The entire block was taped off for investigation. The lights of the police cars and the ambulance flashed, giving me a bit of a headache. The police wore bright yellow vests and interviewed who I assumed were witnesses. It all looked so regular.
But it wasn't.
I braced myself for the sight as I ducked under the tape and through the car blockade. Instead Philip Anderson stood right in front of me. "John," he said.
"Philip." Sherlock might use his last name, but we'd gotten on a first name basis after that day at St. Bart's.
"I'm so sorry about what happened. All of us at the Yard are. Mary was a good woman."
"She was," I agreed quietly. He appeared to have been tearing up, which made things a bit more challenging for me, considering good portion of my energy was going to stop myself from crying.
He sniffled and looked at Sherlock and nodded. "Holmes."
"Anderson." He nodded back. They regarded each other in stiffness now, since the return, in mutual respect. Then Philip stepped aside.
I saw her, lying face up on the pavement. She was wearing her favorite lilac maternity sweater, a gift from Molly that was now covered in blood, a bullet in forehead, another two in her abdomen.
"L115A3. Sniper rifle. Military," deduced Sherlock, staring at her corpse. "Ankle's twisted; she tripped as she fell. She would've been facing... that way." He knelt closer and looked more closely at the bullet holes. "The angle of entry suggests a shot from..." He stood and pointed, as if following the bullet track with his finger. "That roof." Without another thought my partner dashed into the building. Of course I followed.
He dashed up the stairs, but I took the elevator (It was 17 floors!). I beat him to the top floor, and calmly walked up the stairs to the roof. The second it closed behind me, he burst through the door, breathing hard.
We stood facing an old blank television on a modest wooden stand. The rest of the roof was entirely clear, except for a sleeping homeless man in the corner, who was rocking back and forth muttering something under his breath.
I went to him. I could barely understand the words he was whispering. "Mori-Mori-Mori-"
Loud static emitted from the tv. I whirled around. Sherlock was glaring at the telly.
The homeless man's voice crescendo-ed in volume. "Mori-Mori-MoRI-MORI-MORI-"
"Hello Sherlock," a voice cooed from the set. John would know that high-pitched crazy tone everywhere.
"MORIARTY!" yelled the homeless man.
"Did you miss me?"
"No. I did not," Sherlock replied flatly.
The homeless man resumed muttering as I walked back over by Sherlock. Facing us through the screen was none other than the devil himself: Jim Moriarty. "Come now, Sherry, you've got to admit that in your heart, you did."
"Wait- can he hear us?" I asked.
"No no, Johnny boy. I can't. You two are soooooooo predictable though. Your Mary was a bit harder to figure out. It took a while to figure out her patterns. She takes twelve different routes to work everyday, you know. I just happened to figure out the one for today." He smirked. More than anything I wanted to punch through the TV screen, drag him out by the collar, and strangle him with my bare hands. "I'm sorry she died though. Truly. Deeply. Sincerely. She was rather interesting. However, there were certain variables that had to be considered. The Game is terribly complex, and we can't have a baby distracting the most important player, can we, Sherl?"
I looked over to Sherlock, who's face was a stone wall of contained fury.
"Oh ho ho ho. You pretend to be a heartless bastard, when that's quite the opposite. You do have a heart, and now it's exposed." He turned sing-song. "And IIII'm going to burn it."
Whatever camera was on Moriarty panned out, and he began pacing across the screen. "Now here's what we're going to do Sherlock, we're going to play games. If you don't play along, or maybe I just get bored, I will kill the three people."
"The three people? What is he talking about?" asked John.
"Oh John. That day when Sherlock jumped, there were three people he defended in doing so. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. You." Moriarty laughed, a quiet chuckle that turned into a maniacal howl. "I'm going to wait a while, but Mr. Holmes, the Game is most definitely on. Chao."
The screen blinked off. Before I could stop him, he walked over and punched the TV screen. It shattered, and glass cut up his hand. He shook it and stared at it for a moment, then righted himself. "Start searching the roof. He might be clean, but no one is completely trail-less."
"Your hand!"
"I'm fine."
"You are not. I'm taking you inside for a moment. We're going to wrap it up at least and get the Yard up here."
"But Jo-"
"NOW, Sherlock." I grabbed his uninjured hand and pulled him back inside. I shot a quick text to Lestrade off of his phone.
Rooftop. Bring bandages. Don't bring Anderson or Sally. Sherlock doesn't need the stress.
He was back. I couldn't believe it. Dear God.
