The street was quiet and empty, save for a large flowing black coat and the tall man under it. Sherlock's steps echoed on the lonely pavement. They clicked 3 times when he ascended the steps to the door. Unlocking it, he pushed it open and made for the staircase. Normally he'd try and be fairly quiet when arriving this late; Mrs Hudson loved to scold him for being so loud at ungodly times, so he made a conscious effort to prevent it. Mrs Hudson was, however, visiting her sister for the weekend, so no such effort was made tonight.

He walked up the first few steps, too lazy to turn the hall light on, when he noticed something that did not belong. A...smudge. On the wall, next to the steps. A shoe smudge, it seemed, like someone scuffed it accidentally on the paint. In another circumstance, he'd assume it was the fault of John's regular clumsiness, but this was not the case. The scuff was brown. It belonged to a pair of brown leather shoes. Such a pair not owned by John nor Sherlock, for Sherlock preferred black and John owned only brown casual shoes. And those shoes, Sherlock knew, would not leave a scuff like this one.

Realizing he was frozen in place, staring down at the mark, his eyes moved up to the door only 5 more steps ahead of him. He listened...it was quiet. Then he heard something that made his stomach feel slightly queasy and his heart quicken. It was a muffled voice, definitely John's, and a thwack. Someone said for him to be quiet in a hushed voice. So, they were expecting him. Sherlock immediately regretted not shutting the door quietly a few moments back...it would be such more advantageous to have the surprise factor. He gracefully reached the top of the stairs and, with a moment to think things through, opened the door.

There were three strange men, as well as John. John was on his knees in between two of them, each gripping one of his arms in an unescapable position. The third was standing behind him, holding John's head back with a knife to his throat. The one holding the weapon had brown leather shoes on. Sherlock grimaced.

"Hello. I wasn't expecting company." He said as he casually slung his coat on the rack. He did so for two reasons; to appear explicitly calm, and for modified mobility when the time came. He eyed John's position, mentally running through ideas on how to get him out of it.

"We're here for a reason, Mr. Holmes." Said the knife man. He assumed this was the pack leader, the one calling the shots.

"Oh? How strange, people normally come to see me for my tea." He walked unflustered to the small drawer table by the couch and opened the top drawer, placing his keys in and shutting it. Although he couldn't turn his head to watch him, John automatically knew what Sherlock was doing. Looking for my gun. The bookshelf, Sherlock! The bookshelf!

"I don't know what you think is happening here, Mr. Holmes, but you are not in control at the moment. I suggest you stop the charade and speak with me."

Unaltered by his statement, Sherlock migrated to the kitchen. He opened numerous drawers, taking out the tea along the way. Sherlock could always read John Watson, in almost every way. But the one thing that constantly stumped him was the location of his gun. He kept it in the same numerous spots, for the most part, but he didn't have a pattern on where it's next location would be. Sherlock cursed his flatmate as he searched.

"Well while you're here, would you like some tea? I've been dying for some all day, you really can't take this away from me at the moment. My desire is just unstoppable." He gave up on the kitchen and turned to face the men. He duly noted that damn knife was on his friend's throat far too tightly. He also noted John hadn't said a word since he walked in.

"I am not in the mood for games, Mr. Holmes. You of all people should understand that desperate people do desperate things, and those things can often be regrettable. Do you understand what I am saying, sir, or should I make it more clear?" The man's eyes were angry, tranquil, and yes, also desperate. It was a dangerous, dangerous combination. He was beginning to feel nervous at he and his flatmate's situation.

In his silence, the man tightened his grip on John. The knife bore down, and blood began to trickle. John huffed and started to fight away, but the other men strengthened their hold on him until he was still. Sherlock felt himself step forward involuntarily, a small adjustment that the man noticed. So it was true. The sociopath did have a heart.

"What is it, then?" Sherlock finally asked in a low voice. "What do you want?"

"I will ask you, and if you say what your friend here said, I will become extremely upset." The man replied.

Sherlock did not appreciate that they jumped John and interrogated him on God knows what. He especially did not appreciate the bruised skin on his face or the incriminating weapon stained with fresh blood. He waited a beat, pondering what the topic was, and spoke.

"Go on."

The man bore his intense eyes into Sherlocks, his chin lowered so he was staring out from under his brow.

"Where is James Moriarty?"

Oh. Well that was quite unexpected. Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows and made a face.

"What sort of question is that? He's both 6 feet under dirt and burning in whatever Hell exists." He said quite honestly. Despite his honesty, the man was not pleased.

"I told you I did not want the answer John Watson gave me."

"Well in my defense, I was not present when John Watson spoke."

"Drop the act, Holmes. I know that man is alive, and I need to know where he is. What he is doing."

"My good man, Jim Moriarty is dead, have you been living under a rock?" Sherlock spat. The intruder yanked back on John's head and dug his knife in, causing the victim to yell out and thrash.

"What do you want from me, dammit, he's DEAD! I watched him blow his own head off, I was two feet in front of him! Moriarty is dead, he's gone, his blood was stained across the roof of Bart's Hospital!" Sherlock cried. This was absurd. His mind reeled on how to get John out from under that knife, but he was coming up blank. A small sort of panic began to rise in him when he realized this man was indeed more desperate than Sherlock originally assumed.

"I think they're telling the truth, Jackson." One of the goons broke their silence, speaking to their leader. Jackson, Jackson, Jackson. Sherlock scoured his mind for that name, for that name to somehow be related to Moriarty's. Sherlock had personally, meticulously, destroyed the web that Jim Moriarty had created, and the name Jackson did not appear anywhere.

"No. No, I know he is not dead." Jackson said, his voice pitched.

"I have a brilliant idea. I happen to be a detective, did you know? Why don't you tell me exactly what you're situation is and perhaps my far superior mind can come to a reasonable conclusion?" He was becoming impatient. He wanted his flatmate back.

"You want to know, Sherlock Holmes? You really want to know?" Jackson hissed. "Ask yourself, if you really believe that that man is dead and you're currently living in an ignorant bliss, do you really want to know?"

Sherlock stared at him. There was no doubt that this estranged man truly believed that Moriarty was alive...but, why?

"Of course I want to know."