In all of Sherlock's previous understanding, when he deleted something from his brain it was exactly that, deleted. Deleted as in gone forever, never to be called up again unless relearned or re-experienced. So, why was he having these odd, disconnected memories of a night with John that could not have happened? John did not want that with him. John had never wanted that with him. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't want that with anyone, least of all John Watson, right? It didn't matter now anyway because he wasn't likely to get out of this alive; and what a failure his death would be. His final and most colossal disappointment: leaving this world unsafe for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And, even if he did survive, John would probably kill him when he came back… Or, worse, be so angry that he would go and leave Sherlock alone forever. After all, that's what John thought he himself was. Alone.
He couldn't afford to think about John right now. He had an underground criminal organization to break into. Sherlock wondered how many people he would be killing tonight. He always got sentimental when using John's gun. At least Mycroft could always tell quite easily that it had been Sherlock when he sent out the cleanup crew. That gun's weight was reassuring as Sherlock groped inside his coat pocket searching for its cool grip. He couldn't help but think that John's warm fingers would have been more of a comfort in that moment.
And then men were emerging from the west broad door of the abandoned fish factory. Sherlock flew towards them, silent like a bat out of night, his coat billowing out behind him. Within a minute they were all incapacitated and piled up out of sight to wait for "Mycroft's Police," as Sherlock had dubbed them in his head.
Later that night, after he'd paid a visit to the chief of this group's very nice penthouse flat in the middle of Tokyo, Sherlock tallied off cell number thirty-two. 'Only fifty-seven more to go before I can go home.' Unfortunately, the cells were getting more difficult to penetrate with each one he took down. These were not the playhouses of the ridiculously unorganized criminal gangs of London; these were the headquarters of the criminal elite. Moriarty had groomed the heads of these groups by hand to do his dirty work. These were brains he was taking out, not fingers and toes, and with each brain he disposed of the next brain he had to infiltrate was that much more difficult to enter. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that one of these times they would be expecting him, and not with open arms.