*The Spare Holmes*
"It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to ﬁll. My hand has been forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred."
- J.H Watson (The Final Problem)
"I don't understand this."
Sherlock spat crossly as he threw the remote control of the telly down the couch with a look of complete annoyance reflected on his face. "This broadcast when he's clearly dead. Absolutely dead. Is it to terrify people or simply annoy me? Very remarkable."
"Remarkable?I thought you said you didn't understand it?" John threw him a look as he sat on his chair with elbows on the armchair, "Hang on—are you really sober enough for this? Not still OD'd are you?"
"Don't start and get over it." The detective snapped as he leaned back, a curt frown appearing on his face, "I'm sober as sober goes and nothing in the world can make it so than seeing that face again."
Both men facing the telly looked up where a paused televised of Jim Moriarty's face that appeared around London simultaneously three days ago stared back at them with dead eyes.
"You're dead." Sherlock muttered to the man looking down at him, "So who are you?"
John was quiet too. Then went on, "You told me you went off and finished his inner circles while you were pretending to be dead. You sure you got all of them?"
"There's that one, Colonel Sebastian—"
"The bloke from the army—" the doctor added—
"But Mycroft's been keeping a tab of him and my brother wouldn't shut up if Sebastian comes anywhere near here. There's silence in 221B thus... shouldn't be any problem. No, this singular case is unique... just like all of Moriarty's schemes... bad it's a bad joke, John. Somebody knew Moriarty... out there in the free world I thought I rid of him."
"It's worst," the doctor narrowed his eyes too, "what kind of sick lunatic would even dare do this now? After all these years?" He shot his friend a look of alarm. "You don't think whoever it is will come for you, do you?"
"Out of question, let them come." Sherlock shrugged his shoulder and put both fingers together. "That should make our search short."
He grinned while John rolled his eyes.
"You're always serious-"
"Enough jokes! Sherlock, whoever this bloody person is they will target you! You brought Moriarty down we don't need anyone to tell us their next target is you!"
Sherlock's eyes sparkled in excitement as John said this, making the doctor close his eyes and shake his head in exasperation.
"Just how many deaths do you want to experience?" he said bitterly when they heard the bell ring from below and Mrs. Hudson answering, "It's not, don't take this one lightly, Sherlock. I know you... you need help, you call me, understand?"
"That's why you're here in the first place isn't it?" the detective threw back at him with a raised eyebrow, "You think I'd go anywhere without my Boswell?" he grinned again. John smiled a little but with that reprimanding look in his face.
"Where's Mycroft anyway?" he asked after a while, "He's the person who should know what's going on."
"Walking around the Parliament most likely—no wait—we're lucky if he even moves, he's so lazy." Sherlock waved the question away, "Been trying to get hold of him but he shuns each call."
"Shun you, why would he shun you? He knows you need his help—"
"I don't need his help. He offers it. Got plenty of time in his hands, my brother." The detective corrected with an uncomfortable look, making John heave a sigh once again. "He's busy being CIA again, I concluded."
"You're being nasty, you know that," John went on, "Stop looking at your brother like he doesn't care at all—each time I see him he's always been the caring sort. What do you got against the guy?"
"Oh, now so you're defending him?"
"I'm telling you what you already know and still refuse to see!"
"Obviously you're blinded—"
"Go have your eyes check, Sherlock, Jesus."
"Are you two boys quite done yet?" Mrs. Hudson's voice suddenly called from the doorway where she stood looking mildly dreamy, "I can hear you all the way downstairs, you know. If the neighbours—"
"We don't have neighbours." Sherlock corrected again with eyes locking with John who looked back determinedly. "Thanks to dear brother Mycroft."
"Mycroft eh?" Mrs. Hudson strolled inside and straight to her two tenants, "I haven't seen him in a while, is he going to drop by any time soon?" she stopped beside Sherlock's chair and handed him a small box the size of a palm wrapped in blue paper.
"I wouldn't count on that. What's this?" the detective frowned at the blue parcel passed to him.
"The mail man delivered it just now." the landlady said, with a blink while the man shook it and even smelt it. "Said it was for you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There's no return address."
"Sherlock," John said carefully with eyes on the parcel, "You... might want to be careful with that?"
"Clearly." Sherlock's frown deepened as he raised his eyebrows and started removing the wrap, revealing an ordinary box with a lid inside. "Any chance it's a bomb or aerial virus?"
Mrs. Hudson took step backwards while John sat up straight, making Sherlock smirk and take the lid off.
And Mrs. Hudson gave a loud gasp and cried away in dismay and disappointment, leaving the two thunderstruck at the content—a finger. John having been accustomed to such stood up and went near Sherlock who, at the same time, stood up too looking as if he was in a trance.
"No..." he muttered. "No..."
"My god," the doctor muttered, "a finger? Why would anyone send you a fing—? Wait—Sherlock!"
For Sherlock Holmes had suddenly decided to tear his way down the stairs in his hurry, almost knocking over Mrs. Hudson who was at the foot of the stairs—
"Why do you just panic now? It's a human finger- oh!" she called after him in dismay as the man bolted open the door and looked from left to right and up and down the street wildly with John at his heels.
"Dammit!" the dark haired man cursed as he paced up and down the pavement, looking pale and angry for reasons John couldn't comprehend except for the finger still held in the detective's hand.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" the doctor grabbed his friend by the arm and tried to make him stay foot, "Hey—hey! Do—do you recognise whose finger that is? Sherlock!"
"It's his ring! It's Mycroft's ring!" came the stricken reply, "Mycroft—!"
And sure enough the memory of Mycroft's ring finger flashed in the doctor's mind that made him turn as pale as his friend for Sherlock couldn't be wrong about this lone reference to his older brother. After all, Mycroft invades half of Sherlock's mind palace!
"Jesus..." John breathed.
~To be Continued~
A/N: We all have different ideas of the mastermind behind that cheeky faces of Jim around London ;)
This is one version. And oh-so-love-canon xD
Thanks for reading!