The Last Holmes

Chapter six

The first thing that the two heard when they entered the flat was the familiar rattling of Mrs Hudson's best china. That meant tea, probably biscuits and definitely a lot of fussing. Of course she had heard that Mycroft had been killed. She was distraught at the news, but secretly delighted at the prospect of looking after Sherlock.

The men were immediately sat in their chairs armed with tea and custard creams. Mrs Hudson herself refused to sit and was instead flapping around the pair, asking questions that related to anyone or anything. John could see that Sherlock was secretly enjoying it as he explained the ins and outs of one of his latest cases to the landlady. John watched the two, knowing they were both trying their hardest to keep the other one happy. Their relationship always amused him.

"Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you this morning Sherlock dear. One of those riffraff types dropped it off. It's nice that you employ them but could you at least stop them getting their dirty footprints on my hallway carpet. I just had it done last year and..."

The crisp, cream envelope held Sherlock's name in a somehow familiar blue scrawl. John looked at the detective, both of them tuning out of the landlady's usual chatter. He was waiting for Sherlock to say something, to deduce anything other than what the doctor himself was thinking.

"It's bohemian. Female writer."

Sherlock too, was looking at his flatmate. They both knew what this could mean. The exact same deduction was made when Moriarty had sent Sherlock his phone. Even Mrs Hudson had fallen silent, detecting the serious tone in Sherlock's voice and the tense atmosphere between the two men. There was nothing left to say as Sherlock reached for his letter opener and slid it through the envelope.

He withdrew a folded piece of paper and it opened to reveal, not words, but a recognisable drawing. Without it's old accompanying phrase "Get Sherlock", a simple but deadly smiley face beamed up at the detective.