Lost and found
"Seriously, Holmes, please, stop numbing yourself with the awful thing!" Watson sighed as Sherlock Holmes adjusted the needle of his cocaine syringe.
"Watson, have you ever being denied clients for a week? For once every month I would be wondering. Have you ever felt empty before?" Holmes asked, lying back in his chair, closing his eyes.
Watson regarded his friend with close attention.
"Because I have an extremely bad feeling that something is going to happen, and to put it more precise, a tragedy," Holmes muttered. Watson put down his book.
"Holmes! I have always known you as a practical man, how could you trust your senses without a more….ahh, well, solid evidence?" Watson asked, surprised.
"I have being through a train of thoughts, Watson. Moriaty may be dead, but there are thousands of who are willing to carry on with what he had so far achieved. Just look at what is happening in the streets nowadays! Robbery, burglary, and even murders! Those are done by the Moriaty-want-to-be, sadly, they are after more than just money and 'fame', Watson," Holmes sighed, his hands balled into fists.
"What are they after?" Watson asked.
"Me," Holmes said simply, "but not just me, Watson. Given the chance they would be so delighted to finish off Mycroft too, just as a little treat for themselves," Holmes said, his eyes opened, staring at the ceiling.
"Don't you think it would be more appropriate to warn Mycroft about this? I mean, if there are really people who are after your family, it would be better if you give them a warning first before they go out into the street unarmed?"
"Seriously, Watson, your ways of thoughts are weird, no insults, old fellow."
Watson rolled his eyes. Holmes had just proved to be impossible.
They sat silently, and then the door-bell rang.