"Well, it's obvious what's going to happen, isn't it? Clearly the villain figure in this 'classic' adaptation from a quite frankly ridiculous book is going to be the character that we've all grown to trust, who's using the very obviously mislead man who's clearly only here to detract attention from the actual villain. So it's got to be-"

Thwump.

The union jack patterned cushion hit Sherlock squarely in the face.

"Sherlock, when you listed what you considered to be the worst about you when we first met in Bart's, you should have included you're infuriating habit of deducing, and then revealing the plots to films before I actually get to watch them."

John crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

It was just another night at 221B Baker Street. John and Sherlock had recently got into a routine where John addressed the obvious gaps in Sherlock's cultural knowledge by introducing him to films and music that John thought he ought to know. It had started with John's collection of Bond films, which he was very proud to say was complete. Sherlock had deemed each and every one of these 'dull and predictable'. John had then moved onto try Monty Python, which Sherlock dubbed 'idiotic and plain ridiculous'.

It had gone on like this, no matter what John tried. From Lord Of The Rings - "good God, people actually enjoy this kind of thing? - to The Godfather - "and this is a 'classic'? - Pulp Fiction - "boring. John, I'm bored" - and even Forrest Gump - "honestly John, your attempt to 'educate me' is quite frankly, embarrassing".

John was now trying his luck with The Davinci Code and, surprise surprise, Sherlock was not impressed, hence the plot deducing and subsequent pillow to the face. That sat on either end of the sofa, John with his feet firmly on the floor whilst Sherlock tucked his feet under his legs. John's left arm rested comfortably on the arm of the sofa, with his right lying along the back, having just used it to smash the cushion as hard as he saw fit into the lanky, curly haired genius's face.

Despite all of this, John enjoyed the domesticity that seemed to have settled itself over Baker Street. He probably shouldn't have, all things considered, but he did.

It had been over two years since his and Mary's divorce, giving John plenty of time to get over his heartbreak and betrayal which occurred the minute he heard her confess to shooting Sherlock. Mary had been important, and John had loved her dearly. But Sherlock had come first, he always had, and probably always would. Shooting him, causing him to flat-line, forcing him to struggle against his own body for his life, and leave months of agony afterwards, it had crossed a line. There had never been a hope of forgiveness. John had stayed with her, but the resentment had always been there. It was only a matter of time until their marriage broke down. If he was honest, it was only sheer stubbornness that made it last as long as it did.

Their daughter, Olivia, had gone with Mary after they split. John didn't try to deny Mary the right to custody. John still got regular updates about Olivia and Mary's welfare. And they visited every other weekend, giving John plenty of time to bond with and get to know his beautiful daughter. Olivia had inherited her mother's blonde hair, John's blue eyes and also his nose. To them, she was utterly perfect, and the fact that they were no longer married did not find them with differentiating opinions of their daughter. Olivia was perfect, end of argument. She was coming up to three years old and was obsessed with all things pink.

Olivia also seemed quite taken with Sherlock. She was fascinated by his work, and giggled gleefully whenever he behaved as if he was also three years old. She often accompanied sherlock and himself to the less dangerous crime scenes. The yarders were used to the unusual arrangement now, and were constantly cooing over his beautiful little girl. She seemed to have Anderson and Donovan wrapped around her little finger, which Sherlock had told her on the way back in the cab as she sat on his lap that it would come in very useful, even encouraging her. He's planted a kiss on the top of her head after she smiled up at him with a look of complete adoration. Sherlock was obviously just as smitten with Olivia as she was with him. It was adorable.

It was a good life. Not perfect by a long shot, but John was happy, Sherlock was happy, Mary (John assumed) was happy, and Olivia was growing to be the most spoiled child in Britain.

Not a lot could interrupt John's continuous state of contentment - which, when asked to describe, John would say felt like a warm ray of sunshine that never disappeared behind any clouds - except, maybe, one thing.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's expression was sour enough to curdle milk. Clearly he had not been expecting such a hostile reception, especially from his own baby brother. But John sympathised with Sherlock's irritation. Mycroft had interrupted what had been a calm, relaxed evening (minus the cushion incident), which John had been enjoying until Mycroft strolled into the living room as if he owned it, as he so often did.

There was only one difference from Mycroft's regular visits. He was not alone. Of course, it was not unusual for Mycroft to be accompanied on his visits to Baker Street as he often had Anthea with him. But the young lady who had entered the room behind him was certainly not his usual assistant.

She was petite - short, not yet as tall as John, with a thin waist and small, yet defined hips. She was very smartly dressed, it a black shift dress that was bought in at her waist, further exaggerating her hips. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulders, revealing her toned arms. Her skin was pale, nearly translucent, except the barely noticeable pink flush cresting her well defined cheekbones. Her hair was red, but a deep mahogany red, which was scraped up into a neat bun at the back of her head, but this did not hide the mess of curls that she was obviously trying to contain. If it was not obvious by the stands of curry hair that had broken fee of the hairstyle, then it was the small curl that rested artistically along the curve her right cheek, which she tucked behind her ear with her delicate fingers - perfectly manicured, of course. Her eyes were a sparkling pale green, which looked familiar, and yet John could not put his finger on where he had seen such a striking colour before. In her hands lay the customary blackberry phone which accompanied each and every one of Mycroft's assistants. At the moment, it was simply resting in her hands, as her eyes swept the room, seeming to take in every detail that she was able to about her surroundings. At least this young woman had the good manners to actually pay attention to what was happening around her, rather than diverting her whole attention to the small device in her hands - a habit that was regularly indulged by Anthea

What struck John the most was how young she seemed to be. She could not have been any older than seventeen years old, which made John wonder: what on earth was so special about this girl that made Mycroft hire her at such a young age.

"Am I not allowed to simply enquire after my dear younger brother?" Mycroft's voice was full of the same patronising smugness that he seemed to radiate every time he walked into a room. He chose to sit in John's old, and yet infinitely comfortable armchair without waiting to be asked, and turned back so he could view the consulting detective and the former army doctor, neither of whom had moved an inch, accustomed to Mycroft's unannounced visits.

"No," came Sherlock's short reply.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. The young girl - who had not moved from the doorway - watched the exchange with a slightly cautious expression.

"Sherlock, let's not play childish games."

"What for? Don't want to show yourself up in front of your new assistant? Don't want her knowing that you're not everything you claim to be?"

"Sherlock-" John started to warn him. It was all very well if the two brothers wanted to argue like petty five-year-olds in the presence of John, as he was plenty used to the childish barbs that Sherlock and Mycroft threw at each other. But it made John uncomfortable for them to do so in front of other people.

"See what I mean, Adelaide?"

Mycroft turned his attention to the young lady - Adelaide - who nodded in return, never taking her eyes off of Sherlock.

"Adelaide?" Sherlock's head snapped towards the girl in the doorway. Her eyebrow quirked at the sudden attention, but apart from that seemed unfazed by Sherlock's gaze, which was now raking over her, analysing every and any piece of information about this girl.

"Yes, after my grandmother." Her voice was light, silvery and warm. He would not be unhappy if Olivia grew up to have such a voice. You could quite happily listen to it for hours, even if it talked about inane subjects it would sound absolutely fascinating. It would make you feel safe if you faced danger. It would make you feel loved and cherished if it spoke words of comfort. Yes, her voice was beautiful, singular, entrancing.

Sherlock's eyes widened in sudden realisation, before his face fell into a softer expression, reminiscent. His eyes had a warmth to them as he watched Adelaide.

"I think it's a very beautiful name," he spoke softly. John tried not to show his surprise, but guessed that everyone in the room already knew. It was impossible to hide anything from the Holmes brothers, and judging by the way her eyes had swept the room upon entering it, John assumed that Adelaide possessed the same astuteness when it came to observing instead of simply seeing.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes." Adelaide's cheeks flushed every so slightly more, but her posture and expression didn't change, save for the quick quirk at the corner of her mouth and her eyes seemed to sparkle even more brilliantly - the beginnings of a smile.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock stood and offered his hand to Adelaide. After a quick glance at Mycroft - almost as if she were asking permission - which was returned with a minuscule nod, she accepted Sherlock's outstretched hand and shook it gracefully and professionally.

Unless John was very much mistaken, the same beginning of a smile was playing around the corner of Sherlock's lips also. They released hands and John felt it was only polite to follow Sherlock's lead.

"John Watson, call me John." Adelaide took his offered hand without hesitation - clearly the permission from Mycroft regarded the both of them, or Adelaide was only wary of the younger Holmes, which was understandable, given that she was working for Mycroft - and shook it with the same professional manner that she had with Sherlock.

Her hands were soft, probably through use of some top of the range hand cream that cost more than John's monthly salary. John smiled at her, and was pleasantly surprised when she returned it fully, not just a hint at the corner of her mouth, but a full smile, which spread across her face, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth, which made her face light up in genuine warmth. She held John's friendly gaze before he let go of her hand and moved back to her position in the doorway, although this time, she seemed more relaxed than before. Maybe being introduced to the inhabitants of Baker Street had put her more at ease with her surroundings.

"You never answered my question, Mycroft. What do you want?"

Sherlock had turned his attention back to his brother, all warmth from his face that had been directed at Adelaide has completely vanished, replaced by cold distrust.

Mycroft inspected his fingernails (also perfect manicured) lazily, picking at a non-existing piece of dirt before looking back at his brother, chin aloft so he looked aloof, as if Sherlock was really not worth his time and he was only here out of a sense of family duty.

"I have a case for you, Sherlock."

"No." The reply was immediate, and John had been expecting it. Sherlock loathed to accept any case from his brother, but John often found that Mycroft's cases were a great deal more important that any of the ones the Yard could provide for him. Because of this, John always encouraged Sherlock to take Mycroft's cases, and had succeeded several times - providing that the cases were at least an eight.

"I assure you, you'll want to take this case."

"I'm not interested Mycroft."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft with a burning intensity. Clearly the presence of both John and Adelaide did not deter Sherlock from indulging his habit of being contrary with Mycroft. He swept up off of the sofa, still dressed in his pyjama trousers, a t-shirt and his blue, silk dressing gown. He picked up his violin and began screeching out harsh, high-pitched notes, a clear dismissal for Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes as Sherlock continued playing.

"It's Moran."

Sherlock immediately stopped playing and froze, his back to them, bow still lifted to the beautiful instrument at his neck. Carefully, slowly, he lowered both the violin and the bow, until the hung loosely at his side.

"You traced him?"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?" Sherlock turned to face his brother. Mycroft turned to Adelaide, who was already typing furiously on the phone in her hand. It was the first time her attention had been focused on it since she walked into the flat, but it was obvious that she was very confident and competent at working the small device.

"To our current knowledge," she answered, not taking her eyes from the phone, clearly reading data and reports on the small screen, "he's in London. We have five possible addresses where he could be hiding. All of them are under surveillance."

"You've not approached them?"

Mycroft answered.

"Too dangerous. He's ex-military Sherlock. He'll be armed, and he'll know we're watching him. He'll be on alert and I won't risk the lives of hardworking, innocent people."

It was the first time Mycroft had ever spoken of his employees in such a manner. Maybe, thought John, this new girl, Adelaide, is having a good effect on him. He's finally seeing them as people.

Sherlock flopped - for there was no other word for it - into his own armchair, now sitting opposite Mycroft, bought his hands together and steepled his fingers under his chin. After thinking for a few moments, Sherlock spoke again.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

This was a question that John had also been wondering, but he knew better than to interrupt Sherlock and Mycroft when they were locked in an exchange such as this one. The last time he had attempted it, he had been on the receiving end of a particularly cold look from the both of them.

"Find him, find out what he's doing and stop him. He's been building up to this ever since he broadcast that video."

Sherlock had found out it was Moran broadcasting Moriarty's face all across Britain three months after the incident occurred. Mycroft and Sherlock had both been in agreement that there was nothing they could do at this point. Moran had been trying to get Sherlock's attention, but had a better way of doing this than Moriarty. John shuddered as he remembered all the lives that had been lost during, what he had titled in his blog, 'The Great Game'.

"But it's been two years," John found himself stating.

"Two years of him waiting, planning." Mycroft stared at John as he spoke. Sherlock was still staring into nothing, clearly lost in his mind palace. "He's planning something large, or he wouldn't have returned to London. It's something that needs him personally involved, not a task that can be carried out at a distance."

"Why me?" Asked Sherlock, returning from the confines of his own mind and turning his attentions back to the present conversation. "Why not another of your minions?" It was another good question that had also been bothering John.

Since the shooting, John had been fiercely protective of the impulsive detective. John carried his gun almost everywhere with them nowadays, and never let Sherlock alone on a case. If Sherlock ran off to chase a suspect, so did John. If Sherlock needed to visit Scotland Yard at 3am, so did John. John could sleep easy at night knowing that he had provided Sherlock with the back-up that he so often needed. To hear that this case was potentially so dangerous that Mycroft was unwilling to put his own men onto it, well, John would be lying if he said it didn't worry him.

"He's the last piece of the puzzle, Sherlock." Ah. Mycroft had used the magic words. There was no way that Sherlock could refuse this request now, not when there was a puzzle to solve. "The one loose end you left behind after your two year interlude. He's the last remaining active member of Moriarty's network."

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the prospect of solving the puzzle, the last strand of the network that Sherlock had work so hard, and so tirelessly to dismantle.

"Tell me as much as you can."

Mycroft's face morphed into a brief expression of smugness, before turning to the doorway.

"Adelaide?"

"Already sending him the files, sir." Her fingers flew over the buttons, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. With that, Mycroft rose from John's chair and moved to accompany Adelaide in the doorway.

"Good day, Sherlock. Doctor Watson." John nodded to Mycroft, who returned it politely, before turning to exit the flat. John noticed, as he turned, Mycroft's hand rested lightly on Adelaide's elbow, leading her out of the door, and out of sight. John listened to the two of them descending the stairs, and then the click of the front door which signaled their exit from Baker Street.

John looked to Sherlock, who was already pacing around the living room, buzzing with anticipation. His eye were lit up with a manic glee, like a child in a sweet shop with an unlimited budget. He turned to John, and surged forward, grabbing both of his shoulders.

"John, the game is on."