"When angels can no longer fly, they fall to their deaths..."
Four months after their first confrontation in the swimming hall, bored Sherlock Holmes is recontacted by none other than Jim Moriarty and forced into offering his consultations on a rath...
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Tuesday 24/08/2010, 12:36 p.m.
When Sherlock came back to 221B Baker Street, he joined John and Mrs Hudson in the living room bowing to the beauty of the golden afternoon lustre. Perched on Sherlock's straight-backed, heavily upholstered armchair and John's more worn-out one, the duo was glued to the vibrant plasma screen sitting alone in a corner, filling the otherwise quiet room with its incomprehensible droning. The monotony of their own life was being reflected back to them in the form of some brainless reality TV show, getting infused with their boredom.
Sherlock couldn't understand why ordinary people found any TV channels worth their time - he only ever browsed through news related to his investigations and occasional crime documentaries with bumbling cops who gave him a headache (thanks to their soaring levels of incompetency) and also a boost to his self-confidence. Not that he usually needed any more.
Mrs Hudson was the first to spot the lanky, man-shaped figure looming at the doorway. Her chestnut eyes breaking away from the TV program, she flashed one of her countless loving smiles upon recognising the detective, a seed that grew to form infinite branches, petals that never withered. "Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" she offered in silver tones, unusually good-natured. The sun had warmed everything one touched from the creaking, rugless floor to the wooden table the posts of which held two half-empty teacups; they'd been here for at least fifteen minutes. So John arrived about half an hour ago, wonder where he was all this time. Doing the actual math was a way for Sherlock to assure his logic was still in control of his emotional turbulence none of which he hoped was on display on his face. "There are still yesterday's chocolate biscuits left."
"Drinking and eating are bad for-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, all the movements of his well-defined body ceasing. He cast his icy eyes wildly about the room, the notion of break-in growing in the very core of his being as he took in the clear signs. Such glaringly obvious methods were one of Moriarty's distinctive features... Strictly speaking, obvious only to Sherlock whereas Mrs Hudson and John seemed perfectly undisturbed.
Moriarty had taken the opportunity to trespass on this flat today when he'd been out solving the Santos' case with John. Sherlock made a quick mental time travel into the recent past to compare the stored images with the current ones, trying to spot the difference. There were plenty, though. The desk was two inches off the place, meaning the criminal had purposefullybumped into it - with perfect precision. It couldn't have been John since he'd just arrived here going by the amount of the remaining tea, nor Mrs Hudson who, in her steadfast loyalty to order, would have adjusted the table closer to its original position. The books and pictures resting on the shelves were in a slightly different array, although Moriarty had done quite a good job of putting them back as opposed to that bulky ox that bulldozed here yesterday like a bull in a China shop. The blobs of mud from his shoes proved that John didn't go anywhere near the bookshelf except to turn the chairs around so they would face the TV while Mrs Hudson heeded Sherlock's plea to leave his books untouched. It was the small details that gave it away: Moriarty's purpose to come here had been the search for the stolen cigarette case. Sherlock held back a faint smile. He'd hidden it so well even Mrs Hudson couldn't find it - and that woman knew every nook and cranny in her own house.
