The Mystery of the unsolicited postcards: Solution Four
A/N: Just a reminder that I am actually receiving these postcards, not writing them. I have to decode them first and sometimes I make mistakes. If your solution doesn't match up with mine please post it.
A dead terrorist in Cumbria a warehouse fire in Bastia, now the arrest of a human trafficking ring in Essaouira. He hadn't yet figured out what had happened in Colchester, but there was no longer any doubt in his mind that all of these events were linked. Someone wanted him to know.
By the time the most recent postcard arrived, he had enough of an idea of what to Google for. It only took a few moments, almost as if the postcard were acting as a trail for him to follow, like bread crumbs in a forest.
Moriarty.
It was stupid that he hadn't realised earlier. No doubt, had he been there, Sherlock would've called him an idiot for being so slow, that it was obvious. But he wasn't Sherlock Holmes - no one was anymore - so he would have to do, slowness and all.
For the first time in months he found himself engaging once more with the rest of the world. Even if it was only briefly, he now had something to occupy him, something to anticipate, to focus on. He read the newspapers again, he searched the internet, he listened to news, and he talked to people.
For the first time in months, each new day didn't feel so bad.
A dead terrorist in Cumbria a warehouse fire in Bastia, now the arrest of a human trafficking ring in Essaouira. He hadn't yet figured out what had happened in Colchester, but there was no longer any doubt in his mind that all of these events were linked. Someone wanted him to know.
By the time the most recent postcard arrived, he had enough of an idea of what to Google for. It only took a few moments, almost as if the postcard were acting as a trail for him to follow, like bread crumbs in a forest.
Moriarty.
It was stupid that he hadn't realised earlier. No doubt, had he been there, Sherlock would've called him an idiot for being so slow, that it was obvious. But he wasn't Sherlock Holmes - no one was anymore - so he would have to do, slowness and all.
For the first time in months he found himself engaging once more with the rest of the world. Even if it was only briefly, he now had something to occupy him, something to anticipate, to focus on. He read the newspapers again, he searched the internet, he listened to news, and he talked to people.
For the first time in months, each new day didn't feel so bad.