"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?" a face repeated over and over again in all of London, non-stop. If the face weren't so horribly cg'ed and the voice so terribly skewed, I might have thought the person on the screen is cute. But can you imagine the sort of intelligence required to play that sort of trick? Needless to say, I'm impressed. I hear on the streets the man on the screen is dead. Maybe I'm missing something, but clearly he's alive. They say he 'was' some sort of master crimminal. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, but I want to find him, whoever this man is.

I check the library to see if anything in the newspapers back up what I've heard on the streets. To my surprise, I learn this man, James I. Moriarity, had been reported dead from suicide. He framed another man, Sherlock Holmes, a detective driven to fake his own suicide. I'm surprised of how much media coverage there is on these two.

In my defense, for those who think I live under a rock, I hate the news. It's too depressing. And I don't watch the telly. Either there are too many awful commercials or there are too many shows that I find disgusting, boring, or offensive. It's been that way my whole life. I stick to online streaming and tangible movies instead.

The information in the papers now give me access to the location of the Consulting Detective. Which means I now have the key to finding this James I. Moriarity. With firm resolve, I go.

221B Baker Street.

"Hello, Dearie," says a cheery older woman. "Sherlock is right up the stairs; I'm sure he won't mind if you go right in."

I smile. "Thank you, ma'am."

I walk up the stairs, stepping on a creaky stair. Opening the door, I am met with a very tall man with shortish curly hair. So this is Sherlock Holmes.

He glances me over briefly. "No."

"What?" I ask, taken off guard.

"You're here to see if the stories are true now that the infamous Moriarity has made a reappearance-"

"No he hasn't." Sherlock and a shorter, sandy blonde man just inside the apartment look at me. "Everyone assumes he is back because of the clip playing all over London," I explain. "But it's still digital. For all we know, it could have been recorded prior to his death and was set to go off three years later, just to make everyone go insane trying to find him."

Sherlock smirks. "You don't believe that."

"Maybe not. But I still have to be open to the possibility, don't I?"

The smaller man kinda looks between Sherlock and I, as though trying to figure out what just happened here. "Sorry, who are you?" he asks.

I smile and shake his hand. "Tamara Owens. And you are?"

"John Watson..."

"You don't have a telly?" Sherlock asks.

I turn to him. "No, I don't." Sherlock tilts his head in a way that makes it clear that I've captured his interest.

"So you had no idea who Moriarity or I were, nothing about the suicides until Moriarity put his little message all over London. You don't listen to the news and remain blissfully unaware of anything of real interest as you find it depressing-" By this time, John seems fairly uncomfortable while I just stand here, fascinated. "-so you enjoy reading books, likely filling your head with useless fictional stories, probably enjoy writing equally useless things and now Moriarity holds your interest from the little message he gave us all, why, because you are someone that esteems intelligence and not just anyone would be able to put a looped video clip in London that is almost impossible to be taken down, so you want to meet the man to see if he is actually as smart as you deem him to be and you're willing to do anything for just that and wondered if maybe you could tag along."

I just smile. "Exactly."

Sherlock smirks. He puts his hands together, in thought. John seems surprised. "How are you two getting along?" John asks.

I open my mouth to answer. Sherlock beats me to the punch line. "Her family."

"Sorry?" John asks.

"My mother and my brother have a similar personality," I clarify.

John's brows go up. "That- that's scary."

I laugh. "Granted, they are generally more discreet about their observations, but," I shrug. "I like blunt." John just seems shocked.

"He only sent the message after Magnussen died." Sherlock says, breaking the silence. I just give him a blank look. I have no idea who 'Magnussen' is. "A vital part of his criminal web."

"Ah..." I say, this making sense. The timing is the clencher. "So you have valid reasons to believe James Moriarity is alive."

"Of course," Sherlock says, as though I am a complete idiot, a tone that would offend anyone else if they weren't familiar with it. I, on the other hand, grew up to appreciate that sort of remark.

"So?" I say expectantly. Sherlock smirks and pulls out his laptop, busily tapping.

John looks between Sherlock and I. "Should I-?" He asks, getting up to leave

"No!" Sherlock and I both say adamently.

"Sorry I-" John says awkwardly.

"She isn't interested, John."

"Is that what you thought?" I ask in shock. "No no no, just here to help find James Moriarity, nothing more." Why in the world would John think I have an interest in Sherlock? Absolutely not. I notice Sherlock cocking his brow at me. "What?" He doesn't answer. Oh, right. I get defensive far more than I should be. I really need to get out of that habit.

With this stretch of silence, I realize: the noise stopped. It's an eerie feeling. "It's gone!" John says, breaking the painfully awkward silence. "The message, it's gone."

"Yes, John," says Sherlock.

"Was that you're doing?" I ask, nodding towards the no longer typing Sherlock. There's a twinkle in his eye.

"No, you?" John quips. "Sherlock, a computer nerd?"

"The game, Doctor, is on," he says, happier than a clam. He throws his coat on, ties his scarf, and flips his colar up, almost in one single movement. His thrill is contagious, like a child's

"W- where are we going?" John asks, struggling to keep up. Even I can see Sherlock has a lead.

"To find James Moriarity, of course!" I say with excitement, taking off after Sherlock.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is my first story published online, but this is not the first story I have ever written, so please don't worry about going easy on me in the reviews. I accept ideas and suggestions, as I may work them into the fanfic. I do not have a specific ending in mind, although I do have at least one point that I would eventually like to reach. The title will change when I have a better idea of where the plot is going. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy reading this and give me all of the feed back you can (Including spelling /grammar errors)!

*Thank you Miss Ella Black for pointing out my poor spelling and grammar both in the chapter and in my author notes.

*To guests and others that seem confused by the interaction between Sherlock and Tamara when John asks about how the two get along: Sherlock has an incredible ability to tell a person's entire life story just by looking at them and hearing a very brief, seemingly insignificant remarks they make. His ability sometimes appear to be nothing more than impossible assumptions, and yet they are always about 99% correct.

*Also, if this story seems to start in the middle and you feel lost: my fanfic does start in the middle of a story. To fully understand my fanfic, you have to watch Sherlock BBC all the way throught to the last episode of season 3. My story picks up literally at the very last line of His Last Vow (S3, Ep3) through Tamara's point of view (the character I own).