Sherlock’s flat was tense, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of unspoken thoughts. He paced the flat back and forth, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his stride. Every step was a calculation, every movement a deliberate effort to suppress the chaos surging within him. John sat in the armchair, his usual calmness shaken, his eyes flickered with concern. Then came the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. Finally. Relief flickered across his mind.

The moment you walked in, Sherlock’s gaze shifted briefly before returning to his feverish pacing. The tension in the room clung to you like a heavy fog, and your instincts told you something was wrong. Before you could speak, Sherlock’s voice sliced through the silence, low and urgent.

"Moriarty is back."

Sherlock finally said as he kept his pace in his flat. His words hung in the air, sharp and accusing, as if the name of Moriarty were a poison he couldn't rid himself of. He stared at you, his gaze cutting through like a blade. The usual sharpness in his eyes had softened just a touch. He stopped pacing, watching your reaction. Predictably, you were stunned. A thousand questions that he doesn't have patience to answer just yet.

"How...?"

You managed to ask. Sherlock didn’t answer directly. His mind was a whirlpool of thoughts—calculating, hypothesizing, and, panicking. He wasn’t the type to panick, but you could see it. The mind behind the madness was back, and Sherlock knew that it wouldn't be long before Moriarty made his movement. That thought rattled him.

"I don't have any idea how he managed to live. But he somehow did."

Sherlock responded and ran a hand through his curls in annoyed manner. He stood still for a moment, his usual composure slipping just enough for you to see the cracks in his defenses. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more troubling than the last one. The game had begun again, and he was already shifting gears, already preparing for whatever maddness Moriarty would unleash next.