Definition of Humanity

The Note

Third-Person POV

It was nighttime, about 9:00 PM when they received the call.

Sherlock was the one who answered the phone. He sighed when he saw that it was Mycroft's number.  "Hello, Mycroft. Come to offer me a job?"

"Be realistic, brother mine. This is of much more important matters, as in the future of the human race as a whole." Sherlock stiffened. "And how may I be of your help when you have all the others?" Sherlock asked. "This is different, Sherlock. DI Gregory Lestrade, Seargeant Donovan, Anderson, Molly Hooper, and myself have all recieved the same exact note at nearly the same exact time. Which means that, if the pattern shall hold true, you should recieve one-"

There was a knock at the door of 221B.

"Right about now."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson popped im with a small letter. "A man just came with this odd little note," she said. "He said it was for you and John." John took the note from her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This letter seems as though it may be important."

The strange note was, to Sherlock's sharp eye, inside of a very costly envelope. There was no writing on the envelope except for a small, skillfully drawn magpie. Traces of ink from a fountain pen made it all too obvious to him that the writer's hand had slipped because he was  excited as he wrote. On the flipside of the envelope was a red-wax seal. On tht seal was a mark that was all too familiar to Sherlock: Moriarty's seal. He opened it. Mycroft, whose phone call had apparently been forgotten about, asked Sherlock, "That describes the envelope perfectly. What does the note say?"

When Sherlock opens the note, he realizes that all heck is about to break loose. It reads

My dearest friend,

                                      When you recieve this note, it is likely that your friends have also received it by now. Meet us at the warehouse near 221B at 9:30 if you wish to know why you have received my little invite. It will prove to be of much importance to the security of this little world in which we live. You know who I am. You don't know where I am. You don't even know what I am-quite a pity, considering your certain friend's intellectual gifts. Don't be late- you don't want to miss this party!

              Love,              

                            An old friend

The room goes silent. No one, Sherlock, John, or Mycroft, speak a word for several minutes. Finally, the silence is broken when Mycroft says, "Sherlock, it's 9:15. Hurry."

The boys, after taking their coats and calling a cab, head towards their destination. "What was that all about? Why did you and Mycroft get so concerned over an odd note?" John asked. 

"John, I am afraid I cannot tell you. You shall know by the end of this night. But, for now, you must be patient."

When they reached their destination, Mycroft and all the others mentioned were there. Confused chatter rang out in the damp, abandoned warehouse, sounds echoing like a thousand men speaking at once. Suddenly, a door flew open, and a dark-clothed figure stepped into the small amount of light in the warehouse. "You know, Sherlock, I am quite disappointed with you. I expected you to have deduced this little meeting earlier," the voice of this strange man rang in a light, almost singsong voice. This voice was all too familiar to the people in the room: the voice of James Moriarty. This voice was not heard by them for long, as just after the echoes died out, a man sprang up from behind every person there and, with a quick motion that was unavoidable even by the trained soldiers of the room, drugged them with an anaesthetic of sorts. As their vision became blurred and their limbs weak, the last thing they heard before slipping into the darkness of sleep was the helicopters overhead and an odd flap-like the beating of ginormous wings.