John and Mary returned home safely to their neighbor's 11-year old daughter playing with their son in the living room. The couple thanked the young girl for watching over Daniel as she left the house quietly and went back to her own family. Mary lifted him up and carried him into his room so he could play with his toys without bothering his mother while she began cooking dinner. John put his jacket up in the coat closet and took his phone out of his pocket to call his friend and see if he was alright.
The call dialed out, Sherlock never picked up. John tried again with no luck and gave up, assuming that his friend was either busy or didn't have his phone on him. He took the phone into the office room to connect it to its charger, but being a very caring person, John couldn't just stop wondering whether or not Sherlock was alright. He tapped on the contact name again and held his phone up to his ear, listening to the dial tones and hoping that it would pick up.
"Hello?" A hardly recognizable feminine voice answered.
"Uhm, wh-who is this?" John stuttered, clearly surprised.
"What, don't remember me, John? That's quite rude."
"I know I've heard this voice before, but I can't tag a name to it sorry. Mind helping me with that bit?"
"Let me give you a few hints- you've been to my house, you wanted pictures from me, you think I've been dead for about four-and-a half years now. Ring a bell?"
"Oh. My...God." John said, coming to realization.
"Did you miss me?"
"You're...The woman...Irene...Adler."
"Yes, that is my name."
"Oh, my God. My Go- where's Sherlock?"
"He's safe with me. Actually no, that's a lie- he's not exactly safe."
"What's happening to him? Where is he? Why are you involved? How are you alive? How is Moriarty alive?"
"Relax, darling. I could help you out with all of that bottled up stress. But your friend is where you left him. You can pick him up if you'd like." She purred seductively.
John didn't waste any time and hung up his half-charged phone, then tucked it into his pocket. His quick steps led him into his softly-lit kitchen and he notified Mary about where he was going, quickly planting a kiss on her temple. She looked shocked at her frantic husband, worried about his best friend.
John snatched up his car keys and jumped into his light blue vehicle, driving as quickly as possible, while staying within the speed limit, to St. Bart's Hospital. The streets had a bit of traffic, pissing him off because it was slowing his rescue mission, even if just by a minute or two.
The car was parked on the curb in front of the hospital and John ran out, locking his car while he walked towards the doors of the tall building. His fast-walk sped into a jog to the elevator; a sort-of dèja vú moment from earlier that day. It was still slow as ever in the intense situation, and John's breathing started to become heavy. As soon as the doors opened to the last floor, he ran over to the stairs that would lead him to the roof. He made the door burst open and searched for his friend's face with no such luck at first glance.
"Hello John." Sherlock's voice echoed.
"Where are you?" John asked.
"Look to your left a bit."
John turned and saw his friend almost the same way that he was earlier on that same day- tied up and gagged. He rushed over and took out the gag befote tugging at the ropes that were holding Sherlock back, pausing when a *tsk* noise distracted him. Irene stood, posing in front of the two men, wearing only Sherlock's dark coat and her hair pinned up in a neat updo.
"Hello boys. You look well after four-and-a-half years. And I've got Sherlock just the way I had always imagined." She smiled.
"How could you be alive? Sherlock, you told me she was killed." John turned to face the detective.
"I lied." He murmured.
"He did. I've been occupied. I picked up writing in hopes that you would notice, and you did. How was it? Did you fancy my little story?"
"A few grammar mistakes and over-used words. Mediocre, I'd say." Sherlock remarked.
"Sorry, love, my writing skills are a bit rusty. But part of the plot was given to me, I only wrote about a third of it."
"Who was your instructor then?" Sherlock asked, expecting the name of his enemy.
"Do you really expect me to just tell you who the real writer was? Just like the pictures?"
"No, I had a small bit of hope though."
"Well, I must be going now. Someone's waiting for me to do my job on them." Irene winked and left both of them on the roof.
John turned back to Sherlock, "Mind telling me what happened?"
"Sure, I was just bored and decided to gag and tie myself up. Oh, but before that I called The Woman to come stand over there and bring you up here. Just because I wanted some company." He flashed a sarcastic smile.
John rolled his eyes and peaked over his shoulder at the city behind him. So that's what it looked like when he faked his death, he thought. Well, along with a psychopath and best friend nearby at the same time. It was quite a depressing thing to think about, especially after the damage it caused. Both of the mens' phones went off with notification sounds. A blocked number had sent them the same, simple texts- #moriartylives is trending, (John was the only one able to check though). Meanwhile, the roof door opened, confusing both men and bringing John out of his thought-hurricane clouding over his mind. Sherlock was still mostly-bonded in the back corner of the roof so he had trouble trying to see who the unexpected visitor was.
"Sorry boys, I'm sooooo changeable!"
