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Summary
As always, what Sherlock knows is what he can see. And he sees—wait, hears—
Startled, seething whispers on the catwalks above them, a susurrus of panic. Whistle-swift silenced gunshots as one by one the tremulous dots of red sway into blue-laved oblivion and vanish. Disbelief on Moriarty's sallow face as familiar footfalls echo down, spiraling around them in the hushed, humid chamber. Still more disbelief, rat-nose knit to hateful brows as the bright-eyed demons resurrect, legion, in between them.
All of this in less space than it takes Sherlock to meet John's wide, haunted eyes.