Contrary to his typical, indifferent disposition, Sherlock Holmes exited the plane he had boarded just minutes before with a puzzled look upon his face.
"Really Mycroft, I knew you didn't want me to die, but I didn't think you actually cared for me enough to stop this suicide mission," Sherlock smirked as he opened the door to his brother's private car.
"Now is not the time, little brother," Mycroft snapped back with an air of urgency, "larger problems than my development of feelings have arisen," and with that the brothers ducked into the car, Mycroft extending a single finger toward the small screen ahead of them.
Sherlock noticed a slight tremble in his brother's finger, but had no time to poke fun, as an eerie "Did you miss me?" filled the car. Turning his focus to the screen, Sherlock's face fell as he saw the image of a man he believed to be dead, the only man with the wit and recklessness to rival his own: Jim Moriarty. Mycroft Holmes was now the one with a smirk upon his face, prompting an "oh shut up," from his brother; and with that the car sped away from the tarmac.
"Where are John and Mary?" Sherlock questioned, concern dashing across his face.
"I had them start for 221B after I phoned you. They should be there by now and we should be joining them shortly."
The remainder of the car ride was in silence, as both brothers became lost in their thoughts. After what felt like hours, but was, in reality, a mere matter of minutes, the car was in sight of the big black door with the gold knocker. Before the driver had a chance to hit the breaks, Sherlock Holmes had flicked up the lock and flung open his door, dashing out of the car and into the flat before Mycroft could unlatch his seatbelt. Sherlock dashed up the stairs and burst into the living room to find a pacing John Watson and a clattering of glassware in the kitchen, which he assumed was Mary.
"About damn time you got here," John spat out with anger, though relief seeped into his eyes and tugged the corners of his lips upward.
Sherlock managed a smile in response before Mycroft appeared in the flat, sitting on the sofa and pulling out his phone in one fluid movement.
"All of your 'friends' are here, Mycroft. Who could you possibly be texting?" Sherlock playfully probed, his spirits higher upon reuniting with John.
"This is not a joking matter, Sherlock. You, of all people, should realize that," Mycroft responded harshly, eyes remaining on the device in his hands.
Seeing a response forming on Sherlock's lips, and not willing to sit through an argument between the two grown men, John decided to intervene.
"How can he be back? How can Moriarty be back?"
"It's not impossible for someone to come back from the dead, John," Sherlock quipped with a smirk.
"No. Sherlock, no. Moriarty is dead. He—he shot himself! You saw it happen! You watched him stick a gun in his mouth and…"
"Oh, don't be so daft, John!" Sherlock interrupted before John could continue his rambling, "it took me the entire car ride here to put it all together myself."
John's mouth dropped open and his head cocked to the left in disbelief and amazement at Sherlock Holmes' words. Even Mycroft stole a brief, eyebrow raised glance at his brother before returning to his phone. Sherlock cleared his throat, preparing to reveal his well-thought out deductions, when Mary Watson entered the room, tray of teacups and kettle in her hands. John rushed to relieve his pregnant wife of her burden, the tray rattling as his shaky hands placed it on Sherlock's desk.
"Mary, you should be resting," John instructed his wife, turning from the desk, concern in his eyes.
"John," Mary began sternly, "a man who threatened the nation and got Sherlock Holmes to fake his own death is back from the dead and you think I'm going to sit around, twiddling my thumbs?" She then poured herself a cup of tea and sank into Sherlock's armchair as her husband and Sherlock looked on in silence.
With a shake of his head to resettle his thoughts, Sherlock Holmes continued where he had left off.
"Anyway, the resurrection of Jim Moriarty. So, the rooftop; obviously we were the only two physically on the roof, however, Moriarty told me 'his people' had to see me jump, meaning that there were others observing us. There were a total of three gunmen in place ready to kill you, John, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Gilderoy…"
"Gilderoy, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted, attention shifting from his phone to his brother.
"He means Greg Lestrade," John stated, looking knowingly at Sherlock, inducing a scowl from the detective.
"Yes, Greg, whatever," Sherlock corrected before continuing, closing his eyes as he entered his mind palace, remembering the events of that day, "There were three gunmen getting into place near John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg waiting for their orders. Moriarty said the planned assassinations could only be canceled with my death, but he hinted that they could be called off; he just wouldn't be the one to do it, which he made quite clear by shooting himself. His suicide should have meant that the orders were impossible to stop, regardless of my livelihood; however they were stopped. Only John's assassin would have had a view of me, but he wouldn't have had the time to contact the other two quickly enough, so Moriarty must have had another one of his "people" hidden in sight of the rooftop. Having this extra person meant that everything Moriarty did was just as carefully calculated as everything I did. He must have had several escape methods planned as well, and also chose the most deadly end for himself. Moriarty needed props in order to really sell his death; the gun he used and a few pints of prepackaged blood. When I told him I would use him to call off the orders, he must have sent a subtle signal to his watchman, perhaps our handshake, which would give his person enough time to get into position to aid in Moriarty's scene. When Moriarty stuck the gun in his mouth, his person shot off a real gun from just far enough away to make it sound real; that's why there was no smoke coming from the barrel of Moriarty's. The blood on the roof could easily have been bagged blood stuck under his suit coat prior to our meeting, with some sort of funnel or nozzle attached that would allow the blood to flow only when pressure was applied to it, such as that of Moriarty's fallen body. Moriarty had every aspect of his apparent suicide meticulously planned and had additional help to ensure that the entire spectacle was believable, from the use of a real gunshot to pints of blood. It's all quite simple really."
The room was silent as an awestruck John, a stunned Mary, and an amused Mycroft stared at Sherlock Holmes, who's eyes flicked open as the ringing words of his deductions lingered in the air.
"Sim…." John began to choke out, needing a deep breath and a clearing of his throat in order to finish, "simple…really?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed, the look on his face voicing his annoyance that John, yet again, found such a simple deduction inconceivable. Realizing that all of these emotions were probably just as incomprehensible as what had caused the initial questioning, Sherlock bluntly articulated, "yes, really," and proceeded to flop down on the couch near his brother, whom was once again fully immersed in whatever it was his phone had to offer.