It’s been two years since the whole thing happened. Two years since Jim Moriarty ‘killed’ himself by shoving the gun to his mouth at the rooftop of St. Bart. To everyone who’s directly or indirectly involved in this whole saga — they ought to feel that the victory is in their grasp. ‘The Napoleon of Crime is DEAD!’ was featured on the front page of a newspaper. Many civilians were so happy that the Irish pest is now gone for good.

How foolish of them to think that they had won. No. This is just a fresh start that Jim had devised years ago.

During those two years when he faked his death, he’d been working silently from behind and his only goal is to bring down his arch nemesis, Sherlock Holmes. During those times however, Sherlock — who also faked his death — worked diligently to dismantle Jim’s legacy. Jim could only watch in exasperation when Sherlock ripped his empire, one by one. Jim couldn’t interfere — no, he ought to stay dead, remember? And so, Jim just let Sherlock destroyed what he had built to ashes, watching him from the shadows in anger.

That is until one fine day, Jim decided to make his presence known to the one and only consulting detective in the world. Dressed in his luxurious Westwood suit, he strided upstairs to 221B elegantly as if he owned the place. From the intel that he had received, Sherlock is now living back in this cozy flat. The word ‘cozy’ is probably the nicest way that Jim could say to describe the flat. A couple of seconds went by and for a moment, Jim felt a bit hesitant about this whole thing. Is it too late for him to get out from this building?

Alas, he knocks on the door, waiting for the great Sherlock Holmes to open the door.

“Did you miss me?” Jim asks lazily with his signature grin.