When a vacancy opens for a decent flat in central London, and for such a good price, who are you to decline it?
While expecting a peaceful living arrangement to develop paintings for the gallery you work for, instead you're dragged into unexpected...
That evening, after a full day investigating for a client, Sherlock returned to the flat with John, now only realising you were gone. It was nearly one in the morning and by this point there was no return for you.
"Did you talk to Y/n?" John prepares the kettle, "could invite her down for dinner to make up for it,"
"Y/n... left," Sherlock nearly feared the words, "to New York,"
"What?! I saw- This morning Y/n-"
"Yes, well, the flight is in 46 minutes," he felt as if something was off, a new weight in the room. While John rambled in pure shock, frantic about how he didn't see this coming, Sherlock leant down on the floor, seeing a wrapped package under his seat.
"What are you doing now?"
"Y/n left something," he snatches it out, trying not to give it much mind. Though when he tore off the wrapping paper, despite knowing it was a painting, what it was of hit him like a ton of bricks.
"What is it?" John took one glance, heart stopping.
Sherlock's violin. Expressive, saturated, deep colours along an Aegean background made the air grow thin. That project was for him, that small pot of pigment was to create this brilliant piece. An object he held so dear to heart as a still life by someone so far from him now.
"Oh..." the blogger looks up to Sherlock, "are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock rolls his eyes, "it's just a painting, I'll find a spot for it,"
~~~
He did. Every day he'd see the brilliant work right by his dresser. It was a painful reminder, but putting it away would only pain him more. Sunrise and sunset, an orange glow hit the frame perfectly, just like the fire lit up both your silhouettes that night.
Bow against the violin frame, as if it was mid-way from slipping off the instrument, was his focus for most sleepless nights. Something was wrong.
Maybe not with you but generally. Something about those symbols didn't seem right, and whatever Moriarty was planning was going to be big.
"Moriarty." Sherlock hisses under his breath. The bane of his existence. The endless crude torture. The tormentor of this inescapable game. The reason you were gone.
He could hardly blame himself any longer.
After what seemed to be 2 decades were instead 2 months of complete radio silence. Crimes turn out to be 2-day distractions instead of entertaining him for a week. Where was Moriarty?-
"Speak of the devil,"
There was a ring. The ring. Prolonged, deafening, mocking. Unique no doubt; it was the one Sherlock had put specifically for Moriarty.
He shouldn't feel special... however it irritated Sherlock more than it would Moriarty.
"Moriarty,"
"My favourite goldfish!" Jim sings, "why so glum? Didn't you like the last little murder?"
"Boring... tedious," he grumbles back. "What do you want?"
"I want you to pick up YOUR PACE!"
This made Sherlock jolt in his seat, grabbing the gun under the pillow from what seemed to be a pure reflex. Moriarty wasn't exactly out of character to blow up the flat... three times was it now?
"I'm bored, and you're boring me!" his tone dragged on, "so, I'll ask again... why so glum, Sherly?"
"Deduce it," he hangs up, the phone hitting the couch carelessly.
One single shot was fired through the window, possibly from an empty flat across 221B. Sherlock jumps just a little, picking up the phone which had bounced down against the wooden floors, slipped from his grip. Moriarty was getting on his nerves.
Again, Sherlock answers- or rather asks: "What is it you want?"
"Is it that girl? In love are we?" Moriarty was getting annoyed. "This reckless act of affection- and from so little time? Tsk tsk, Sherlock," he looked to Sebastian who shrugs, still shining the barrel of his gun. "How long did you know her exactly? Less than a year? One or two cases, and too many nights of silent admiration? Dreadful that you've fallen in love like another goldfish,"
Sebastian scoffs, "ironic," he whispers making Jim fire a shot by the ex-soldier.
"So what made her so important? Was it the small words every morning and night?" he asks smugly, "the little baked treats every now and again? Oh, was it the few counted movie nights?" a cackle nearly leaves him, "did you enjoy the little head scratches? Sherlock Holmes, the lost puppy-"
"Shut up!"
"Did I strike a nerve?" Moriarty was finally having fun. "Poor little Sherly, missing his precious Y/n-"
"You planned this, didn't you? You knew I'd-"
"No, actually," Jim was surprised himself, for once. "Though it was fun to watch you ruin the one of many few good things in your life,"
"I'm almost disappointed... how the tables have turned," out the window Sherlock looks, trying to find where the gunman could be exactly, "so, what now? Done taunting me?"
"Almost... I'm sure you'd be happy to have a new case," Moriarty tosses a file to Sebastian who makes his way out. "This one is a real 'table turner',"
"You know what to do," he was done talking, and a little distraction would be enough to appease the criminal for just a little longer. "John! Grab your coat!"
~~~
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
