Death of a Different Color

Prologue

Dr. John Watson closed the door of his flat behind him, and he wandered through the sitting room towards the kitchen, shrugging his coat off as he went. He filled the kettle with water and turned it on, moving back to the sitting room to hang his coat on the wall by the door. He stepped towards the sofa and collapsed onto it, exhausted from a day of runny noses, sprained ankles and stomachaches. He glanced around the rom and found himself once again in the position of not being able to relax. No matter what he tried, this place still did not feel like home. It had been eight months since he had moved into this flat, but there was just something about it that didn't feel right.

Because it's not 221B, his mind suggested, and he closed his eyes because he knew it was true.

John had spent only twenty-one months—not even two years!—living at 221B Baker Street, and it felt more like home than even his childhood home—a place he had lived in for eighteen years. And his mind was having a more difficult time than it should moving on. It was no mystery why: Sherlock. Instead of being able to depart on amiable terms (or not depart at all), Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. Aside from tearing his best friend away from him, this action had left a hole in John's life, one that kept drawing him back any way that it could.

Four months after Sherlock's death, John hadn't been able to live in Baker Street anymore, and he had moved out. Now, a year after losing Sherlock, the detective's presence still pulled at him, refusing to let him move on. Perhaps it was the fact that Moriarty still hadn't been found. The criminal mastermind had brought the consulting detective to his grave and was still walking free. John would go after the man himself, but he needed Sherlock Holmes to even find him, and, well…

The kettle went off, and John got to his feet, putting his cup of tea together. Settling at the dining table, he opened a book and tried to relax as much as he could. It didn't last long. No sooner had he finished the first page of a chapter than his phone's text alert chimed. Sighing in resignation, John stood and went to fetch his phone, activating it to check his text messages.

There is a car waiting outside for you.

Mycroft Holmes

John rolled his eyes and moved over to his sitting room window. Sure enough, a black car sat on the pavement of the street below. John shook his head. He really did not want to talk to Mycroft. He still had not completely forgiven him for betraying Sherlock by giving his life story to Moriarty.

His phone chimed with another text.

It's about Sherlock. You need to hear this.

John stared at his phone another moment before gritting his teeth. "Damn it!" He turned, grabbed his coat from the wall and headed out the door.

John stepped into the room that the driver motioned him into and looked around. It was an abandoned hospital, and he was standing in the morgue. John shook his head at Mycroft's habit of evading Sherlock's notice with obscure meeting places.

The door across from him opened, and Mycroft Holmes stepped in, narrowing his eyes at John. "Dr. Watson."

John stepped towards him. "Is this really necessary, Mycroft? It's not like Sherlock's here to follow me anymore."

Mycroft frowned slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"Look, I'm here, all right?" said John, trying to keep his tone even. "What do you need to tell me?"

The frown disappeared as Mycroft's eyes grew concerned. "Oh, dear…"

"What?" asked John.

Mycroft fixed his gaze on John. "I was under the impression that you had called this meeting."

John stared at him for a moment, his senses becoming alert as he began to understand. "I texted you?"

"Apparently not," said Mycroft, glancing around the room.

"Well, if we didn't text each other, then who did?" said John.

"I did."

John glanced over to see a ghost walking into the room: Irene Adler. John turned more towards her, stunned. "You…"

"Oh, don't look so shocked, Dr. Watson," said Irene as she came to a stop some distance from them. "I have faked my death before."

"You told me she was dead," John addressed to Mycroft.

"She was supposed to be," replied Mycroft, "but, apparently, my brother saw fit to ensure she wasn't."

"And I'm forever grateful," said Irene, "which is why I'm here."

"And why's that?" asked John.

"I've found Moriarty's network," said Irene.

Mycroft shook his head. "Impossible. My people have been searching for a year and haven't found anything. Moriarty has vanished."

"That's because James Moriarty is dead," said Irene. "He ate a bullet that day on St. Bart's roof."

John frowned over at Mycroft. "Then why didn't you find his body?"

"Moriarty's people took it," said Irene, looking over at Mycroft, "to fool you."

Mycroft frowned. "Fool me?"

Irene took a few steps closer to them. "When I discovered that Moriarty's network had set up an installation, I worked my way inside. What I found in the basement was…unexpected."

Intrigued despite himself, John replied, "What did you find?"

"It seems that Sherlock Holmes and I have something in common." Irene paused for a moment, very obviously relishing the drama of the moment. "We're both still alive."