Irene spent the evening in her own typical way: she inspected the house and found which doors were locked, which tiles were loose, which windows were false, and which bricks were hollow. This was done, not to make an enemy, but to ensure an ally.

Then, she found a room she liked and started unpacking her cases. She selected the room based on its warmth and not its allocations; it was certainly not intended as a bedroom, but had a charming hearth and an interesting metal desk. After checking her phone and the time, she chose to examine what was certainly her employer's bedroom. He lived alone.

She was surprised to find everything coordinating in shades and patterns. The sheets were pulled somewhat crookedly over the bed to show that, even though he was alone, he used one specific half each evening. Irene grinned to herself as she rummaged through his hamper to find a dressing gown. The one she selected was grey and silky and absolutely bathed in his cologne.

Once stripping off her unnecessary clothes (all of them), she went to sit in the foyer and await his return. The dressing-gown cooled her skin, and its scent nearly lulled her to sleep.

The door remained shut for many hours. She contemplated the key-hole, and had to remind herself she wasn't dreaming when it finally clicked and turned.

"How did it go?" she asked.

Moriarty sauntered in and switched on every light he passed.

"Oh, marvelous. Brought you something."

He set down a Styrofoam cup of tea, and a delicately-wrapped pastry.

"Waited at that dreadful café for ages. I had a date, but she cancelled on me. Smarter than I thought she was…" He explained, "I took pictures for you."

"Of…?"

"Their flat. Pleasant little place."

"Their flat?"

"Sherlock and his pet. A watch-dog, I suppose. Rather like you, Irene."

"I doubt it." She said, standing and loosening his tie, "I work for you, don't I, James?"

"If that's what you call it."

She slid off his jacket and tossed it to the ground. The man looked only at his phone, even as Irene pricked his neck with her nails, and slammed her lips against his shirt-collar. As he saw the pictures, he recalled:

"And he never sleeps; Sherlock. Had to leave his gift outside for the landlady."

"What did you give him?" Irene sampled the tea and the pastry, but enjoyed neither.

"Just a few clues. It's all a game, remember?"

She nodded as she flipped through the pictures. She was pleased to memorize the layout of the rooms.

"I need him to bet on a horse for me."


To say Sherlock was the first to awaken in the household would be incorrect, as he'd never fallen asleep the previous evening. He spent those dark, quiet, and – as he called them – respectful hours contemplating the familiar cologne that hovered into his bedroom, and constructing the purpose of the heavy footsteps he heard outside. He did, however, enjoy the excuse of remaining in his bedroom until someone made something for breakfast. It would be Mrs. Hudson today, he guessed. Well, he knew. He heard her voice, then John's:

"Is he still asleep? That can't be healthy…" Three plates, all different sizes, were placed on the table.

"Will be, for Sherlock." the dining chairs skidded against the floor, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll just take the newspaper."

As Sherlock heard the crisp paper unfold, he slinked from his room.

"Someone's been here." He said, not waiting for John to look. The doctor, although mostly accustomed to this behaviour, still jumped in his seat.

"What?" he wiped up the bit of coffee he'd spilled. The mug was halfway between his saucer and his lips when Sherlock surprised him.

"Moriarty was here last night." The cologne was stronger in the dining-room, and Sherlock tracked it to his arm-chair.

"In our flat?" his eyes followed the detective, "Sherlock, here?"

"Yes. Obviously."

He produced, from his armchair, his violin-bow. While the wood was intact, all its fibres were cut.

"And of course he'd ruin the good one." Said Sherlock, "Horse-hair. Didn't bother with the one in my case, or on the bookshelf, or in my bedroom. Nylon."

Still clutching the bow, Sherlock joined John at the table. Without looking, he stole a piece of toast from John's plate, but replaced it after one disappointed bite.

"Wrong." He told himself, dismissing a stack of theories, "There must be another one… somewhere."

"Sorry," said John, cutting off the borrowed bit of his toast, "one what?"

"He didn't come to kill us, obviously, but was very particular in what he did. There must be a reason."

As a precaution, Mrs. Hudson tapped their door before entering. With her, was an envelope.

"Someone's left this at my door by mistake."

"Who sent it?" asked John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There's no address." He said, not bothering to look at it, "This is the one."

He was correct. Mrs. Hudson placed the packet between them, despite the fact it was addressed solely to Sherlock, and retired from the room.

"Moriarty?" John asked, leaning in.

"Good, John." Sherlock nudged, as he peeled the envelope apart, "It's nice my doctor doesn't lack all of his common sense."

John folded up his newspaper, rubbed his eyes, and decided bickering was pointless. Sherlock considered this his second display of logic so far, and allowed him to study the contents first, as a reward.

"What? Sherlock, I won't be—" He was presented with a five-pound note, a knot of red string, and a rubber stamp which read, '20'.

"What do you think, John?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, it just looks—"

"I don't know, either. But I've some ideas, and I think we should compare. What do you think, John?"

"Alright, I heard you. Uhm," he picked up the string and stretched it, "it's not supposed to be a noose, is it?"

"Hadn't thought of that."

"So it's…?"

"I hadn't thought of that because it's wrong."

"Okay, fine." John's waning confidence was washed over completely. He slumped back in the chair and crossed his arms.

Sherlock took the stamp and pressed it over the newspaper.

"Invisible ink?" asked John.

"Of course not." Said Sherlock, "This isn't one of your movies."

"My movies?"

"The ones you watch. It doesn't matter." He considered the money, then placed it in his wallet, "Come on."

"What, where are we going? Sherlock, I'm not even dressed."

"Hadn't noticed."

The detective stood, waited impatiently for John to rush to his room, and finalized his theory.

"We're going to Folstone Downs."

"The racetrack?" John had just arrived at the base of the stairs, still tugging at his shirt.

"Obviously. I'll get a cab."

"Guess I'll wait to ask, then." Said John, following his friend down the stairs, "Need something to do on the ride there, I suppose."

Sherlock stopped the first passing taxi, and they clambered in.

"Go on." He said, after shutting the door.

"Why are we going to a racetrack?"

"To bet on a horse." he said flatly, looking at the new addition to his wallet.

"Just whatever one we want?"

"No. Don't know which horse, but I'm certain of the track."

"Great. How d'you figure?"

"The stamp, John, is rubber. Folstone is the closest synthetic track, so it's the first we'll go to. There's no reason for it to be wrong. And I didn't consider car-tracks, because of the..." Sherlock paused and waved his hands at John, as if conducting him.

"Your bow... Horse-hair." John was pleased with himself, but quickly overshadowed by his companion:

"Then the string, I haven't a clue, but the note is definitely for us to bet with."

"What about the number?"

"Twenty? Could be a million different things. The post, the jockey's age, the race programme, the odds… It's all numbers."

"He'd want us to pick a specific horse, wouldn't he? So it wouldn't just be luck."

"I doubt there's luck involved. Moriarty's taken its place."

"You think he's fixing races?"

"As a hobby, maybe. But this is something else. Completely unrelated, in fact."

"Obviously." Muttered John. Sherlock turned, eyes harsh:

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock asked, after a comfortable span of staring through the window. He noted the signs and filed them away.

"'Course not."

"Should've done. I don't think there'll be any danger, but it never hurts."

"It does," said John, rubbing compulsively at his shoulder, "That's all it does."