"Did you miss me?"
Yes. How could he not? The devil to his angel, the sweet to his sour.
"Did you miss me?"
Yes. How could he not? Two years of boredom, of scurrying around that massive web, ruining and saving lives. Two years gone without John. Two years with only the comforting presence of drugs and the bitter sting of his memories to keep him going. He missed him. He missed the game and the thrill of the chase. Even now, back on scent, he missed him.
"Did you miss me?"
Yes. So where was he? Where was he hiding? What did he want?
Sherlock knotted his hands through his hair, his eyes shut and his back arched. He was sitting in a little room in an abandoned office, far away from the thumping pulse of the breathing city. He needed silence. He needed peace. He couldn't get that in 221B, not with the roaring traffic and the humming fridge and the ticking clock. He was alone here. Completely alone.
Opening his eyes, he flexed his fingers, watching the muscles in his lower arm ripple. Pinpricks from needles littered the skin around his elbow; beside him was an empty syringe, its pointed silver tip stained red with his blood. He closed his eyes again. The heroin focussed him like a laser, allowing him to zoom in on the world, on his thoughts. His mind was hot and red and aimed; a sniper. All he needed was that little itch in his finger, that urge to pull the trigger and end it all, and then it would be over. The clues would slot into place and the game could begin.
"Did you miss me?"
It had been two months since that message had popped up on screens across London, and since then, there had been nothing. No murders, no movement. There were clues of course, ones Sherlock latched onto quickly and easily – phonecalls made at night in shadowy alleyways, whispered conversations, shattered glass and splintered doors. The current rumour was that Moriarty was trying to break into MI5, but Sherlock didn't believe a word of it. What would Moriarty want with national security? He could destroy Britain with a flick of his wrist, a nod of his head. He still had people. Despite his efforts over the past two years, Sherlock hadn't brought down all of Moriarty's spider friends, and besides, he could recruit more. He had proved…resourceful in the past.
He had, of course, considered the possibility that it wasn't Moriarty who had hacked into London. Sherlock had seen him die – gun in mouth, blood splattering, dull thud of head on the ground – and it was hard to fool the man who sees everything. But even that hadn't worked. Everyone he investigated came up clean. Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, was nowhere to be found. Known traitors and informants had alibis and shaking hands; those that hadn't ran at the sight of their master's face lived in fear of that soothing Irish voice and the crack of his gun. He had even investigated Tom, Molly's estranged boyfriend, but he too was clean, having settled in Dover to continue his beekeeping business.
Nothing fit. Nothing worked. Clues, scattered, unconnected. Broken threads. He had to piece them together, but how? A hundred tiny details had to join to the four massive words that haunted him:
"Did you miss me?"
Yes. Oh God, yes.
Sighing, Sherlock opened his eyes again and pushed himself up, wobbling as the world tilted and the floor aligned itself. Things zoomed in and out of focus for a moment. It had been 3 hours since he had injected, and the drug was wearing off. The laser was dimming; the sniper was dismantling his gun. And had he gotten anywhere? No. Annoyance jabbed at him like a knife and, as he ran his hands through his hair and walked towards the door, he silently cursed his stupidity. Because that was all it was – stupidity, ordinary, human stupidity. He had expected Gavin and Anderson and even John to be stumped, to be lost, but he…he was the one they all relied on. He was a compass, a code-breaker, a dragon-slayer. And he couldn't stand the sting of failure.
The sun glared at him as he strode out of the building, blinking in its golden rays. Trees swayed in the distance; clouds rolled in from the East; there was a quiet murmur of voices coming from the other end of the street. Sherlock ignored everything and kept walking. He needed tea, and a fresh shirt, and his violin. Perhaps that would help. Turning a corner, he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked, only vaguely aware of people crossing the road to avoid him. He was still in a shirt and tie, a waistcoat pinching in his stomach and a pair of tailored trousers nipping at his ankles, but the shirt was untucked; and the tie was undone; and the waistcoat was stained with drops of blood and splashes of dust; and the trousers were shredded at the bottom and covered in dirt. A women pulled her child away as he marched past them – 34, married, living in South London with a cat...and a budgie, and working in a dead-end job as a secretary for a leering boss. He saw it all on her clothes and in the creases round her eyes. Her son looked at him with an open-mouthed gape.
"Mummy…mummy, that's, that's the man from…from the papers…"
The mother simply shook her head and yanked her son away. Sherlock watched them go before walking again. Taxi. He needed a taxi. He had money…maybe. Did he? Did he even have his wallet with him? Or his phone? Everything before the needle was a vague and hazy blur of rushing and running and a myriad of confusing thoughts. He felt his back pocket. Nothing there. His waistcoat pocket. Yes, a £10 note, just enough to take him to the edge of Baker Street.
He walked for a while, eyes peeled for the familiar black cars (he supposed he must be mad to keep taking taxis after that case, the first one with John - the first one with him, that final scream of a dying man – Moriarty) He flagged one down, and off he went, hands knotted, brow furrowed, through the breathing streets of London.