Sherlock Holmes was bored. Again. He sat in his flat on 221B Baker Street, waiting for his colleague and friend, John Watson, to get back from the grocery store with that week's groceries. "He better remember the milk this time," Sherlock muttered to himself. He had been lying down on the couch, thinking, but he now stood up. Sherlock was easily bored when there wasn't a case to be working on, which there wasn't at the moment. He paced around the living room in his flat, wondering what he should do. Suddenly, he heard John walk in, but Sherlock didn't look up at him.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Did you remember the milk?" Sherlock interrupted, still not looking his friend in the eye.

"Well, yeah, I have it right here," John raised the jug of milk that he was holding a little higher to show him, even though Sherlock still hadn't looked at him. He walked into the kitchen to set the groceries down on the counter. "I got a call from Lestrade; he's got a case for us." Sherlock finally turned around to look at John. "He wants us to meet him at..." John paused and pulled out his smartphone. He looked through it for the point of rendezvous. "the Princess Grace Hospital?"

"He probably wants us to either take a look at the corpse of a victim or he wants to have you treat a patient," Sherlock said. He abruptly whipped around and walked towards the door. He pulled his coat and scarf off of the coat rack and put them both on. John walked over to the door to hold it open for Sherlock, since he already had his jacket on. "It's only a three minute drive," Sherlock said as he walked out the door without thanking John for holding it open for him. "Call Lestrade and tell him that we'll be there in no time."

"Wait, so let me get this straight," John said to Lestrade, "You think that Mr. Miller jumped into the Thames and drowned, committing suicide?"

"Well, that's certainly what it looks like," Lestrade said, slowly pacing in a circle around the dead body that lie down upon the medical table.

"Well, you are right about one thing, for once," Sherlock said. "He did drown, but it wasn't a suicide." Lestrade raised his eyebrows at hearing Sherlock's objection to his idea.

"What makes you say that?" Lestrade said as he stopped pacing to face the body of Mr. Miller.

"Well," Sherlock began, "You found his body in the Thames, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you actually examine the body for any injuries other than the obvious signs of him drowning?"

"I didn't examine it, and I doubt that the doctor has, either."

"If he was already dead, then why was he brought to a hospital?"

"Well, he wasn't already dead."

"Ah, so now we're getting somewhere. Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I was getting to that part. In the ambulance, they tried to revive him, but to no avail. He died from drowning. They probably didn't even bother to check for anything else yet. It's too soon after the death; they probably wanted to wait."

"Hm." Sherlock sighed, moving towards the corpse. He examined Mr. Miller's left foot and leg carefully, and then his right. Then he moved up to examine Mr. Miller's face. He had a moustache and chubby cheeks, as if he hadn't quite lost all of his baby fat. In general, though, Mr. Miller himself wasn't fat. Sherlock took a closer look at his moustache. "Here," he said, pointing at his moustache. "There's a little bit of blood. Do you know how that got there?"

Lestrade blinked, confused. "No, I have no idea. You're sure it's blood?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, stepping away from the body. "Also, his legs are scraped, especially his left knee."

"Well, that could have happened when he fell in," John said.

"Yes, or someone pushed him in." Sherlock paused. "Has anyone else gone missing? And did they find any other bodies?"

Lestrade paused to think. "No, there haven't been any reports since this case came up." Lestrade walked over to where Sherlock was standing. "So, what do you think happened?"

"I'm guessing that Mr. Miller was taking a walk along the Thames, and he was mugged."

"But there are no signs of him being beaten."

"You don't have to beat someone to mug them. You just have to hold a gun to their head."

"Then what about the blood on his moustache?"

Sherlock walked back up to Mr. Miller again, examining his face. "His nose," Sherlock pointed at it, "It was bleeding, perhaps someone did punch him. The rest of the blood was washed off by the river. How did you learn his name?"

"He was wearing a nametag."

"Did the medics find him in the water?"

"Well, a lady was taking a walk and spotted him on the opposite side of the river. She called 911."

"I see. So he was probably walking home from work, and when no one was around, someone mugged him and pushed him into the Thames. The lady spotted him drowning, called 911, the ambulance came, and he died on his way here. Simple. So all we have to know now is who did it."

"Maybe we should go back to where she found the body," John said. "The mugger may have left some clues."

"Good thinking, John." Sherlock was already walking towards the door. "We'll meet you in your office tomorrow to tell you what we found, Lestrade. Ten o'clock," Sherlock shouted as he walked out the door with John following.

"Um, okay then," Lestrade said basically to himself, since they had left so quickly. "Bye."

"So this is where Mr. Miller was supposedly mugged?" John asked Sherlock.

"Well, this is where they found his body." The area was clear; no other people or animals in sight. Just some vegetation here and there. This was definitely one of the least visited parts of the Thames. It was seven o'clock p.m., and it was quite dark, so John and Sherlock both carried flashlights so that they could see. John waved his flashlight over the ground, looking for clues, but Sherlock just stood behind him.

"Are you actually going to help me?" John stopped and turned around to face Sherlock.

"Me, help you? I thought that you were helping me."

"Well, you're not actually doing anything," John said as he turned around to continue searching for something that could help their investigation.

"Fine." Sherlock walked over towards the shore of the Thames. He waved his flashlight over the water. "John, look," he said as he bent down to take something out of the water.

"What's that?" John walked over to examine the object.

"It's a watch. It was close to shore, and the currents there weren't strong enough to move it very far. It's quite heavy, especially for a watch, though." Sherlock tossed it back into deeper water and watched it get swept away.

"Well what did you do that for?! It could have belonged the thief!" John yelled at Sherlock.

"There's no way to tell whether it belonged to the mugger, and the watch was broken, therefore leaving it useless."

"We could have gotten some finger prints. Then we may have at least had a suspect."

"Relax, John, we don't need the watch. The probability of the watch belonging to the mugger is one in a million." Sherlock stepped away from the shore and started examining the ground more closely. John sighed; Sherlock could be so difficult sometimes. He decided to take a quick look at the park bench a little farther ahead. It was a wooden bench that was very old, and it creaked when John pushed down on it with his hand. He slowly scanned the seat of the bench with his flashlight, not really expecting to see anything. But, in between two of the wooden boards, was a neatly folded piece of paper, just barely visible in the dark night.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, "I think I've found something!" John pulled out the paper and unfolded it. But before he could actually read anything on it, Sherlock ripped the paper right out of John's hands. "Hey!"

"It's an address," Sherlock said, ignoring John's objection. "Apartment 17, Harewood Avenue." He looked up at John, but John just glared back at him. "I suppose that's where we should head next."

"Sherlock, I just want to pack up for today," John sighed. "I haven't eaten anything since noon, and I'm starving. Let's just go back to our flat, eat a little bit of dinner, and we can visit Lestrade in the morning."

Sherlock shoved the slip of paper into his pocket. "Fine," he said, " I suppose we can rest for today."

"Good morning, Lestrade," John greeted him as he walked into his office. Sherlock was already standing in front of Lestrade's desk.

"Hello, John. Sherlock." Lestrade was eating a bagel while doing a little paperwork.

"This is what we found on a park bench near the Thames the other night," Sherlock said as he pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and put it on Lestrade's desk, getting right down to business. "It's an address. Could you possibly recognize it?"

Lestrade picked up the piece of paper. "This isn't really my division, but I'll take a look." He took a bite of his bagel then set it down and unfolded the paper. Swallowing the food he had in his mouth, Lestrade said, "Surprisingly, I do recognize this. I was investigating a little bit about Mr. Miller last night, and I discovered his address. It seems as if this address and the one that I found match."

"But why would the criminal leave the address of the victim for us to find?" John asked.

Sherlock paused before he answered, "I think he wants us to go there."

"He?" John said, "How do we know it's a 'he'?"

"Oh, I have an idea of who is behind all of this. And he knows that, too. He also knows that we found the paper and that we'll be at the apartment tonight."

"Well, who do you think that it is, then?" Lestrade said as he took another bite of his bagel. Sherlock just smiled.

"Lestrade," Sherlock took the paper and put it back into his pocket, "I'll get back to you on that. For now, John and I are going to head for Harewood Avenue."

Sherlock left, and John waved goodbye to Lestrade before following him. They walked down the hall with many doors leading to many more offices. Once they were outside, Sherlock hailed a taxi, and they climbed in. "Harewood Avenue, Apartment 17, please," Sherlock told the cabbie. This was the very first time John had ever heard Sherlock say 'please'.

"But Sherlock," John asked, "who do you think the thief is?" Sherlock smiled again.

"Had it come to your mind yet that this all seems too easy?"

John shrugged. "We'll it's definitely not the hardest case we've had."

"This is all one big trap, John," Sherlock replied, "and we're walking right into it.

John's eyes widened. "You're willing to take the risk?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock nodded.

"Then so am I." John sat back to ponder the situation. "You never did answer my question, though."

Sherlock looked at John, grinning again. "You'll see, John. You'll see."

The cab dropped John and Sherlock off at the door to the apartment. The brown paint on the door was old and faded, and John noticed that all of the other doors to the apartments had odd numbers on them, except for Apartment 17, which didn't even have a number on it. There was a rusty doorbell, but instead of ringing it, Sherlock just barged inside. Surprisingly to John, the door was unlocked. This gave him a very unsettling feeling, as if he wasn't suppose to be there, or like something was going to pop out at him. Sherlock walked upstairs, not making any effort to keep quiet, while John cautiously followed. Sherlock seemed just a little too confident for his liking.

After reaching the top of the staircase, there were two doors. Sherlock opened the one on the left and walked inside. "This is the guest room, I assume. It has obviously been rarely used."

"Then the other room would be the master's bedroom?"

"Well, obviously," Sherlock walked over to the neat bed against the far wall of the room, but he didn't touch it. "I'm assuming that Mr. Miller either lived by himself, otherwise Lestrade would have said something." He turned around and walked past John and back into the hall. John followed, and Sherlock rested his hand on the handle of the bedroom door, hesitating to open it. "This is the trap, John," he said to him quietly.

In his head, John scolded himself for being so foolishly afraid; everything always ended the right way, so how could this time be any different? "Well, go ahead, Sherlock," John said with a shaky voice, "Open it."

Sherlock paused once more before slowly turning the handle and pushing open the door. He walked in, actually making an effort to be quieter. John followed, only to see that the room was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked over and sat on the bed. Across the room was a room divider and a nightstand with previous belongings of Mr. Miller. Sherlock looked confused. "But that wasn't suppose to happen," he said, frantically searching the room for a threat. "The room isn't supposed to actually be safe."

"Oh, but it's not, Sherlock," a voice said out of nowhere. John stopped breathing for a split second, and Sherlock froze. John stood up slowly. Out from behind the room divider came a man wearing a suit.

"I knew it,"Sherlock turned to face the man that he knew all too well. "Moriarty."

"Of course you knew," Moriarty said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "I knew that you knew. But, once again, you have walked right into my trap. I thought that you would have known better, you being so clever and all. You really need to stop playing my games."

"Oh, but you know just how much I love it," Sherlock said, "Although I would have liked it if you would have made this one at least a little harder." Sherlock then reached into a pocket on the inside of his coat and drew a gun, pointing it straight at Moriarty.

"Hang on, now where did you get that?!" John gasped.

"You've really got to do a better job of hiding your belongings from me, John," Sherlock said, not looking away from Moriarty. "Now, Moriarty, I want you to give me a good reason as to why I shouldn't just shoot you right here and now."

"Sherlock-" John started his objection.

"John, shut up," Sherlock interrupted him, not putting up with any of his protests. John was slightly offended, but he decided that it would be wise to just keep his trap shut.

"Oh, but Sherlock, I don't think that I even need to," Moriarty said cooly. "You're not going to shoot me."

"I wouldn't try me if I were you."

"Well, how do I even know that the gun is loaded?"

"Would you like to find out?"

"Nah, I was just asking. But you're still not going to shoot me."

"And what makes you say that?"

"You enjoy my games," Moriarty smirked. "And you're not really much of a killer, either."

"Well, I'm perfectly willing to prove you wrong." Sherlock cocked the gun.

"Sherlock, don't!" John yelled.

"Why not?! He tried to kill you, he tried to kill, me, he killed Mr. Miller, and has killed an endless number of innocent people!" Sherlock shouted back at John. "Now it's his turn. John, it's about time we stop the killing!"

John just didn't know what to say. It was so unlike Sherlock to say any of that. As far as John, Lestrade, or anyone knew, Sherlock solved cases just for the fun of it all. John had always thought that Sherlock didn't care, but apparently he did. It looked like Sherlock had some sort of heart after all.

"Sherlock," he said softly, "let him go. I know that Moriarty has killed people, but we can't just kill him back. We can't stoop down to his level. It's murder, and it's not right."

Sherlock didn't move. He stood there, staring at Moriarty as he smiled back at him, evilly. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to just pull the trigger. But, then John would hate him. To be honest, John was the only friend that he really had. Even Lestrade was more of just an associate, but even though John was a colleague, too, he was also more. If John hated Sherlock, he would be alone again. He would be lonely, and he may even be driven to kill himself. There was just no way for Sherlock to win. Either Moriarty would continue killing people, or Moriarty would die, and Sherlock would be hated by all again, and then he would die anyway.

He took a deep breath, and lowered the gun from Moriarty's head. John noticed that he had been subconsciously holding his breath the entire time, so let out a sigh of self-relief.

Moriarty chuckled, "I knew you would see it my way, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around and started to walk out of the room. As he wasn't looking, Moriarty reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun of his own. "I knew you were a coward." Sherlock stopped and turned around to face Moriarty. He froze.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, just as Moriarty pulled the trigger. And just like that, Sherlock Holmes was dead.