4Sherlock didn't sleep that night, he had tried to track Moriarty by his texts but was coming up short. In anger, Sherlock threw his computer, watching it break in half and the letter keys scatter the floor. The clatter resounded throughout the apartment and left an eerie silence in its wake. He didn't worry too much about the damaged electronic, he had two others, one however was John's. John would of had his head if he touched his laptop. He left the broken laptop stay in pieces on the floor and turned back to the desk, Mrs. Hudson would throw a fit and clean it up or force him to do it anyways. There were more pressing thoughts on his mind at the present time than a mess on the floor. He was lucky that the crash didn't arouse John in his bed he shared with Sherlock. Only for the sole reason that there was not room for another bed, of course. John however, seemed very pleased with the situation.
He sat down in thought, going to his mind palace in an act of desperate frustration and away from John. Ideas ran rapidly through Sherlock's mind, names of places, what he knew or Moriarty, what he knew of himself. He looks through the texts between Moriarty and himself again and again, trying to analyze it for clues but, sadly coming up with nothing. He groaned
He stood up in a huff, half past midnight, completely ignoring the table and walks right over it. He grabbed his beloved scarf and walks briskly out of the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson. He would have to apologize to her later, reading by the bags under her tired eyes, she had gotten as much sleep as he. Probably in worry. The woman worries too much, he decided.
"Where are you off to?" she asked, "Where is John? Sherlock what's going on?" She demanded, but once again, getting ignored. He continued to sprint down the stairs and out the door into the cold English night. He got tired very quickly of the cab he had called starts to walk down the slightly crowded street. On his way, nearly to his destination, he happens across one of the members of the "Homeless Network". He couldn't help but let a small smile perk the smallest smile on the corners of his lips when the thought of John making fun of him for the name. Lucky for John, they were much more than a name and could be a lot of help to them both. Perhaps all of England. Saved by the homeless. Also irony, it has been quite common lately, Sherlock concluded and then set his mind on his current task
"Spare Change?" the man asked, his voice gruff from old age.
"Not today." Sherlock answered, passing him a piece of paper with the name Jim Moriarty written on it in his own writing. The man nodded, taking the paper and stuffed it in his coat that was a few sizes too big. Sherlock carried on with his determined walk. It wasn't very often he needed his homeless network as of late, all of his cases had been easy and minor. Moriarty was elusive and slippery, but at least he had some hope with his expansive network and unfortunately one other resource.
He hated to resort to this. But he dialed his brother, Mycroft.
"Sherlock?" he answered in a surprised tone, "What is my pleasure to talk to my mighty little brother?" He laughed and Sherlock sighed into the receiver. He normally wasn't up to deal with his older brother, especially enough to call him, but this was an emergency. While most of his cases were micro-issues, whenever Moriarty was involved the issue turned macro and involved the whole city. For the moment, he could handle his egotistical and holier than thou attitude.
"Moriarty is back," he said simply, wanting to just cut to the chase. There really wasn't anything else he needed to know, it was irrelevant.
"What? Are you sure?" came his brother's response and Sherlock instinctively rolled his eyes. His shoes walked the rain soaked asphalt of the street as he spoke before stepping back onto the concrete from the sidewalk. The grey overcast was ominous and it was as if people knew. The streets of London were completely empty as he stomped through the dwellings of a local neighborhood.
"Of course I'm sure, I'm always sure. Find him," He said quickly, there simply was no time for small talk and useless inquiries. It didn't take him long to be able to give Sherlock some suggestions of places he could be set up. Moriarty was slippery, devious and cunning, but just like any criminal, he was predictable. It was always an abandoned building or warehouse, anywhere that was considered condemned. Sherlock had to think what location would would be more like Moriarty to inhabit for the time being.
Hours later, the sun dipped behind the horizon as he searched buildings himself while he sent some civilians from his homeless network to search as well. He had searched three warehouses at this point and his feet ached in his shoes. A light drizzle fell from the darkening sky, leaving Sherlock's coat damp and a chill that seeped into his bones. His phone was silent and he was surprised that John had not blown up his phone in the meantime, no matter how mad he was at him. Once the first few hours passed, he knew John would start to worry and he was growing concerned. This was very un-John like. Before he could continue to give the idea more thought, he approached the last building he needed to search. This building looked like all of the others, dark, grey, and lifeless. The cracked, crimson, brick glowed with the dying sun. It was odd, the lowering sun was still visible through the sparse ominous clouds that trickled their rain down. He walked passed the broken and rotten metal from the barbed wire fence to get to the equally deplorable door.
On first glance, the inside was bare, covered in cobwebs and reeked of mold. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the gears in Sherlock's head began to turn as he tried to spot anything out of the ordinary about the large and unfortunately empty room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and Sherlock decided to move on. This was the last building he needed to check, there had to be something there. It took nearly another hour of searching the abandoned building and Sherlock was exhausted. He had restlessly spent his day searching into dead ends and he was getting tired of playing Moriarty's game. With a sigh, he leaned against a door, he previously found as locked and was stunned with the entire door gave way under the pressure of his body. The door slammed against the concrete floor causing rust and dust billow around him in clouds, making him choke on the particles that danced around him. Once the debris settled and bruises began to form under Sherlock's skin, a skin crawling voice emerged from the darkness, allowing the hairs on his arms to stand on end and his heart seize in dread.
"Hello Sherlock."