Sherlock Holmes had his mind afar but his body seated on a bench at the little park he recently found. Well if you even call it a park. It was a stretch of grass with a couple of benches and a tree. A busy mall with a huge parking lot was adjacent to the so called "park". Nevertheless, Sherlock enjoyed the place... when it was nighttime. In the day, the parking lot was packed with people bustling to and fro their parked cars or hustling to catch the attention of a cab driver. Distracting and annoying. Now, Sherlock drifts in his mind, watching the very last people prance out of the mall with their newly bought items in tow. He originally came to the bench to think about his latest case- a man who murdered a total of 12 girls with the assistance of his teenage daughter, who lured the girls in- but he allowed the cool night air and the starry night above to steal his thoughts away. This whole solving-cases-for-Lestrade was relatively new to Sherlock, but he was enjoying it.
Usually, Sherlock wouldn't go to these kinds of places, but the very loud (and kinky) neighbors in his temporary flat were driving him insane. He'd have to call Mrs. Hudson soon and ask about that flat. For now, Sherlock would have to compromise with his bench in his park.
After closing his eyes for a while, he calmly watches the scene in front of him: a young group of stragglers from the mall making their way to their car. From this point, Sherlock could only assume they were drunk, and their loud laughing and unnecessary screaming confirmed it. They all scrambled into a van, and turned the car on.
Sherlock thought nothing of it. Just some irritating teenagers. He continued to watch the parking lot out of boredom.
A lone light-haired and relatively short man exited the front entrance of the mall, dressed in what appeared to be a Christmas jumper. Sherlock couldn't make out the details from this distance and lighting. He pulls out his phone and begins to stare into the little blue screen, vaguely interested.
Dull, Sherlock thought. He had lost interest and began to get up, fixing his scarf and pulling the collar on his coat up.
He had almost turned completely around, but something caught his eye. The van full of drunk teenagers was at the exit where the texting man was crossing. The man couldn't see it, but the van was about to take a right turn, surely slamming into the man.
Instincts took over, and Sherlock ran at full speed at the man. He screamed at the van to stop, but the van lurched forward anyways. A sickening noise of impact and a thud sounded through the parking lot.
The van screeched to a halt. One of the teenagers scurried out of the van to examine the body, screamed, and bolted back into the van. It took off, tires about to catch flame from how fast they were going.
By this time, Sherlock had finally gotten to the scene. He instantly memorized the license plate of the zooming van.
Sherlock crouched over the man, who's eyes were tiny slits about to close. His face was scratched and bruised, nose bleeding and hair askew.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock shook the man to get him to focus.
He replied with a bloodied cough.
From what Sherlock could tell, he had a bloody broken arm and substantial cuts and bruises. Now that he was closer, he could tell that he actually was wearing a Christmas jumper. The man was not light-haired, but a dark brunette. The bright light from the mall must've played an easy trick from that distance.
"What is your name?" Sherlock asked, already awaiting an answer on his phone to summon an ambulance.
"Moriarty," The man wheezed. "Jim Moriarty."