John replayed the scene in the small jet in his head, over and over agin as the trio sat silently in the black of the black town car, courtesy of Mycroft. He watched Sherlock as he seemed to vibrate in his seat, eyes closed and apparently deep in thought. Irritation gripped him as he suddenly struggled not to clock his best friend right in his nose. Mary noticed and placed a hand on his arm, comforting him slightly. He looked to her, his eyes displaying his dismay with the situation. John brought his attention back to Sherlock, wondering if he was in his Mind Palace or just riding out whatever high he was on.
"So, what now?" John asked in a tight voice.
"Obviously, we wait. No doubt that Mycroft has his resources scouring the world for the source of the signal. This hoax was obviously meant to-"
"No, you bloody idiot," John cut Sherlock off abruptly and leaned forward, his anger coming off him in waves, "Using again, Sherlock? This time it wasn't 'for the case', was it? We know you've taken these drugs long before that message was broadcast. How long has this been going on, Sherlock?"
"Oh honestly, John, this is really not the time for-"
John fist slammed into Sherlock's nose and his head snapped back against the headrest. "I don't care, Sherlock. I want to know and I want to know right now. How long has this been going on?"
Sherlock glared at him, his head tilted back as he tried to slow the bleeding. Mary reached into her bag and gave him a tissue. He pressed it against his nostrils and sighed. "It matters not, John. I have always been in control of my drug usage. I merely used it to clear my mind, to find the answers."
"Find the answers? So this goes back before killing Magnussen then?"
Sherlock was silent, still holding the tissue to his upturned nose. He knew John was upset, but couldn't he understand? The drugs dulled his senses and allowed him to go delve further into his Mind Palace, a place that held the answers he was looking for.
"It was needed for the case. Magnussen had the upper hand in a very dangerous game. A game that you and Mary couldn't afford to lose."
"Look what we have to show for it then. Had this little event not occurred, you'd be in route to your death, Sherlock. Come to think of it, we still might be heading there. The only difference is instead of whatever was waiting for you in Eastern Europe, it'll be a needle in your arm!" John shouted. Mary's had still on his arm, though he wasn't sure if it was for comfort, or to stop him from delivering another punch to Sherlock's face.
Sherlock scoffed, "I've heard enough from Mycroft about this subject to last a lifetime. I daresay that I don't need a lecture from you. Besides, our attention needs to be on whoever is behind this hoax."
"Sherlock, we're only concerned. You're our friend and we love you. Don't get lost in this and destroy your life," Mary added in a tender voice befitting of a soon-to-be mother. Sherlock let out another scoff and chewed back a scything retort, choosing to stare out the window and nurse his still bleeding nose. He could feel their eyes on him, one filled with anger and the other with worry. Choosing not to respond, he stayed silent.
John let out a frustrated sigh. He knew that chewing out Sherlock right now wasn't productive, but it nothing to quell his anger. He thought about punching Sherlock again, but he doubted it would help. John put a hand on Mary's knee, hoping that the contact with his wife would curb his emotions. This wasn't the first time he's had to deal with Sherlock's addiction. Finding Sherlock in the drug den when he was bringing Issac back home. He hadn't known then what Sherlock was on and his anger subsided by the time Molly had reported the positive results of the drug test. A small smile tried to tug at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the smack to the face Molly had delivered afterward. The ghost of a smile died as quickly as it came. It was different now that he knew of the extent of Sherlock's drug abuse. He was honestly surprised that Sherlock was still alive after what he had taken.
The car ride to 221 Baker Street carried on in silence. Sherlock all but ran out of the car before it had come to a halt near the curb. Swinging open the door and hurrying up the stairs, leaving John and Mary behind without a second thought. Settling on the couch, he closed his eyes and planning out what his next move would be against this impostor that used Moriarty's face as a cover. The drugs were leaving his system as he had taken them ours before he'd headed to the airport with Mycroft. He shivered even though the temperature in the apartment was pleasant.
When his eyes finally opened, he was met with darkness. Sherlock could make out the forms of the Watsons sitting in the arm chairs in front of him, fast asleep. A cup of tea sat on the table next to a neatly folded pair of pajamas. Snatching the pajamas, he made his way to the bathroom for a quick shower. He washed away the sweat that came with coming down and the dried blood from his bruised nose, letting the water hit his head and bead down his back. Stepping out of the shower and dressing, he made his way back to the sitting room to find John and Mary awake. He laid back down on the couch and gazed up at the celling.
"You may leave now. Mycroft has already sent someone, likely Mrs. Hudson, to clear this place of any nasty habits that lay hidden." It was tradition for every relapse he had. His irritation towards Mycroft intensified. "The sooner, the better. It would be a shame for Mary to put anymore unnecessary strain to my chair. I'd hate for it to break under the strain."
"We aren't going anywhere and if you insult my pregnant wife again, I'll finish what I started and break your nose," John stood and walked to the kitchen. He grabbed a plate of full of food of the counter top and drooped it in front of Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson dropped by with dinner. She's not happy by the way. Her search yielded results apparently. I'm sure you're already aware."
Sherlock ignored John and started eating. The stress of being exiled and the relief of being brought back did wonders for one's appetite.
"Moriarty's message. You said that you knew for sure that he was dead. If he's gone for good, who's behind this? Why would they do it?" asked Mary after Sherlock put his plate down and settled back against the couch.
"The who is unclear. Why, though, that's the intriguing part. Dismantling Moriarty's network after my supposed suicide was a large task. It spread far more than anyone could have imagined. From the common street thug to the inner workings of foreign governments, it heavily tainted anything it touched. After his death, there was a position to fill. Someone would rise to the top, only to be killed and replaced. A vicious cycle. This allowed me to break apart small cells all over the world without drawing too much attention to myself. Eventually, the network collapsed on itself. Nobody could quite fill Moriarty's shoes."
Sherlock stood and began pacing, "James Moriarty is being used as a face. The martyr for criminals everywhere. The message itself was a challenge directed at me. Soon, crime is going to spike, adding to the fear that is no doubt gripping London. They are showing off, letting me know its time to play."
"You said that you knew what their next move would be," stated John, his anger and irritation temporarily forgotten.
"Murder. Specifically, the murder of someone of high standing. The goal is to strike fear into the heart of the country. Once in the car, I took the liberty of making a list of potential victims. Mycroft has more than likely come to the same conclusion and issued a guard, not that it's going to help. For now, we wait. I'm sure the next message shall be delivered in a timely fashion."
Once again, silence fell upon 221B Baker Street.
DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donavan had arrived at the crime scene at the heart of London's Central Business District. The body had been found lying on a bench by someone that was living on the streets close by. Seemingly appearing out of thin air, according to the witness. Her hands crossed over the front of her chest, resting in the middle. They started question the witness which didn't reveal much.
"And you didn't see anyone in the area before?" asked Donavan, taking notes as the homeless man took a second to pull himself back together.
"No, ma'am. It's been awfully quiet tonight."
"Okay, thank you for your statement. If you happen to hear anything else, please contact Scotland Yard." With that, Lestrade and Donavan dismissed him and turned back to the crime scene. His voice stopped them.
"I've seen a lot of horrible things. Living on the streets be making it hard to avoid. Ain't never seen nothing like this before though," the man stopped and tried to collect himself before he continued on, "I really hope you catch the bastard. I reckon that no one deserves to die like that."
With that, the man walked away. Lestrade turned back to the body that was now surrounded by the forensics team, frowning as he tried to put everything together.
"Are you going to contact him?" asked Donavan, even though she already knew the answer.
"Yeah, I reckon we have to, given the circumstances. This is going to be a bloody circus," quipped Lestrade as he pulled out his phone to send Sherlock a text with their current location with the explanation of murder. There was no questioning that. It was murder.
Laying on the bench in the heart of London was Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. A large hole in her chest which her hands covered. Inside of it was, presumably her heart, which was burnt to a crisp.