Jack was pointing his Bureau-issued handgun towards the origination point of the voice even before his eyes had snapped completely open. The tall, dark-haired man in the long coat smirked and eyed it.
"You won't be needing that." He paused, than corrected himself. "Not at the moment, anyway."
Jack did not budge. He did not waver. He was in his element and, for the first time in God knows how long, he seemed to have the upper hand. "And whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making this fine evening?" The sarcasm practically dripped off of every word.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes." Jack bridled internally under the man's relentless stare, but did not quirk an eyebrow. "That's funny. Because I just received an email saying in no uncertain terms that you were quite recognizably dead."
"Oh, was I?" He waved a hand as if dispelling the rumor. "Bad habit."
The figure in front of him was undoubtedly the same man whose mug shot was open on the screen of Jack's computer, attached to Lestrade's latest message. Jack glanced once more at the screen, then sighed and lowered his gun.
"Why does Lestrade think you're dead?"
"Complications arose." Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out into the night. "I took actions necessary to protect those to whom I…feel a certain sentimental attachment."
"So why come to America?"
Sherlock turned around, and there was a gleam in his eye that had not been present before.
"Because, Agent Crawford, I saw a case that seemed interesting and, perhaps just the smallest bit…challenging."