The afternoon dragged on slowly.

John was hesitant to annoy Sherlock by checking in on him, as he wasn't exactly in a mood for being whinged at, but by the time lunch rolled around he decided he wouldn't stand to have the detective skipping another meal for no reason.

The first few knocks on Sherlock's door went unanswered, which wasn't exactly a surprise. But as he knocked again, and again, with still no response, a frown furrowed his brow.

"Sherlock? Are you awake? Really, Sherlock. I'm almost a hundred percent certain you're not asleep. If you're ignoring me—" A cool breeze tickled his ankles from beneath the door, and his frown deepened. "What the hell...?"

He turned the knob and pushed the door open, finding it almost pulled out of his hands as another draft came in through the open window inside, sucking the heat out of the room like some sort of invisible utilities vampire.

"Sherlock?"

A quick glance about the room proved that unless Sherlock was hiding underneath the bed, he was definitely not present.

But why the hell was the window open—?

Unless...

John stepped over to it and leaned over the cold sill, scanning the street below, but there was no sign of anybody there except a few passing pedestrians, tightly wrapped up in parkas and sweaters and paying absolutely no attention to him or to the rising taste of worry in his throat.

Where the hell had he gone?

If he hadn't somehow slipped past him and left through the front door—which John was almost certain had not happened—then could he have gone by way of the window? There was a fire escape fairly nearby, but still...

A further investigation showed him that not only was Sherlock gone, but so were his coat, scarf, and shoes.

So he'd definitely gone somewhere.

But why now?

Like this?

And where on earth could he have possibly needed to sneak off to so desperately?

Sherlock's mobile was buzzing in his pocket again, but he didn't bother checking it. He already knew where the conversation was going.

#0207-6756-858 had contacted him over an hour ago requesting 'a nice little chat,' and seeing as he had nothing better to do, and it had to get done sooner or later, Sherlock had dressed, slipped on his coat, and knotted his scarf around his neck.

The window had been a necessary inconvenience.

John was in the living room, and there was no way Sherlock was going to chance having him insist on tagging along.

It just couldn't happen.

Not this time.

There was a brisk chill in the air, but Sherlock appeared not to notice it. No time for such things, really, when there was something so interesting to be done.

By this time a thick layer of menacing cumulonimbus clouds had spread themselves over the sky and smothered the sun in their swirling, dark grey waltz across the heavens.

Sherlock picked up his step. Not enough to demonstrate any real sort of worry, but just enough so that, by his calculations, he would reach his destination just in time to avoid the downpour.

The purposeful sound of his footsteps on the pavement followed him just out of the nicer neighbourhood and into a dingy side street. His feet barely needed the mental directions he gave himself.

Fifteen and a half steps.

Your destination is directly on your right.

As he stalked up the front steps of an older, apparently abandoned flat, the first raindrops began to fall. He could still hear them spattering across the frigid concrete as he ascended the stairs inside, having found—expectedly—that the door was unlocked.

Careful, skip the seventh step...

He smirked to himself as his brain registered the warning before he'd even reached the third.

Old habits die hard.

The atmosphere inside the flat would be best described as dull. However, to Sherlock, every speck of dust was vividly familiar, every whiff of stale, chemically perfumed air—even the ancient bloodstains still embedded in the hall carpet.

As if it were only yesterday.

He paused, standing there in the dim hallway with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the shadows with a half-interested gaze.

"I'm a bit disappointed." He finally broke the silence, his own voice loud and harsh in the darkness. "This is incredibly predictable of you. Boring."

He heard the haughty sniff from the end of he hallway before he saw him.

Heard the catlike footsteps on the carpet before he saw the glint of those eyes.

And caught the smell of his cologne before he saw that mock friendly grin that didn't reach those eyes.

"It's good to see you, too, Sherlock." Moriarty took another step forward, separating himself from the shadows. "I would apologise for making this so sudden and all, but you know me. I'm just sooo changeable! I thought we might as well have a friendly little reunion, now that I'm back and all... I'm glad you got my little invitation."

"Of course I did. I remember that blade." Sherlock didn't let his gaze stray down to the bloodstain between them, instead holding Moriarty's stare unflinchingly. "Cut to the chase."

Moriarty smiled coyly, turning and moving off toward the tiny kitchen. "I would offer you tea, really I would, but I'm afraid your kettle's rusted."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, and let out a silent sight. "It was always like that."

"You really did live in a little shithole here, didn't you? I'm surprised you made it out. No wonder you felt like killing yourself."

"Shut up." Sherlock's teeth clenched, but his hard expression didn't change. "I said, cut to the chase."

"Oh, I will. Don't you worry about that. But you've really got to learn to loosen up a little bit, Sherlock dear. It has been so long since we've had a play-date. Oh... But there was just one other itsy bitsy little thing I've been dying to ask you. So." He stopped and looked over his shoulder at him, grin widening maniacally, though it still didn't quite reach his eyes. "Did you miss me?"