(Following the events of both Savoureaux and The Reichenbach Fall)
Jack Crawford had nearly forgotten all about the London detective in the wake of the chaos of the past few weeks. Abigail Hobbs presumed dead, Georgia Madchen burned alive, and Will…Jack was unsure what to make of Will's situation. There was something odd about the entire fiasco. The evidence did not quite add up. But he wrote the feeling off as sleep deprivation, and moved on in the list of woes.
Worry for his wife was at the forefront of his mind, for Bella was beginning to feel the symptoms of her malady. Occasional chest pain, coughing fits, and shortness of breath - all minor effects that heralded the beginning of her inexorable march towards death.
So it was unsurprising that he did not immediately register the name on the email. Greg Lestrade was his last concern. However, the detective inspector's message was more germane to Jack's world. Dangerous investigation, man named Moriarty, conspiracies, lies. Secrecy was no longer relevant. The detective's name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was a fraud now buried under the earth. And Jack had one less hope for the Chesapeake Ripper investigation. He closed his eyes in the futile hope that perhaps upon their opening things would seem less bleak.
As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, a silky British drawl rang out in the stillness. "Perhaps the fates are on your side after all, Agent Crawford."