a pain of loss. The loss of a worthy adversary. Sherlock hated himself for thinking this, knowing that the world was better off with this man buried 6 feet underground, but a small part of him, was screaming and begging for Moriarty to come back. He was the only other person who had matched so well with Sherlock. Had the same intellectual level of understanding. Provided a challenge. Sherlock now often found himself pondering over one of the first things Moriarty had ever said to him. That they were made for each other. Sherlock thought nothing of it when he had first heard, just a fleeting thought that should have been easily forgotten. However it had stuck stuck with Sherlock, as if somehow his subconscious knew that he would require it for later. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he realized how right Moriarty had been, and this frightened Sherlock. It frightened him because he now seemed to truly understand how alone he actually was. Of course now he was alone, he was pretending to be dead, but even with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and all the other insignificant people, he found himself growing bored easily, needing something to sustain him. Moriarty had been the person. Right from the moment of Carl Powers' death, he had been the only one who could give Sherlock a challenge and ensure that for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was not bored.
That was why Sherlock was here, on the roof top of St. Bart's. He, just like his friends, was mourning. However instead of mourning the loss of a friend, he was mourning the loss of a foe. Sherlock came up here, when thoughts of his foe became too pressing for his mind to bare. He was finding himself unable to think clearly, unable to understand what was happening to him. For some reason, he found that coming back to 's and reliving the fall to be the best way to calm his mind. Now how did it calm his mind exactly? Sherlock wasn't quite sure. He found it hard to look back on the fall and yet it somehow brought his mind to ease. Sherlock knew that this was something he had to figure out, something he had to deduce. Sherlock would find himself trying to think about it at nights, never allowing his mind to rest and would spend night after night pondering why it caused all of these mixed emotions, something Sherlock was not extremely fond of. Of course this bothered Sherlock to no end. He was a man famous for being able to see through everything and everyone in seconds and yet he couldn't figure out something as simple as this. At least it should have been simple.
Sherlock was now sitting down, letting his leg dangle off the edge of the building. This visit to St. Bart's did anything but put his mind at ease. Sherlock felt different, like he had to be wary. But of what? Everyone thought he was dead so what did he have to worry about? All he had to do was make sure that nothing horrible happened to the people he cared about. So why was he expecting something to happen. Why was this? Sherlock could not honestly give you an answer. He would suggest paranoia, but he wasn't idiotic enough to get paranoid. Sherlock was never wrong, so he knew something was going to happen. Something that would cause a change. Sherlock stood up and looked down, seeming to peer down in oblivion itself and he could swear that there was the sound of people speaking. It was too close to be anybody down on the street. Too clear. Sherlock turned around, but he did not see anybody on the rooftop with him. The voices began to get louder, as off they were moving closer to him. Sherlock couldn't understand. It seemed as though this place made him unable to deduce correctly. Letting his emotions guide him here, was beginning to become dangerous. Sherlock listened to the voices as they grew louder. They almost sound like they were speaking and their voices were echoing off of metal. This meant that the voices were a recording. Coming out of a speaker that wasn't very high quality. However there was no speaker that Sherlock could find. As Sherlock listened to the voices, his eyes widened in realization. It was the conversation he had with Moriarty... right before the fall. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Seldom have we had a more pleasant conversation." a voice said from behind him.
Sherlock whipped around to find the owner of the voice, but there was nobody there. Sherlock's feelings about being wary turned out to be correct when he felt something sharp pierce his neck, quickly deducing it was a needle with a very strong sedative inside of it. Sherlock felt himself growing drowsy, vision beginning to black out.
"You've really grown stupid over the past 3 years,Sherlock." the voice sighed. Sherlock faded into unconsciousness.
When Sherlock finally awoke from his drug induced sleep, he was only welcomed to more darkness. Sherlock sat up quickly, only to get a headache. Sherlock gripped his head in pain and tried to piece together what had happened. He could only remember some things. The voices...then the needle. Sherlock realized that he might have been kidnapped by whoever it was that had injected the sedative. Sherlock stood up off of the bed that he had been placed in, surprised by the lack of restraints. The room smelt of perfume and air freshener. Mostly feminine scents made up of flowers and various spices such as jasmine. Easy enough for him to discover that he was being held captive by a woman. However the floral scents suggested that this woman wasn't very dangerous at all, that in fact she was quite passive and awkward seeing as the smell was not overpowering. Sherlock felt the sheets on the bed, railing that it was quilted and that it had multiple pillows in it. Sherlock walked out of the room quickly.
"Molly!" he called. Easy enough to figure out that it was Molly's flat that he was currently in.
"Oh good, you're up. What the hell happened?" Molly asked, appearing from around the corner.
"I could ask you the same thing. Why am I currently in your flat?" Sherlock asked.
"I wen up onto the roof for some fresh air and you were just lying there unconscious. I obviously couldn't leave you there, unless you wanted people to find out that you were still alive." Molly said.
"I was drugged." Sherlock stated.
"By who?" Molly asked bewildered.
"Not entirely sure yet Molly." Sherlock said, before quickly leaving her flat.
Sherlock walked out onto the streets looking around before walking towards 221B Baker Street. It was time to see John. To tell him everything. Sherlock didn't expect it to go over well. In fact, he expected to be hit and beaten by John for causing him so much grief. Sherlock walked right into the building to see . She looked up at him, tearing her eyes away from the plants she had been watering. She didn't make any exclamation of surprise, but just gave Sherlock a soft smile.
"It's about bloody time you got back! Get on upstairs! John and I have been waiting 3 years for you to come home! Go apologize to him and hope he forgives you. I'll make you boys some tea."
"Thank you, ." Sherlock smiled.
Sherlock wasn't the least bit surprised by . She was not a stupid woman and Sherlock was quite glad that she was so prepared for his homecoming, seeing as Sherlock knew that John would not be so welcoming. Sherlock walked up the creaking stairs to 221B and stepped into the flat. Nothing had changed in the past 3 years. None of his things had been moved, and they had been taken very well care of and he could hear John moving around upstairs. Sherlock walked over to where his violin lay. He picked it up and held the bow in his hands and began to play the overture from Rossini's opera "La Gazza Ladra" otherwise known as The Theiving Magpie. When he heard the footsteps upstairs stop, Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself. He was home.
