Sherlock was sitting in the usual armchair, his chin on his fingers who were steepled under it as he was in thought. Occasionally glancing towards the picture of a certain woman, Irene Adler. She eas dead, the bloodied handkerchief confirmed as much but the feelings, he had tried to ignore, lingered. They would go, he knew that, but they bother him with working on the case. He needed to catch Moriarty and put his villainous practices to an end. He'd avenge Irene and get Watson in safety by doing just that. He was pulled out of his thoughts by a knock on the door