When the summons from Lestrade arrives, it is not entirely unexpected. Sherlock hadn't thought it would be this soon though. Moriarty. A name like a whisper on the lips of the underworld, sinister, feared. Someone they have encountered twice over the past four months; someone who has his fingers in very many pies. Despite knowing only a little about him, Sherlock knew a confrontation of some sort was inevitable. His only wish is that it had been longer. Whatever this new case will involve, it will take up all his time for the foreseeable future, and that means he will not get a chance to show off – he admits that's what he's doing – to John. And he was so looking forward to it.

At Scotland Yard, Lestrade hands him an envelope with his name on it. Creamy, heavy duty paper, but nothing that can't be bought in any craft shop in London. Fountain pen, blue ink, female hand, but shaking, unsteady. Possibly under duress, or otherwise very nervous. Not Moriarty himself. John looks over his shoulder as he slits it open and lets the contents drop out into the palm of his hand.

A mobile phone. Pink cover; the same model as that in the case John had written up online under the title A Study in Pink. Not the same phone, but it's a sign, if he had been in any doubt, that this is about Moriarty. That this is the opening move of a chess match between masters. He smiles, thin-lipped, almost private. A test of wills and wits. He is going to enjoy this.

"Is that...?" John starts to ask. Sherlock interrupts him swiftly. As usual, he is forced into explaining the most simple of things to the dullards around him – not that he really think John is as stupid as all that, but on occasion he acts it. Clearly this is not the same phone, clearly it comes from Moriarty, clearly the sender wishes to communicate through it.

At that moment the phone begins to buzz. Sherlock feels excitement rise. It begins.
There are a series of texts in the inbox. John and Lestrade crowd round him as he begins to open them, starting at the bottom. First, five dried seeds, the pips of an orange. He clarifies their meaning out loud for his two companions while flicking quickly through the rest. He has a suspicion there is little time to spare.

The next appears to be the living room of an apartment; the London skyline is visible from between the curtains. A man sits on the sofa; dead. Early thirties, fastidious over his appearance, office worker. Throat slit, stabbed in the chest. The TV is still on. There is something oddly familiar about the scene, the way the murder has been enacted. Even down to the spray of blood on walls and floor. He files it away for later analysis.

The third and last, taken in the same flat, is a woman, early twenties, secretary, cat owner. She is blindfolded and gagged, tied to a chair in front of the kitchen table. In front of her is an odd mechanical contraption. A handgun is held pointed at her forehead – Browning L9A1, the same model as John's – the trigger on a wire attached to a timer. A countdown. Nine hours. He has been given nine hours to save this woman's life.

"I don't get it," Lestrade says, frustration filling his voice. "She could be anywhere in London! How does he think we're going to find her?"

"My dear Inspector, that is why you have me," Sherlock says, and then it all clicks into place. Obvious. So very obvious. The reason it looks familiar is because he's seen it before. An identical murder, mere months ago. His murder. Somehow, Moriarty knows.

"You'd better come up with something fast," Lestrade says. "But I trust you. If you need us for anything, give me a call. I assume you'll be wanting to handle this on your own."

"Yes," Sherlock says. John is regarding him with some confusion. He has clearly caught on that something is wrong here. Well done John. Deductive skills coming along nicely, if not terribly helpful at the present moment. "I have an idea. I'll call you in an hour; we may have something by then."

He is going to need all his skill in this endeavour, he sees that now. Perhaps he has underestimated Moriarty. What tipped him off? His crimes were perfect, always. Sherlock doesn't make mistakes. But there must have been something...

Lestrade nods to him, and ushers them out of his office. John is evidently growing more curious by the moment. Sherlock makes an effort to relax his posture. The key, he is sure, is constructing a false trail to the correct answer. At least he is unlikely to be challenged on any of his deductions; who would question Sherlock Holmes?

He will have to tell John, of course. But not here. Not where they might be overheard. When they get to the library, he can reveal just what they're dealing with.


"A copycat?" John says. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Sherlock nods tensely.

"The dead man precisely mirrors the last homicide I committed before you moved in with me. The woman, therefore, clearly represents the girlfriend whom I arranged to be the main suspect." He gazes out of the window at the stormy skies. John can't help but think they're appropriate for the situation, and the mood. "The gun is the same as yours. He's clearly referring to you, but why? There is insufficient data, I can't yet see what he is aiming to achieve."

"To reveal you to the police, perhaps?" John says. This whole situation is really not good. Sherlock might have been as careful as only he could be, but if this Moriarty knew, then there must be something that tipped him off, and if he could find it, so can Lestrade, especially if he is being guided to it. Sherlock would be revealed. He would go to jail. It actually surprises John, the depths to which he doesn't want that to happen. To which he wants Sherlock free to continue his insane, madcap life, even if the price is the death of others.

"No, too obvious. It wouldn't be worthy of the game, John, and this is all about the game." Sherlock looks as if he wants to jump to his feet and start pacing, but the tables don't really allow the room. Instead he drums his fingers impatiently against the wood. "No, we need to find the flat. There will be more to go on there."

"And if we save some poor woman's life, that's just a bonus isn't it," John says. If things had been different, if they both weren't monsters, killers, he might have been disturbed at the callous lack of empathy Sherlock shows towards the victims of the cases he takes, but as it is he doesn't have a moral leg to stand on. Anyway, if he's really honest with himself he would acknowledge that his own sympathy is more mask than sincerity. He feels something for her, terrified, alone, trapped... but he doesn't know her. He's only seen her in a photograph. The emotion doesn't seem to stick like it used to.

"Well, it would please Lestrade," Sherlock says, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Now, to business. The original crime will have appeared in the local newspapers. They are all on microfiche, it is only a matter of finding the right one to show Lestrade, and convince him my prodigious memory for criminality made the link to our current puzzle."

"So you think he's chosen to use the same flat this time around as well?" John asks.

"No, again, too obvious; John, think! Then where would the challenge be? Certain of the elements may be clearer to the pair of us than to the police, but this wouldn't be interesting if he wasn't testing me as well. No, the clues we need will be in one of those articles, I'm sure of it."

John trusts Sherlock's brain to come up with the answers. Moriarty might be clever, but he's no Holmes. He sets to work. They might know the date they're looking for, but he knows that for Sherlock to makes his deductions, every scrap of evidence will be needed. He can't afford to miss a thing.


"We're looking for a flat with the same floor plan and layout as this one. Contact the contractor and find out what other building projects the company worked on five years ago. That will at least narrow the area down."

Lestrade takes the photocopy from Sherlock carefully, speed reading down the article. He swears loudly when he realises what it describes. "Why this murder?" he says, gesturing at Sherlock – who has commandeered one of the computer terminals – with the paper. "I remember it, vaguely. A simple open and shut homicide. The boyfriend had been cheating, the girlfriend stabbed him while he was watching Eastenders! Nothing special about it!"

"No," Sherlock says, dragging the word out. "Of course not. But I can't tell you why yet."

Lestrade frowns. Holmes isn't paying him any attention, clicking away at keyboard and mouse rapidly. Everything about this case so far has been strange. Normally Sherlock can't wait to explain his 'amazing deductive reasoning' to him, if only to point out how stupid he finds him, but so far there has been none of that. Just tight-lipped silence, for all the usual rushing around.

"Here's the rest of the clippings." John Watson pushes his way through the door clutching a small heap of paper, handing half of it over to Lestrade. "All the information from the papers we could find," he explains. "Sherlock thinks the man behind this might have used something from the articles, as a kind of clue."

"Didn't I say to contact the architects firm," Sherlock says loudly, not looking up from the computer screen. "Why aren't you doing it? Come here John, I need your presence to help me think."

John shrugs at him sheepishly, and does as he's told. Lestrade rolls his eyes, and heads reluctantly to do the same. Well, to tell Donovan to do it. They've all been feeling a bit helpless, unable to do anything, especially since Sherlock made off with the damned phone, and all the evidence with it. At least now they have somewhere to start.


"I think we should leave Lestrade's crew of bumbling idiots to their own devices, don't you?" Sherlock says under his breath. John has to strain to hear him. "Back to Baker Street. I find I think much better there."

"Were you just making that up then?" John asks. "Or is that actually going to be useful?"

"It might be," Sherlock says, pressing print. "But it certainly isn't vital. It I'm right about a clue in those papers, and I am almost always right, it will lead us precisely to where we need to go." He stands up, waiting impatiently for the printer to spit out whatever it is he's found.

"We have seven and a half hours left before a woman gets her brains blown out," John reminds him, checking his watch.

"Plenty of time then." Sherlock snatches the sheet, folds it up, and tucks it carefully into his pocket. "I believe I grasp the basic outline of the answer already."

John shrugs, and phones for a cab. It will be nice at least to have a cup of tea while they read through all this in terrifying detail. Mrs Hudson makes very good tea. It only occurs to him later that these days he apparently rates a hot drink at the same level on his list of priorities as a woman's life. It should bother him more than it does. Instead he merely wonders if this is how Sherlock feels all the time.


"I hear you have a new case."

The flat is dark, and it takes a few moments for John to place the voice. Mycroft. Of course. He would turn up at an inconvenient moment like this. John may have only met him twice, but he thinks he has at least some sort of picture of the man. Sherlock flicks on the light with an irritated little sigh.

"You do have such a flair for the dramatic, don't you brother."

"A trait common enough in our family," Mycroft says with a small smile. He is sitting in John's seat, playing with the handle of his umbrella.

"What are you here for now? Trying to get me to join the government again? Or perhaps there's another opportunity for a Knighthood you wish to force upon me?" Sherlock's sneer is truly an impressive thing. John could well believe it was practised in the mirror for maximum efficiency. He has to wonder exactly what made him dislike his brother so much.

"The offer is always on the table, but that isn't the reason I'm here." Mycroft retrieves a file from where it was tucked between him and the chair, and holds it out. "I realise you have other concerns at the moment, but there's no great hurry."

"Of course, you are perfectly aware of the most minute details when something or someone of interest is entering or leaving the country, but you cannot shift yourself to clean up your own back yard," Sherlock says nastily. John takes the folder for him, as he obviously isn't going to touch it himself.

"My dear Sherlock, as though I would miss any opportunity to alleviate the boredom of your life." A slick smile. "After all, who knows the trouble you might get into if you had nothing to keep you occupied, hmmm?"

Sherlock tenses almost imperceptibly. John can't help but sympathise with the reaction. That was a threat if he ever heard one. Mycroft gets to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his suit.

"So nice to see both of you again." He heading for the door. He is halfway out of it when he pauses, turns, and says, "Do be careful Sherlock. I would hate to see anything happen to you."

The moment Mycroft's footsteps have receded down the stairs, Sherlock pulls off his coat, throws it over the back of the sofa, strides to the chair his brother was just sitting in, and retrieves his violin case from beneath it. He perches on the arm of the chair and begins to pluck random notes from the strings, looking thoughtful. John raises his eyebrows, but flips open the file to have a look.

"There is no longer any question that he knows," Sherlock says, almost to himself. "Any yet he does nothing about it."

"Are you sure this Moriarty character isn't him?" John asks. Missile plans. Of all the bloody things for the government to loose...

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. "What need has he to hide behind false faces when he can irritate me so sublimely in person? No, this is a new player on the field, and Mycroft is leaving us to it."

"What do you want me to do with this?" John says, holding up the file.

"Put it on the table, I'll look at it later."

"So you're taking the case?"

"I think at the present moment, it is better for my brother to owe me a favour than not." John can't argue with that.


"I have it!" Sherlock finds himself rather satisfied. Mystery, such as it is, solved and ready to present to the police in such a way as they will believe it and not question, and all with five hours still to run on the clock. John turns to look at him with eyebrows raised inquisitively, waiting for the answer to be explained to him.

"It required some hacking, but the trail is clear enough. The company that leased the original flats was bought a week later by Janus Co, subsidiary of Taller & Sons, who – as the police know but can't prove – launder money for the Irish Mafia. Then the original company sold off all their assets in the past six weeks except one. This set of flats here." He points triumphantly to the place on Google Maps. Technology is a wonderful aid when it comes to playing the game. John comes over to peer at the laptop.

"And what makes you so sure this is connected or relevant at all?"

"We have already seen that Moriarty has links to all kinds of criminal undertakings – I think it highly unlikely that his name would have garnered the fear or respect it does otherwise – hence the mafia involvement. Acquiring such a tiny company has no obvious bonus, and the properties held were sold off at less than their own market value, presumably to shift them quickly. And finally, there is the fact that when it comes to a puzzle like this, coincidences are unlikely to be found."

John looks impressed, as he always does. It still remains flattering though, even after this amount of time. "Far be it for me to argue," he says. "You want me to text this address to Lestrade?"

"Yes, thank you John." This had been relatively easy to figure out; the next one may not be so. And he is sure there will be a next one. Everything he has seen so far suggests that Moriarty is building this up to some kind of climax or confrontation. There will be build up. There will be more little games to play, more chances for him to test his mind against his enemy's expectations. And then, finally, he will see the man capable of matching wits with him.

It's going to be glorious.


Treat this as a test, John thinks to himself, as they climb the stairs behind Lestrade. This is the first crime scene he will have been to since he started leaving his own for the police to figure out. He can't be sure how he will react. What will he feel when he looks at the dead body? Disgust? Pleasure? Nothing at all? Before Afghanistan there had been sympathy, and since then what he has seen had covered it with a layer of numbness. He just doesn't know what might now lurk over the top of it.

In the end, he finds he has less to fear than he thought. He feels... dispassionate. Though to be honest, did he think the moment he felt some sort of sick psycho thrill Donovan was going to jump on him with a great cry of 'Ah-ha!' and clap some cuffs on him? Ridiculous. Beside him, Sherlock steps forward to give the corpse a quick once over, and nods to himself. Nothing unusual then.

Lestrade nods to two policemen whose names John doesn't know, and they open the door through to the kitchen gingerly. Perhaps they were expecting it might be booby-trapped, but as it is nothing happens, and they're free to go in and pull the woman away from the gun and cut the ropes that bind her. John hangs back, giving them room to work. She's crying, sobbing, "thank you, thank you," over and over again. She is shaking and stiff from the forced position, and he can smell the sharp acrid scent of piss. Nine hours in the one place and terrified, it's not surprising.

The woman is led away to be checked over and comforted. There will be time for the police to ask her questions later, but somewhat uncharacteristically, Sherlock doesn't leap to start badgering away at her. John looks at him questioningly.

"She will know nothing of value. He's not that careless," Sherlock says to him, pressing forward to squeeze between the policemen into the kitchen. John follows him, doing the usual round of apologies.

On the table is the mechanism, nasty, lethal and homemade, though at least someone has had the sense to disconnect it from the timer. Sherlock makes a beeline for it, looking it over, whipping out his little miniature magnifying glass. "No fingerprints," he mutters to himself as he works his way round methodically, "he's too clever for that, unless he wants me to find something. Perhaps the next clue..."

"These were on the other chair," Lestrade says, holding up a pair of worn overalls, the kind a plumber or electrician might wear. "I'm sure they'll mean more to you than to me."

Sherlock goes very still. John finds himself holding his breath. Yes, those mean something alright. Sherlock's reaction doesn't last more than a moment though before he snatches the clothes from the DI's hands. He holds them up to the light, turns them over, sniffs the fabric.

"These are old, four or five years, but they haven't been worn in a while. There's a musty smell on them; they've been in a drawer or wardrobe for some time. Whoever wore these was not the original owner, he's too tall; the seam is ripped here at the back. Second hand, charity shop most likely. The sleeves," Here he turns them over to show them all. "have been rolled up, but there is still some blood splatter. The killer wore these to gain entry to the flat, killed the man, then subdued the girlfriend and tied her up. If you're lucky, you might be able to get some shed skin cells from the inside." He tosses the overalls to Donovan, who has just appeared at the doorway. Surprised she still manages to catch it.

John wonders how much of what Sherlock just reeled off is true to the original. How much their enemy in this so-called game found out. It's a little unnerving, being this close to what Sherlock has done. He hasn't seen it yet, in real life, under better circumstances, he just remembers the offhand details he skimmed from the papers in passing. He wonders if Sherlock took pleasure in killing the man, or whether it was just the puzzle that he enjoys. Certainly he shows more enthusiasm for cases that involve murder than other crimes. It might just be that the stakes are higher.

"Anything else you can tell us?" Lestrade asks, clearly feeling a bit frustrated. "Something to go on so we can catch the bastard who did this?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not yet. This game isn't over Lestrade. This was just the first, and this man is nearly as clever as I am." He turns, coat whirling around him dramatically. "Come on John. We should talk. No doubt he will contact us himself soon enough."

One down, an unspecified number more to go. John's hand itches for his gun. He catches Lestrade's eye on the way out. He has an odd look on his face. He can't read it. He doesn't have time to worry anyway. They have Moriarty to catch.


"Those overalls were nearly identical to the ones I wore," Sherlock says, once they are back at Baker Street and safely ensconced in the living room with two cups of tea. "He must have a similar build to myself. And an eye for mimicry. Though I burnt the originals in the incinerator at St. Barts."

"How do you think he knew all those details?" John asks. His tea is too hot, and he nearly burns his mouth on the first sip.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I imagine he could infer much once he knew which crime to look at. He must have ties to the police, no institution is entirely free from corruption. No doubt that let him gather information the general public would not have been privy to."

"He sounds almost as well connected as your brother," John remarks, then wishes he hadn't as Sherlock gives him a glare that could wither even fake plastic plants.

"Speaking of Mycroft," Sherlock says. "Someone needs to investigate this case he gave me." John is in no doubt whom Sherlock is alluding too.

"No, Sherlock, no way. I don't know enough... I'm not like you, able to deduce things from a glance..."

"It's really not that difficult. I already have a fairly good picture."

"Are you trying to get me out of the way?"

"No." Sherlock waves a hand at the cardboard folder sitting on top of a pile of general clutter. "I would just appreciate you doing this for me."

John doesn't put up too much of a fight. This is Sherlock Holmes. He's not going to win.


Once John has left the flat for a meeting with Mycroft that is likely to be enjoyed by neither of the two parties, Sherlock allows himself to think. Moriarty is a mystery, a cipher, always working at two, three, four removes from his crimes. Working through puppets and intermediaries. Smart. So smart he should have popped up on the radar before. How has he managed to take over such a large slice of the criminal underworld so quietly? Four months since the first whisper of his name reached Sherlock's ears, and he is already working to bring this to a close. Why so eager?

It is... satisfying, to have a worthy opponent like this. Mycroft is kin, it doesn't hold the same meaning. They have been fighting each other for too long for it to still be exciting, and his brother had always had a head start. No, this is different. Engaging. Fun.

He is hungry, oh so hungry for the next puzzle to begin.


He gets the phone message first, during a meeting with Lestrade at one the next day. He and John are supposed to be there to work strategy, though how useful Lestrade expects Sherlock to be in that matter he doesn't know. Really, Sherlock just wants to know if they found anything in the flat, DNA, something that might provide even the most tenuous link to Moriarty. His hopes are not high, it has to be said.

Four pips. It too is counting down, counting the number of deaths until... what? Confrontation, perhaps? But Sherlock can't spare the time to consider that now, not when he has just been sent the next step of the game to play. He has to bite back a laugh when he sees the picture. Moriarty is going back in reverse order. The kill before his last. 'Accidental' death. Always one of Sherlock's favourites.

"What is it?" Lestrade asks, holding his hand out for the phone. Sherlock passes it over, already disinterested. He has learnt all he can from the photograph in that one quick scan of it. A manikin is standing in for the corpse; shirt open, trousers and underwear pushed down, leather noose around the neck. Autoerotic asphyxiation. Too easy to go too far; pass out with the tension still on. Oops. Suffocation. People don't like to ask too many questions in that kind of situation.

"Fuck," Lestrade swears, through clenched teeth. "This is what's going to happen to the next bloke?"

John takes the phone from him to get a closer look. His reaction is rather more subdued, merely the quirk of an eyebrow. Sherlock was expecting something more, since John must know that this is another mirror of one of his own kills. Behind them the door opens. Sally Donovan with a phone call for one Sherlock Holmes. No prizes for guessing who that might be.

Sherlock leaves the office to take it. A man's voice, shuddering, frightened. Another proxy. "It's okay that you've gone to the police," the first words out of his – no, Moriarty's – mouth.

"You're speaking through him aren't you," Sherlock says, quietly. "Clever. I take it he's the one to die if I don't solve the case."

"Smart sociopath Sherlock," the man stammers. "You know who I am. And I know who you are. Who you really are. All kinds of things are bubbling to the surface now. Are you so sure it's safe to be in Scotland Yard?"

"So far you're the only one to connect the dots." Sherlock's voice drops even quieter. "How? How did you do it?"

"Maybe soon you'll find out. I have this man's child as leverage. He will kill himself in eight hours, unless you get to him first. Be quick, Sherlock Holmes. Kiss, kiss. Love M."

The man hangs up. Sherlock glares at the phone, then slips it into his pocket. Donovan can have it back later. One can never have too many phones, especially when having them annoys people. And so, to business. The kill is still fresh in his memory; those are details he is well pleased to keep on his hard drive. The manikin though, that hadn't been in a replica room. If he can deduce where it is, then the hunt will be on.

"Come on John," he calls, pushing open Lestrade's door. "We have a killer to catch!"


It's only the Tate fucking Modern, John thinks, somewhat bemused by where Sherlock's mind has led them. The manikin and associated props are set up in the big empty space that takes up half the floor plan, looking for all the world like it belongs there. If he hadn't known better, John wouldn't have been at all surprised to see it here under normal circumstances. It looks appropriate for that kind of bizarre arty thing he can never make heads or tails of. Not really his specialty.

Sherlock is examining the exhibit minutely. No touching though; they already have one of the gallery's employees looking at them with suspicion. Apparently this has been here for the past few days, a new piece bought from an up and coming artist. An artist who must have some connection to Moriarty.

John stands as close as he can to Sherlock so he can whisper his conclusions in his ear as he goes. It's the middle of the afternoon, and it's a weekend. There's a crowd. He can't just go spouting off about murders out loud, not that it would usually stop him, but John has shushed him twice already, and he had finally done as he was told, though not without some sulking.

"Very exact," Sherlock whispers. "Even the pose. Nothing new I can see though. The link must be the artist."

John looks over the scene again. It strikes an odd chord in him, though he can't say for sure quite why, if it is just that he knows Sherlock set up something just like this, only real, or if he would feel the same way if he was an ordinary visitor. It is somehow intimate and abstract, the posture of sex combined with the blank features of the model. Dehumanised, just another faceless victim. Devoid of empathy. Much like his victims have been so far. He doesn't see them as human, not really. If he ever tried to kill someone he knew, even if it was someone he disliked, he doesn't think he could do it.

"Do you have much of an interest in modern art Sherlock?" John asks, curious more than anything. Sherlock doesn't seem to have interests or hobbies outside of the job. If it isn't related to being a consulting detective, it seems he has no use for it.

"None whatsoever," is the not entirely unexpected reply. Sherlock stands up and looks at him. "We should talk to the curator, find out who they bought this from."

"No need." John smiles. "There's a plaque right over here. The artist's name should be on it."
Sherlock gives him a blinding grin right back. "I can always count on you, can't I John."

"Yeah. Yeah, you can." Even to help you kill, John thinks. You can't get much more intimate than that.


The artist gives them a name. The work was on commission, she tells them, and shows them a copy of the cheque she got in the post for it. He never showed up to collect it, so she sold it to the Tate. She didn't think he would mind. Sherlock snatches the photocopy and looks at it closely.

"He's been planning this for quite some time," he says quietly. "This is from February." He frowns, deeply. "It is... unpleasant to think he got so far ahead of me."

"An insult to your professional pride?" John asks, smirking just a little bit. He reaches out and tilts it enough to get a decent look at it. "Peter Thomson," he reads out. "Who the hell is Peter Thomson?"

Sherlock smiles, cat-like. "The name of our would-be suicide of course," he says, bringing out his mobile phone. John stares at him, lost. It is becoming a familiar feeling around Sherlock, though something he is starting to come to terms with. He isn't expected to keep up, after all. Well, not mentally. When it comes to running around the city, there he has no problems.

"And how does this help us? There could be dozens of Peter Thomsons in London."

Sherlock waves the cheque at him. "But John. We have his bank details."

Of course. The cheque will have the account number and roll number on it, and Sherlock's formidable computer skills will take care of the rest. And all accessible through the medium of the modern iPhone.

"Come on," Sherlock says, tucking the photocopy into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, to the artist's slight indignation, and heading for the exit, typing and walking at the same time. John keeps expecting him to walk into things when he does this, but whether through much practise or excellent special awareness he never has. If it ever does happen, he hopes a CCTV camera is watching somewhere. John smiles apologetically at the artist, and chases after Sherlock. No doubt they have a taxi to catch.


The account is held with Lloyds, and was opened on the first of February in a branch near Piccadilly with an amount in it exactly one pound more than what the cheque took out. Things are coming together quite nicely so far, Sherlock thinks, pleased. Four or the eight hours have so far elapsed, and unless Moriarty has planted some unexpected obstacles in their way, they are right on schedule.

Persuading a timid man behind the counter to let him talk to the manager is simplicity itself. An imposing look, the mention of Lestrade's name, threats implied by tone of voice. He almost trips over himself running to fetch her. She is a woman in her forties, married, happily more often than not, childless, though not by choice, developing arthritis in her hands, though she hasn't been to her doctor yet, doesn't want to bother him.

"DI Lestrade," Sherlock says, producing another stolen warrant card, and smiling like a non-sociopathic human being. The act is simplicity itself. How easy if would be to keep it up all the time. How dull. He'd rather be Donovan's freak than Mycroft's softly smiling Cheshire cat. "And my colleague Dr. Watson. Police business. Very urgent. If we could have a word?"

"Oh, of course," she says, flustered. People usually are, when you bring the police into things. All those secrets, just waiting for an observant eye and an adequate mind to bring them out into the open air. Mundane for the most part, but grasped so very tightly. In this case, the work party she never made it home from last night. Drunken fumble with the friend she stayed over with; female, from the size and shape of the bite mark skimming the collar of her shirt, and the traces of lipstick on the cotton. She leads them through into an office at the back. "Anything I can do to help."

"We want to know about Peter Thomson."

"Peter... is he in trouble?" Concern, genuine. "He called in sick yesterday, I haven't seen him since."

And there is the link. Easier than expected. The Peter Thomson who opened the account is a fake, part of Moriarty's trail of breadcrumbs, leading right back to a man who works at this very bank. A common enough name not to arouse suspicion. "If you could give us his address, it would be most appreciated."

"He's not the type to do anything wrong," the manager insists.

"We only want to ask him a few questions," John interjects. He gives her his most trustworthy look, all do-no-harm doctor wrapped in homely woollen jumpers. As fake as Sherlock's own smile. He has seen the true John Watson underneath, and it is so much more interesting.

The manager writes the address down for them, and Sherlock texts Lestrade to meet them there. Even if they don't find Peter Thomson there – 40% chance of it – the DI will no doubt want to be updated on their progress. Three and a half hours. His blood is pumping. There is no drug as good as the chase.


Thomson is sitting on his bed with a noose round his neck when they break down the door, and Sherlock is able to watch the emotions flicker over his face as he realises he is safe. Disbelief, dawning hope, thankfulness, and finally, he begins to sob with gratitude. Sherlock finds it a little gauche, but then he has never really been in a similar situation, where he was in fear for his life. It's an emotion he does his best to avoid. He would like to think his reaction would be a little more restrained however.

Thomson struggles with the rope a little before forcing it over his head and off. "They still have Alex," he says, tears streaming down his pudgy face. "They still have my boy, please, you have to do something."

Lestrade offers him platitudes. Sherlock looks over at John, trying to judge his thoughts. So far he has been calm and collected, and seemingly unmoved, if one didn't know what to look for in the tightness around his mouth and the fire stoked and smouldering in his eyes. John is a killer, but he is still capable of feeling. Of a certain degree of empathy. Before, Sherlock thinks he might have believed it to be a weakness in a companion, but then, he had never actually expected to find someone who engaged him like this. Someone he actually feels something for. Someone he is attracted to. No, in John's case, the empathy, slight and selective though it may be, is useful. It's a mask as good as any of Sherlock's, no less so for being sincerely felt. And perhaps Sherlock has a certain sentimentality towards it.

"How was he communicating with you?" Sherlock asks, once Thomson has been sufficiently calmed. "He must have had some method, texts, a pager?"

"Over here," the man replies, somewhat shakily, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "It's uh... Skype. The webcam messenging program, you know. I got... I got a call, he put Alex on..." He stops to take great heaving breaths. Sherlock resists the urge to tell him to get on with it in favour of taking the laptop from the table for a closer look.

"We can track the IP address," Lestrade says. It's a stupid suggestion, but what do you expect?

"It will get you nowhere," Sherlock says, irritated. "Do credit him with some intelligence."

The webcam is still on, he observes. He scrolls up the previous conversation, noting the timestamps, right to the original threat. Do as I say, or your boy will be shot. Obviously Moriarty was monitoring the situation in the room over the internet. Very handy. Minimalist, in the amount of equipment needed.

Looking for me? M. x. The sentence pops up on the bottom of the screen. Sherlock freezes. Of course he's still watching. Naive to assume otherwise. John notices his reaction as well.

"Is that... him?" he asks, anger lacing the edges of his words. Sherlock makes a note of it. When they catch Moriarty, he will let John take the kill. He will enjoy it, and after all, Sherlock will have already had the game and the win, by that point. He wants to make John a present of it.

"Yes," Sherlock replies tersely, setting the computer back on the table and leaning over it to type. Found your man. Easy, after the Tate. I'm disappointed.

Then this next one will make you happy, lol, M xx.

It's the child, isn't it.

Four for you, Sherlock Holmes! I've left plenty of clues, I'm sure you'll figure it out! M, x.

Sherlock frowns. Clues? Not that he's seen so far, but then he hasn't had the chance to inspect this flat yet, and perhaps when they learn when and where the child was taken...

I know you'll find the link, :3 M xxxx.

Link. What link? Aren't you going to send me one of your pictures?

The link between the crimes of course! After all, they are linked, aren't they Sherlock. M x.

It's a taunt, of course. Moriarty is trying to distract him. But it would make no sense for him to reveal the truth to the police. Setting up a game like this is evidence enough. They both have the same ideas, the same tendency to boredom, all the evidence points to it. This is between the two of them. Why bring in a third party at all, except as a goad, just another factor to make the danger seem that much more real. But it's not in seriousness.

12 hours, Moriarty types, the other side of this tenuous link of electrons, to save the child. Hope you have fun. 3 3 M.

With each new challenge, the pleasure, the adrenaline builds up. He is on fire with it, it's the only time he really truly feels alive. On the outside he has to remain calm for society, but on the inside? He's smiling.