''Did you miss me?''
Within what seemed to be a heartbeat, the plane had landed, the passenger disembarked and they were loaded into the Mycroft's government car. They all stared at the image on the screen, John in disbelief, Sherlock in disgust. The image taunted for approximately ten minutes and abruptly the screen went blank.
"Well, isn't that just bloody special," John growled.
Sherlock glanced over at his friend, a slight smile curling his lips. Both amused and annoyed, he turned to his brother. "One does not swallow a bullet and waltz away. And I assure you, that person on the roof most definitely blew the back of his head across the top of St. Bart's! You assured me that it was him, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, leaning back into the leather of the seat.
"I am every bit as vexed as you are, dear brother," Mycroft drawled, "All tests indicated that it was indeed him. If it weren't against current government rules, I'd have the idiot who made the seeming mistake flogged." Leaning back into the leather upholstery of the car, Mycroft visibly steeled himself, "This, interruption, presents a series of interesting questions. The most obvious of them is why now?"
"Sherlock's exile?" Mary inquired, her hand gripping John's tightly.
Sherlock inclined his head slightly, "Possible." He paused, straightened his shirt with a firm tug and Mary had the sense that he was settling himself, "Three years gone, I'm exiled and if this is Moriarty, he knows I'm going to certain danger," his eyes flicked to Mycroft, "and while Moriarty's goal is my demise, he wants or wanted it at his hands. There's always the chance that this is a ruse, of course, but the timing makes that suspect." Sherlock glanced out the window as car pulled away from the tarmac. "Three distinct probabilities then; he's alive, he's dead and I missed a minion or we have a very talented fan waiting in the wings.''
"Christ, a fan," John grimaced. "Seriously, he has those?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing over at his best friend, "How is it really any different than Anderson's little Empty Hearse club? Some turn to the sinner, some to the saint but angel and demon both have a following. The Ripper, for example, how many have admired his doings? Moriarty has fans, make no mistake, he would appeal to certain types – they will see the charm, the wit, the danger, they choose to overlook the ruthlessness."
"Perhaps," Mycroft murmured, "that trait appeals to a good many as well. It's a short walk from fan to follower." He straightened, his eyes focusing on his brother, "This is just his first move, until we know his second, back to Baker Street with you."
Quiet descended in the Bentley as it navigated through the streets of London, only to be broken by the chirp of Sherlock's mobile.