JimLock:The Consulting Detective and the Consulting Criminal

Bullet Holes and Bloodstains

        "For God's sakes, Sherlock, where are we going?" John wasn't the least bit surprised with Sherlock's actions. Even though John hadn't mentioned it to anyone, he had been missing the excitement and mystery that Sherlock brought with him. So when John noticed that farmiliar sparkle in Sherlock's blue eyes as he spun around, waves of anticipation fell over him.

        Sherlock's coat swished as he turned to face John. "Did you not hear me inside, John?" And with that, he spun back around, and continued walking along the pavement. John was a bit miffed at Sherlock's response, but he had begun to expect it.

        "Can't you just bloody tell me where we're going?"

        "Nope."

        "Figures," scoffed John. Sherlock's only response was a slight chuckle, which annoyed John as well as bringing on a sense of nostalgia.

        John had the feeling that they would be walking for a while, so as they walked, he began to try and sort out the events of the past few weeks...

______________________________________________________________________________________

        Sherlock was alive. That he had begun to deal with. Magnussen was dead. That he had begun to deal with. Moriarty? Not so much.

        He was dead. He had put a bullet through his own skull on top of the hospital, just before Sherlock had jumped. He had died, he was dead!

        Sherock's voice rang through his head. Nothing is as it seems, John. At this point, nothing could be truer than that.

______________________________________________________________________________________

        Sherlock stopped in front of an old looking house with a door covered in bullet holes. The faded sign on front read: 246 Welcome to Our Home. It looked like it would have belonged to a family.

        "Yes, and they had kids, too." Sherlock commented. John was only slightly surprised. "How did you know what I was thinking?" Sherlock began, "Simply John- your brow was furrowed in precisely-" John cut him off. "Never mind. Now what are we doing here, Sherlock?"

        Sherlock looked around. "Because this is where he told me to go, John."

        "Sherlock, where who told you to go?" Sherlock glanced at John. "Honestly, John, really? You've been away for too long, haven't you?" John thought hard. "Moriarty told you to come here?" Sherlock nodded. "In the letter he sent me." "What did he say, in the letter?" John asked. Sherlock simply ignored him and walked towards the door. He reached for the knob. He pressed gently against the door, which then proceeded to fall off it's hinges. Sherlock stepped over the threshold. "Well then," he whispered, gazing inside. John stepped closer, and his jaw dropped in astonishment for what he saw.

        Tables were toppled over. Dishes were strewn about. Couches were ripped open and stuffing thrown about. The house was a complete wreck. John turned to Sherlock, who had a knowing look in his eyes. "Follow me, John," he said. Sherlock carefully stepped through the rubble to the back room of the house. John had an eerie feeling about what he would see next.

        Sherlock came to yet another closed door. He tried the knob- locked. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a key. "Did Moriarty give that to you in the letter?" John wondered. "No, John, a fairy came to me in the night and sent me on a quest to find it!" He stuck the metal into the knob and turned it. The door creaked open.

        A womans body lay on the bed with a bullet wound in her gut. Two children lay next to her with the same wounds. A mans body laid to the left of the door with a gun in his hand and a bullet wound in his throat. Bullet holes were scattered all over the wall, with red streaks connecting them.

        "So, a triple homicide and a suicide by the murderer?" John inquired. "No John," Sherlock replied, walking towards a closed door. "Quadruple homicide," he opened the door, "and a homicide of the murderer." A body that was leaning against the door fell out. 

        "But this doesn't make sense. Moriarty's work has always been so... clean."

        "This was definitely Moriarty."

        "How do you know?"

        "John, god damnit look at the bloody wall behind you!"

        John turned and stared at the bullet holes. He began to make out words. Then it hit him in the head like a ton of bricks. "Oh," John mumbled, as he read from the bullet holes and bloodstains on the walls, Did you miss me?

        "John, call Lestrade."

______________________________________________________________________________________

        "Sherlock, you and I both know that Moriarty would've been cleaner than this!" Lestrade quipped. "Lestrade, why do you think Moriarty would do this this way?" Sherlock retorted. "Hell if I know!"

        "HOW DO YOU PEOPLE NOT KNOW THIS!?!?!?!?!" Sherlock shouted. "He's been dead! Out of sight! Nothing! He wants to come back with a bang!" Sherlock stormed to the front door.

        "How do you not see it? Just a normal day for this family when BAM! Moriarty's hitman storms through the door, starts tearing the place to shreds, boss's orders. The family flees to the back room, the hitman comes in, shoots the wife and three kids, the husband grabs a gun, he gets shot down. Then, because Moriarty could not grace this house with his presence, his right-hand man comes in, shoots the assasin, and makes this beautiful work of art on the wall. Moriarty sends the letter, and here we are, and if my calculations are correct, he's distracted us just long enough for-" a gunshot rang though the streets, "-that to happen."

        Lestrade and his crew ran out the door, and Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, losing himself in his mind palace.