Disclaimer: I don't own anything here besides the storyline, which includes anything that did not happen in the movie. Any characters mentioned that I have not created myself do not belong to me.

Chapter One

Disavowed

Time: Present (12:15)

Must he always interfere? That's a ridiculous question; it's his job to interfere. It seems he'll be eating alone tonight.

Due to Sherlock's blatant obstructions of my plans, the professor would think me invaluable. Of course, I'd failed him. I looked around the almost empty restaurant and saw The Professor's minions looking back at me. Their faces stuck in a cold sneer, only I could see how scared they were.

Whether or not they agreed with The Professor was irrelevant. Everyone who worked for him was there because they owed him a debt, and the fear of going against him outweighed everything else. His eyes are everywhere and there isn't an escape. Once you're in, you can't get out. As I sit here, I can't help but think that this is completely, entirely, his fault. As always, he has to interfere with not only my plans, but more importantly, the plans I've been assigned.

But please, don't think me foolish. Once I had failed my mission, I knew The Professor would think me invaluable, and I knew attempting to change his mind would never work. It has never worked and never will work for anybody. So I've planned accordingly.

I smiled as a scared looking waiter arrived to serve the goons. As I expected, a separate waiter served me my "tea". I take a large sip, but I don't swallow. It smells like almonds. Cyanide. I half-listen to Moriarty speak, and instead watch his goons. I almost pity them. At this point in the game, any of us could be getting played, and you won't know it until you've made your last move. Except for me. I'm definitely the one getting played right now.

Normally, my plans rely less on chance and more on guns and knives. I definitely prefer it that way. Perhaps my waiter put in too much, and the effects will begin sooner than anticipated. Perhaps my waiter didn't put in enough, and the effects will start too late. Perhaps, I was out-bid, and my waiter didn't put in any at all. But there was no use worrying about it now, there wasn't anything I could do except wait.

"I no longer require your services."

He must think me very stupid, I think to myself as I stand. His arrogance is his undoing. Of course he would never have dreamed a woman could have so easily outsmarted him. I've poisoned enough people in my life to know what it looks like. It's time to put my acting skills to the test.

I stand, doing my best to appear weak and fragile. As I walk towards the exit, I begin to convulse. I take my handkerchief up to my lips, and spit out the poisoned tea. It is red, with just the right shade of brown. I lean on a table and risk a glance at Moriarty's servile followers. They are disgusted, and keep glancing my way, and quickly looking away. Moriarty is not looking at me, the prime example of tranquility. It seems I am doing an adequate job of faking my death.

I fall to the floor, shaking and spluttering like a fish out of water. Then I still. With my ear that is pressed to the floor, I sense the thumping of one heavy-set man walking towards me, and then a lighter one at a quicker pace. I slow my breathing as I am picked up. I smile, inwardly of course, as I feel the smaller of the two men sweating but shaking only slightly, and the larger starting to sweat. It seems my waiter followed my instructions perfectly. As the men carry me out the back door of the restaurant, their condition worsens. Their effort to conceal it is admirable; they make it much farther than most, likely out of the fear of failure. I almost pity them. Fear is something I know better than like to let on.

Just as they lift me into a carriage, the two men start to shake, just as I did. This, however, will not kill them. It simply knocks them out for a few hours. It's something I've concocted from some of Dr. Watson's medical supplies I've "borrowed".

I stood and fixed my hair. Then I bent down near the two men. They were absolutely delusional; to them, it was not the least bit suspicious that a dead woman was stealing their wallets. I kissed each of them on their sweaty cheeks, and exited the alleyway. I need to find a place to lay low for a while.

Time: One Hour Ago

Being the ex-wife of a politician meant you knew one or two things about certain people, and that information would usually get you behind otherwise closed doors. I make my way to the head Chef, remind him of a certain woman down in Southampton who is simply dying to see him and his beautiful wife, and just like that, I have full access to the kitchen.

I seriously doubt I can match whatever offer the professor has put up, and I'm sure one of his own goons will be serving me anyways. There's also no doubting he would smell it in his own tea, so I opt to bribe one of the other waiters to serve each of Moriarty's goons my own poison.

Despite Sherlock's belief, I am not trying to kill him when I poison him. I am simply getting him out of the way for a few hours to do whatever it is I need to do. If that involves leaving him handcuffed to a hotel bed in the nude, so be it. It's his own fault for interfering, and I think he knows that. That's exactly what I'm going to do to Moriarty's goons. Not the hotel room part, of course. I just hope Watson doesn't start locking up his medicine cabinet. It's so much more convenient than going to an actual hospital to steal, and there's better company.

I make my way into the kitchen, and wait for a waiter to enter. I get many peculiar looks from the crew. They aren't accustomed to visitors in the kitchen, so I stand to the side and blend in with the scenery. It takes about five minutes, but a waiter does come in. He's small, fidgety, and doesn't look like the kind of person who could pull off what I need. Time isn't on my side, and I wouldn't count on my luck, so he's better than nothing.

"Excuse me, Sir? Would you mind helping me with something?" I ask with a flirtatious edge to my voice. I flash a bright smile, bat my eye-lashes, and the poor boy is done for. He only nods; gaping at me with wide eyes. "Would you mind?" I gesture towards the hall, away from prying eyes and nosy ears.

"Of course, miss…?"

"Wilson. Nellie Wilson." My personal favorite, of my many aliases.

"Right this way, Miss Wilson."

We walk down a hall, towards a door that obviously opens to a pantry, by the size of it.

"What is it you need help with, Madam?" A smile spreading across his face, but unfortunately for him, my coy attitude is long gone. Grabbing him by his shirt, I kick open the pantry door, and push him against a wall. Some jars filled with spices fall from the shelf, and clatter to the floor. It creates quite the mess. I take the knife I always keep on my person, and trace the collar of his shirt, popping off buttons as I go. It has the desired effect; this man is absolutely terrified. My face is inches away from his, and I begin to speak in a harsh whisper.

"In a half hour, three men will order tea for four. They will be expecting a female guest, and will have reservations for four separate tables. Put a teaspoon each of this," I hold up a vial. "In their drinks, but only the two youngest of the group. Do not, and I repeat, do not," I jerk the knife upward towards his chin. He flinches. "Put this in the eldest man's drink."

When he speaks, his voice drips of incredulity and disbelief. "And why the bloody hell would I do this?" I smile sweetly.

"Because I'll kill you if you don't. I couldn't have you telling anyone about our little discussion, could I?" I trace his jawline with the tip of my blade. "Do we understand each other? Because I know exactly where to find you if there is any…confusion."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good." I give him a sly smile and hand him the vile and a small piece of paper. For good measure, I grab his wallet. "Insurance." I shrug innocently.

I back away, place a kiss on his cheek, leaving a red stain, and loosen his collar. I make sure he doesn't make any unanticipated detours on the way back to the kitchen, and I make my way out of the restaurant.

Time: 12:00

"Any Refreshments, sir?" My nervous waiter asks.

"Black tea will be just fine." Instead of looking the waiter in the eye, he opts at staring at me instead. He's one of the most conspicuous spies have ever laid eyes on, but I'm not supposed to know he's here. I pretend not to notice him, as I need to portray a foolish, ignorant, and scared woman.

He sits down at exactly Twelve o'clock, for he is nothing if not precise. I watch as my waiter serves the goons sitting adjacent to me, and I smile as they greedily drink down their poison.

I hear him begin talking, and I answer robotically. He begins to hint at my inevitable death, and I implore that I may still be of some use to him. I mention Sherlock minimally, secretly hoping he's off the radar, but I doubt it. Sherlock has a rather unfortunate habit of overestimating his abilities. I try sound more and more desperate as we continue talking. Soon, all of the people in the room have exited, aside from Moriarty, his goons, and myself.

The words I've been anticipating roll off of his tongue with relative ease. He must have said it so many times before.

"I no longer require your services."