Sorry for the delayed update. Dramatically problematic list of reasons to be listed below. .
Molly Hooper. Oh, Sherlock could go on and on about her, making observations and deductions. He could read her as simply as one could read a book. The simplicity of her being was nearly astonishing; she was the mere definition of human. And through this, Sherlock knew something was wrong because she didn't answer him. Molly, that sad, amazingly simple girl, clearly liked Sherlock more than a normal friend should. Sherlock deduced that someone with those kinds of feelings may have a certain special ringtone set just for that person, like any mad teenager would. And like the teenager, she would answer when that significant other called, sounding off the too-familiar ringtone that only she would see the meaning behind. And through all of that, Sherlock deduced that Moriarty had gotten to her first.
After an hour and no response from her, Sherlock knocked on John's door. "I'm going out," he called through the polished wood, and expected John to follow on his heels. Naturally, he did.
On the cab ride there, John observed his friend, who said nothing the entire time. Sherlock would claim that he was thinking, or that there was no point talking if there was nothing that needed to be talked about. This time, however, John knew that a small, back-of-his-mind part of him, had slipped into a state of mourning and guilt.
Finally, John cut through the silence. "She could be busy working, you know. She normally works until ten at night, or even later if you need her to."
"It's a Sunday," Sherlock answered, his sharp eyes not leaving the cab window. "She never needs to work down at the morgue by two. It's nearly three now."
John, feeling a sense of worry, sent a quick warning text to Mike.
They dashed inside the hospital and moved quite rapidly through the miniature crowd, ignoring the looks shown by nurses and patients. They went into the elevator. "They might have heard her if she screamed," John suggested, hope in his quiet voice.
"The morgue is four floors up," Sherlock said. "They more than likely wouldn't. Aside from that, maybe she didn't get a chance to scream." The giant silver doors opened slowly, and they dashed down the hall rather quickly.
Sherlock stopped suddenly at the door to the morgue. A note was attached, and he read it aloud: "Left you a present. You can say thank you later." He snarled in return, and yanked the door open.
On the table, ripped from one of the deceased citizens, rested a human heart, burnt to a black crisp.
Surprisingly, Sherlock did notice that it was a threat but he didn't seem to recognize the fear that was implanted in the little message. He almost laughed aloud at the sight, finding it rather dramatic. Sadly, as expected, there was no sign of Molly, so he felt angry as well. John observed their surroundings, in hope of a clue. On the floor close to the door lied a sinful little dart, which John picked up with gentle care. "Look, Sherlock."
"You weren't breathing or anything, and there was a dart in your neck."
"Peculiar," Sherlock commented, switching his focus from the burned heart to the small weapon. "He must be bored of explosives to use something as simple and quick and quiet as this." He licked the tip of the tiny needle carefully. "A quick solution of anesthetics. Molly is fine, just in a deep sleep, for now." He felt the material of the dart. It was wound around with very thin blue thread. He unwrapped the thread but found nothing very useful. "There's a reason, though. He's not using any bombs, which is very unlike him. He wouldn't just change his murdering methods out of sheer boredom. There's an underlying reason..." He lifted his gaze, his mouth open in a short gasp. John knew he'd figured it out. "So what's the reason, then?"
"Think about it," Sherlock said, almost smiling to himself. "Use your brain to think like me. Think about the explosives that he would normally use compared to the darts. What make the two different?"
John took the dart and examined it. "Well, darts use poison or, in this case, anesthetics, while bombs just explode and burn things."
"Good, good. And?"
"The size difference is, well...different."
"Indeed. Anything else?"
John held the dart's needle between his thumb and index finger. "Darts are silent, while -"
"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, and John jumped in alarm. "Way to go, John! You've figured it out."
John looked at him sternly. "You're doing the look again."
Sherlock's facial excitement dropped. "No I'm not. You figured it out! We both know what's going on."
"No, I listed a fact."
"Yes, exactly!" Sherlock turned back to the table, where the unbeating heart remained. "Moriarty is determined to destroy me, yes? If he weren't, he wouldn't leave a little 'present' such as this one. When he went after me the first time, he used explosives. He even made you into a walking bomb, John, because that's his theme. He loves those little bombs with a passion. So, why would he use this?" He grabbed the dart from John and held it to his eye level. "You listed the fact, as you said. Darts are silent, but explosives produce an immense amount of sound. Why does an escaped criminal hide in the shadows when he can run to safety in the streets?"
"Because..." John attempted to piece his words together, but Sherlock naturally interrupted him. "Because right now, Moriarty is known to you and I, and he is known to the police force, and he's even known by my big brother. Along with that, his plan probably includes an open area, out in public -"
"Like the Smith Tank building," John answered.
"Of course," Sherlock responded. "If he wants his plan to work then he needs to keep quiet, and he must remain in the shadows before making his appearance in the street."
"Well, if we already know his public place - which, by the way, isn't very open to people - then why can't we just stop him now?"
Sherlock slipped the dart into his coat pocket and headed for the door. "He's like a high schooler who plans on finishing the project at the last minute. He needs to gather up all his pieces - in this case, anyone who I could branch out to - and then put forth the actions. I'm not sure how but I'm working on it."
As the cab took them back to Mycroft's house, John checked his phone only to see that Mike still hadn't answered. Perhaps working late, then? Sherlock still didn't speak.
"Sherlock."
"Hm?"
"I find it rather odd that you haven't even looked into what caused the blackout."
"Just some accident, I suppose."
"You don't believe in accidents."
Sherlock looked out the window again, his eyes stone cold. "Is there a reason why you're bringing this up?"
"What happened in your flash forward?"
Sherlock turned and looked at John, considering telling him. He probably had figured it out anyway. "You were dead, John. I found you dead."
John nodded. "I figured it would happen anyway. What else?"
Sherlock told John what happened to him, and in his eyes, that's all he needed to know. He couldn't possibly admit that he would fail to Jim Moriarty. "That's it."
"Sher-"
"That's it, John."
John stared at the seat in front of him as Sherlock looked away again. "I just want to say that working with you has been a -"
"Oh, don't start," Sherlock muttered quietly. "You'll live. I'll make sure of it." He looked back at his great friend. There was hardly any time, only a few more months. He would make sure that John survived so they could continue solving crimes together and having the best of times. No monster, not even one like Jim, could alter that decision. "If you ever die young, John, it'll be because you're dying with me. If it must happen then we will be together until the end."
It was going to be a long few months.
Okay, could have done more, but here are my reasons. 1. Deadline in newspaper. Had to focus on that a lot. 2. The power went out for no reason yet again. Just a bit annoying. 3. I'm sick. :( But anyway, I hope you liked this chapter, and I'll update as soon as I can. Review.
