Chapter 1: Strange Case

The room spun in dizzying circles. Crisp white ceiling lamps were burning his already red-rimmed eyes and tears were drying on his hot sweaty cheeks. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he felt it lazily sliding down his spine and absorbing into the blue boxers he was wearing.

His head pounded and he just stared ahead, trying to discern jerkily moving figure right in front of him. He felt as if someone poured acid down his throat and water into his lungs - breathing was nearly impossible at this point.

Rapid beeping suddenly caught his attention, but it quickly returned to the jumping man in front of him. His feet felt heavy and every step was accompanied by excruciating pain of his entire exhausted body.

In some distant part of his brain he realized that there was a huge mirror in front of him. It stretched from floor to the ceiling and to both sides of the white room.

And that moving figure was his reflection.

He just could not run anymore.

His left foot tripped on the surface of the treadmill and both legs suddenly buckled beneath him. He could feel something crunch in his ankle. He yelled as a shooting pain went up through the whole leg, then he was falling face toward to the ground. Just before his head met the floor, some sort of rope tightened around his neck and he immediately began to choke. He hoarsely gasped and quickly tried to stand up to relieve the pressure on his windpipe, but the broken ankle would not let him.

The treadmill beneath him slowly stopped and that allowed him to move forward and somehow reduce the pressure so that the rope was not strangling him. The door on his right-hand side suddenly burst open and a group of three people in a pale blue scrubs walked in.

One of those people stepped to him and roughly grabbed him by his injured ankle. He yelped in pain and tried to push away whoever was holding it. But he soon realized that his hands were also tied by a short chain that was attached to a belt strapped around his waist, so he remained lying down and tried to catch his breath.

"Broken."

He tried to focus on the person at his side who kept painfully probing the broken ankle. According to the voice he judged that it was a woman. She was wearing some kind of a white scrub cap and half of her face was covered by a surgical mask.

"Get rid of it," a cold voice said behind him.

Before he could process what was happening a second person approached him with something shiny in his hand.

Sharp pain in the neck was the last thing he felt before the world went black.

The constant beeping turned into a terrifying scream.

John licked his fingers and turned the next page of the newspapers, which laid opened on his lap. He raised a teacup with his other hand and sipped the hot liquid. The clock was ticking quietly in the background.

Sherlock suddenly rose from his chair and shouted: "Arsenic!"

John looked up with a start and spilled the tea all over the newspapers and his favourite beige sweater.

"Shit, Sherlock," he muttered, trying to wipe the rapidly cooling tea from his chest and safe at least a part of the newspapers. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the man standing in front of him.

"Well?"

"Of course it was arsenic! Oh! How could I have missed such easy clues?" Sherlock continued, now quickly pacing back and forth.

"How could it be arsenic, the man died of cardiac arrest after all," John said bitterly. With another sigh he rose from his chair and took off the wet sweater. "And the pathologist would have found it in the blood."

"Of course, but why would be anyone looking for a poison in the blood in case of death from heart attack? Especially if it's been administered in small amounts for a long period of time - hence the offender could had stopped the poisoning long ago and there might not have been even a trace of arsenic in the blood at the moment of death!"

"Sherlock this is ridiculous."

"It is not - listen! High dose of this poison kills you almost immediately. Unpleasant death. However, persistent symptoms of overexposure to the arsenic are: eczema - which Mr Caras did have, by the way; also abdominal pain, diarrhoea, cancer and my favourite - heart problems! And what more - one of the side effects causes the so-called night blindness, which now explains the bruising on his shins! He kept bumping repeatedly into the furniture in the evening!" Sherlock replied in one breath, widely gesturing around himself.

"And who could had been giving him the poison for such a long time?" The second man frowned while examining the damp tea stains on his shirt.

"His wife, of course," Sherlock smiled knowingly. He steepled his fingers under his chin and sat back in the chair, clearly savouring the moment.

"Case solved! What else do we have there, John?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" John waved his hand dismissively. "I do not understand. Why would have his wife killed him?"

"Mr Caras had decent life insurance. She put the poison into his morning tea when she was preparing him breakfast. What else do we have John?" Sherlock replied dryly.

John just rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the other man. Shaking his head he went into his bedroom to change clothes and to check hopefully still sleeping Rosamund.

But before he could cross the threshold to the bedroom, there was a loud banging on the door of their apartment.

"Come in!" Sherlock exclaimed cheerfully.

Panting Lestrade walked into the apartment. He was holding a folder in one hand and before he could say anything, Sherlock snatched it and opened it. His eyes immediately began to scan the text.

"Good to see you too, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him.

"Oh, Greg! I would not expect you here this late afternoon. What brings you to us this time? "John said conversationally, but there was a slight sarcasm in his tone of voice.

"Nothing pleasant, I'm afraid. We have had this case on table for years. But we never joined the murders together. Until now. Media are on my heels and government wants at least something. The problem is that I have nothing. Just nothing," Lestrade complained.

"Wh-what? What are you talking about?" John stuttered clearly bewildered. He walked to the chair in which Sherlock was sitting - totally immersed in the file, and peered over his shoulder.

"These murders are certainly connected! How could have you missed all these details, like -"

"Yes, I know Sherlock! That's why I've came to you! It seems that it's much more connected than we initially thought," Greg said angrily. With a sigh, he sat in the chair that John left a moment ago. "And I just don't know what to do."

"Serial killer," Sherlock muttered while swiftly turning the pages of the file.

"It occurred to me too, but the killings have no clear signs of a serial killer. It is complicated and it has escalated incredibly during the last few months. Sherlock, I-"

"I take the case!"

Jim Moriarty raised his eyes from the display of his phone and looked hatefully at the back of head of the driver sitting in front of him behind the wheel.

"Brake - gas is the only style of driving you know?!" he snapped irritated, then with a loud sigh wiped out the last few lines of a secret code and started writing it again and correctly this time.

"I'm sorry, sir," the driver muttered nervously and squeezed the steering wheel with his fingers.

Jim continued sending orders via coded text messages, which were then sent to hidden numbers all around the world. Each code was unique and only the recipient could properly read it and understand the order.

Since his faked suicide on the roof of the St. Bart's Hospital he has taken a great care that no one could find out that he is still alive. His network was completely reformed – almost brand new. This time, however, everyone operated in total secrecy. Nobody had a clue that the threads of the network must first have been eaten by the spider himself to create a new network - stronger and more complex.

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly at the memory of Sherlock's terrified expression when he shoved a pistol into his mouth. If he only knew!

He rearranged the belt, which kept uncomfortably cutting into his neck and looked out of the window for a moment. Houses, streets and trees were darting outside and here and there he saw a palm tree or a cactus. It was the beginning of February, so it was still a little cold outside. At least the sky was bright blue - almost as blue as Sherlock's eyes.

Spain was beautiful in every season. He was always a little inwardly pleased that he had to personally fly down here to deal with some urgent business.

Such as this huge supply of drugs from Morocco.

This time it was necessary to bribe a particularly large number of customs officers and policemen and God knows who else. This was always the hard part of his business - the bribing. Sometimes he wished that people would be much easier to control and that they would fulfil his every command just like that! To have an army of brainwashed soldiers. Wonderful idea!

Jim shuddered momentarily at the thought of Euros.

She had a talent for controlling people - that has to be acknowledged. She convinced even him that Sherlock, his cronies and his brother must be put to the test and if they survive, it would internally tear them to pieces. Burn their hearts out.

Of course it did not work. It was too complicated, half-baked, too emotional, and Jim could not have intervene at any moment once the thing started.

One thought lifted his mood a little bit – that even this super-genius woman couldn't have seen through his trick.

The cell phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the sender with a small frown. Sebastian and his reports from England. Always on time.

He pressed a button that was at the door to his left, which ejected a soundproof barrier between him and the driver and created a bit of privacy for Jim.

With just a few clicks, he speed-dialled Sebastian's number and waited for the report.

"Can I start, boss?" A voice came from the other end. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Of course you can. Otherwise I would not call you, silly."

Seb took a deep breath and began.

"According to the latest reports from our source, Mycroft doesn't have the slightest idea that you're alive. Euros is still mute. Sherlock and John are spending lately a lot of time on Baker Street solving simple cases. Not one of our "accidents" has caught their attention, so far. It seems that the team covering the tracks worked perfectly again."

Jim – a little bored already - started examining his fingernails on his right hand. These reports were really becoming a boring daily routine.

"And…?"

"Otherwise, all the operations that are currently taking place in London and across whole Britain are running smoothly without any errors. Uh ..." the voice on the phone chocked. "There is actually one small problem."

Jim cleared his throat and looked out the window. His bored eyes leaped from building to building as they were passing along the road.

After his long silence, Sebastian coughed a little and nervously continued.

"One of our friends - mob boss Nikolai Pivovarov - disappeared."

"What do you mean, disappeared? Someone got rid of him?" James muttered wearily.

"According to my sources, he just ... well ... disappeared from his house," the sniper stammered, he paused for a moment and then began to speak again.

"You know how people are disappearing lately. Recently, their numbers significantly increased. And it's not our job, nor anyone we know. It's a mystery. "

Jim snorted. "Nothing is a mystery Seb, everything has a cause. And why should I care? Contact anyone who has replaced him and explain to him how things are. Something else?"

"You don't care what's happening to those people who disappeared from Britain and from the continent? Sometimes they find the body, but the police has no idea who does that. And I know that first-hand, boss. I think it's worth looking into," Sebastian exclaimed resolutely.

"Boooring," Jim said melodiously.

Seb knew that there was only one thing that could change his mind.

"Sherlock took the case."

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds.

"Send me the details about all individual cases," the second man said flatly and then hung up without saying anything more.

Sebastian smiled to himself.