All characters used belong to the BBC, except my OC's. This fanfiction takes place after 'The Sign of Three' and before 'His Last Vow'.

:/:

The consulting detective sat impatiently, tapping his fingers on the plastic surface of the chair that he was ensconced upon. His black trench coat sat on the back of it, falling to the floor. It had been thirty minutes. He had sent five texts, each within minutes of eachother.

In St. Bart's. SH.
1:06

Been a murder, need a consort. SH
1:07

Come if convenient, if inconvenient, come anyway. SH.
1:08

John? SH
1:11

Are you purposely ignoring me, or actually doing something? SH
1:14

The lights were almost blinding, but the room was cold. Well, it had to be, it was a mortuary. St. Bart's Hospital boasted one of the biggest morgues in London, and it was here a Miss. Ana McDonald lay, dead. It was a simple murder really, the young woman had died from asphyxiation. Sherlock could tell as soon as he came through the door. So why was he summoned for this? Surely Scotland Yard had not sank that low, though if they had started employing people like Anderson, it may have been a possibility. Twenty three years of age, he deduced, in an unhappy relationship with a man working abroad, given the remnants of mascara on her cheeks and bloodshot eyes from looking at her phone too much. Obviously she didn't trust him, as she had become jealous, almost obsessive even, so he had cheated before. There was a tanline on her ring finger; she was engaged, but was told by a friend that he had been unfaithful, so she stopped wearing it. Someone from his work... probably.

"I was on my way", said a voice behind the detective. Sherlock didn't bother to turn around; he already knew who it was. "You didn't have to send me five texts".

"You stopped at the pub on the way", Sherlock answered, hands clasped together below his chin. Getting up, he turned around to see Dr. John Watson standing by the doorway. He was dressed in a checkered shirt, jeans and hiking boots, with his hair slightly ruffed. Sighing slightly, knowing he had been caught out, the doctor walked over to the table that held the body of Miss. McDonald.

"So, woman... dead woman", he said, avoiding his friend's deduction. Looking over the corpse, he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, trying to find a deeper meaning to it all, but found none. "Asphyxiation. Probably effect of a heart attack, or condition. This woman died naturally".

"Exactly", Sherlock said, almost hissing. "So why are we here? We solve murders-"

"She dropped dead in public", said a female voice. John spun around and Molly was standing, looking rather timid. Gripping a clipboard in her hand, she fiddled with a Biro in the palm of her hand. "Perfectly normal woman, no signs of any conditions, her family say she had no afflictions".

"What does the autopsy report say?" Sherlock asked, staring down at the deceased woman. In his mind he knew there was nothing wrong with this case; the woman just died, but something told him otherwise. Her face was ashen white, with her dark hair sprawled around her shoulders and neck. Her eyes were wide open, glazed over and icy blue. A small collection of fluid had gathered around her eyelashes, and Sherlock noticed some small papercuts around her knuckles. Office worker, he thought.

"They say she choked to death", Molly said, and pulled her hair away from her face. Sherlock had noted it; she had it down for once. Possibly the effect of a new boyfriend that she thought was out of her league. "There are loads of suspects, Sherlock, she literally died in the middle of the city square".

"What about a heart attack, or something?" Sherlock asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"If she had any sort of fatal attack, there would be some... grace period before she did pass", John replied, and Sherlock started to pace frustratedly, pulling back at his curly hair.

"Poison, then?" he enquired, and Molly shook her head in disagreement.

"There was nothing in her system that could kill her, she didn't die naturally, and she wasn't physically hurt. She's an anomaly. She just... died", Molly explained, watching in slight pity at the genius without an answer.

"It's impossible. I hate it", he huffed. "Did you find anything at all on the body?"

"Well, that's where it kind of gets... complicated", Molly murmured. "This was found in her pocket".

"Oh, oh good", Sherlock exclaimed "Because this isn't frustrating enough". She smiled for a moment, and clipped an evidence bag off her clipboard. Passing it over to him, Sherlock stared down at it with wide eyes. In the bag was a small shred of paper with the words
'Let's play, Mr. Holmes - Moriarty x'

"We'll take the case", Sherlock lilted after a minute staring at the chat of paper. There was a curious look in his eye. He handwriting wasn't of Jim Moriarty's, and he didn't seem the type to leave kisses. So who was it? Who was the other Moriarty?

"Is there even a case to take?" John asked.

"There is now", Sherlock replied, smiling, and flipped the paper around for the doctor to see. John Watson's face was one of absolute horror.

"But...", he stuttered, but didn't finish his sentence. Sherlock already knew what the ending to it would be anyway. James Moriarty was dead. There was no escape, no trick, he blew his own brains out. So how was he taunting him now, even after death? With a quick turn, Sherlock looked over to Molly and grabbed his coat from the chair.
"Right, I need a list of everyone in that square, everyone that saw Ana in her last minutes. This is a murder... definitely. And I'm going to do what I usually do: solve the Hell out of it", the detective quipped with a smile crossing his cheeks. And with that the game was on...