AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting so long for this chapter and I'm very appreciative of your patience. Time between chapters will definitely not be nearly this long in the future.

Additionally, I apologize for all the editing I've done to this chapter after uploading it. I always have lots of technical difficulties with uploading so I have to proofread prior to updating.

Back at the flat, John had hardly removed his coat before a flustered Mrs. Hudson bustled up to him, looking anxious yet composed. She rambled on about how worried she had been when she woke up and he wasn't around and the call she received from Lestrade, all whilst fussing over his hair and clothing unnecessarily in an attempt to remain poised.

"I'm fine, alright?" John interrupted, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Really," he added with a small smile. A troubled expression crossed Mrs. Hudson's face, but she nodded and sighed.

"I'm going out," she said finally, "to…see for myself." John didn't really favor the idea, but he returned the nod and kissed her cheek before stepping out of the doorway. He removed his shoes and tossed them to the side, but as he climbed the stairs Mrs. Hudson summoned him back.

"Just a moment, John!" she called after him, pulling on an overcoat, "There was a letter for you this morning. Not sure when it showed up, really…I left it on the server." John turned around and descended the stairs again, eying the envelope on the small table near the door.

"I'll be back in an hour, Dear," Mrs. Hudson said, tightening the knot in her scarf as she stepped outside, "Have something to eat!" John grunted in acknowledgement and studied the envelope as the door clicked shut. He picked it up, noting a small item sliding around inside. Brow furrowed, he flipped it over and read the back. Dr. John Watson. He stared at the neat, unfamiliar penmanship in frustration. No return address, no name. He scaled the stairs once more and removed his coat, dropping it onto the back of his armchair. He had left the flat fifteen minutes or so after three that morning; it was now just past seven. Post is never delivered this early, he thought. Then again, nowhere on the envelope had 221B Baker Street been written, so he assumed it had been delivered by hand.

Suddenly, he was aware of how very exhausted he felt. He looked up from the envelope in confusion, and his eyes lingered on the far wall where a yellow, painted face smiled back at him mockingly. He stared at the haunting grin, puzzled, and the image of Sherlock's graffiti-covered gravestone flashed behind his eyes. Sitting down wearily in the chair, he dropped the envelope in his lap and rubbed his face, feeling both physically and emotionally racked; although he couldn't decide which idea was most overwhelming: the possibility that Sherlock could be alive…or the fear that Moriarty was still out there, watching John squirm.

Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. The most dangerous men John Watson would ever meet.

He shook his head and sighed, picking up the envelope and examining it once more before tentatively sliding his thumb under the flap. It came up cleanly; taking a breath, he unfolded the paper and peered inside.

Perhaps he was relieved, but the curious contents of the envelope were not at all what John had expected (although, he supposed, he hadn't known what to expect at all). Tipping the opened envelope forward, a small, metallic key slid into the palm of his open hand. Pinching it between his fingertips, he held it up to his face, squinting at it inquisitively. It was rather plain—silver with a symmetrical, double-serrated edge. He frowned and placed the key carefully on the arm of the chair, then looked back inside the envelope. All that remained was a small slip of paper, neatly folded—but too small to be a letter. As John retrieved it from the envelope and unfolded it, a chill shivered through him and he found himself staring at three short lines of neatly penned text, signed with the all-too-familiar initials.

I don't suppose you fancy hide-and-go-seek…do you, John?

Ready or not, here I come!

-JM

P.S—What's in a name?

The seemingly interminable silence was only interrupted by the tinny ringing of his mobile, which he had left in his coat pocket. He shuddered and swallowed arbitrarily, then reached around to the back of the chair and felt his way into the pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen for a moment, where "CALL FROM MOLLY H." flashed in little white letters, before punching the small receiving button with his thumb.

"Molly," He said, trying to keep his voice level.

"John," she replied promptly, "I need you to stop by Bart's today." Her words were hushed and clipped. John hesitated, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue in confusion.

"Uh…yeah, okay," he said finally, standing up. "When?"

"Soon as you can," she mumbled. "We need to talk. Look, I've gotta go. Stop by, alright?" With that she hung up abruptly, and John was left alone with the monotone buzz of the dead receiver. He ended the curt call and stuffed his phone into the pocket of his jeans. For a long time, he stared at the letter, reading it over and over again with no company aside from the oblivious hum of the city outside his flat.

What's in a name?

Why did Molly want to talk? She probably still felt troubled by the events of the morning—John didn't blame her. He felt a headache coming on as he pulled his coat and descended to stairs to the entryway; stepping outside once more onto Baker Street, he accepted that this was going to be a very long day.