"Oh, Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock slammed the door behind him and made for the stairs. Mrs Hudson blocked his path, a matronly, worried look on her kind face. He frowned at her. "If you wouldn't mind."

A pained look passed over Mrs Hudson's face; Sherlock gritted his teeth. He loved the old woman, her smile, her helpfulness, her remarkably good tea, but there was a time and a place for her surrogate love, and this was neither. "Mrs Hudson, I just spent 3 hours sitting in a darkened room, my head is pounding and the cabbie said my smell was offending him so I had to walk from Piccadilly Circus. Now, please, for the love of God, let me through!"

Mrs Hudson let out a squeak and stepped to the side, letting Sherlock pass through the narrow gap on the stairs. "Thank you," he said sarcastically, grasping the bannister and glaring at the kind old woman.

"Oh, Sherlock, before you go – there's a man upstairs. Says he needs to speak to you quite urgently. I told him you weren't in but he refused to leave."

Sherlock waved a hand behind him and started walking up the stairs, still gritting his teeth and growling in the back of his throat. "He can wait until I have a shower."

"But he's already been here three hours-

"So surely he wouldn't mind waiting a little more!" Sherlock slammed the door to the flat behind him, anger pulsing through his veins. Offensive stupidity should be banned – Mrs Hudson should be banned, the cabbie should be banned, that mother should be banned, Molly and Mary and John and Graham and Anderson and Sally should be banned, all banned and locked away, so it was only him on this world. The fantasy was appealing for a moment, but then he remembered the smart ones, Mycroft and Moriarty and his mother, still alive and bickering. The thought made him angrier still, and he whacked his hands against the door, ignoring the painful twitch in the crook of his elbow. Stupid, stupid, all stupid, every single one! Even he was stupid, stupid STUPID! The only smart one left was him, the "Did you miss me?" man, the spider and the fear and the Napoleon of Crime. A world without stupidity and he would rule...he would finally wear a crown.

"Ahem."

Sherlock growled under his breath and whipped round, his hands curled into tight fists and the taste in his mouth as sour as curdled milk. The client, yes, the client was always right, apparently, but not this, not this fool, this idiot, this man who stormed into his home and demanded to see him. Offensive stupidity; oh, it burned, it burned like poker on his skin (Russia, yes, Russia, with Mycroft watching and smiling as his baby brother howled in pain, red hot pokers and whips and knives and thumbscrews and sometimes, he enjoyed the pain).

Sherlock opened his mouth to shout, but the words died in his throat. The man looked up from the chair, hand curled round a china teacup, and said, softly, with calming Irish lilt; "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock stared, tried to think of something, anything, to say. Nothing. Not even any thoughts. Just…silence. For the first time ever, his head was quiet.

Moriarty shot him a smile and sipped from the teacup, before putting it down on the table. He was sitting in Sherlock's chair, legs held neatly together, hands on his lap. His gleaming eyes latched onto Sherlock's. "Sorry. Hope you don't mind. The door was open, and I haven't had a good cup of tea in ages." He paused – silence. "I've been watching you, you know. Looking for me. I thought you would have got it by now, but that brain of yours…so slow. So painfully…human. So I decided to pop in for a visit. A quick 'hello'." Pause – silence. Moriarty creased his brow. "Say something. Anything. I'm sure you have questions, Sherlock."

Sherlock licked his lips and tried to remember how to speak, how to be witty and smart. He felt numb. Dead.

"How did you do it?"

Moriarty shrugged. "How did you? You tried to trick the Trickster, Sherlock; surely you realised you'd get tricked right back." He paused and a grin spread over his face like an oil slick. "Not. Dead."

"But…but I watched you." Sherlock furrowed his brow and took a small step forward, raising his chin and straightening his back. Tall, strong, powerful – the fighter and the winner. He wouldn't let this quiver inside of him, like wavering note of a violin, come through. Not now. Not when he was back. Thoughts were beginning to wander into his brain again, slowly, gingerly, as though scared of another shock. Moriarty, in his living room, sitting the same way he did two years ago. That slick smile, that misleading tap.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Oh God, Sherlock, don't be so boring. Thousands of people watched you die, and yet, here we are. Walking, talking. Thinking." He stood up and smoothed down his suit before meandering around the room, pausing here and there to investigate books and tie-pins, apples and keys. One finger plucked delicately at a violin string. "How's John, may I ask?"

"John is…fine."

"Married to Miss Morstan, yes? I was at the wedding. Lovely affair. All that…yellow. And you, you were just brilliant. Slow, ordinary, sentimental, but brilliant. Do love a wedding, Sherlock. Can't wait to come to yours."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? I just want a chat. A little conversation. I saw you got rid of Magnussen - very rash of you, Sherlock, very rash. You're slipping. Slipping, falling, twirling…" He spiralled his hand through the air, calling to mind images of hummingbirds and songbirds, floating, flying. No, not birds. Bats. "You need help. And you won't find it at the bottom of a needle."

Sherlock covered the crook of his elbow with his hand, and glanced up, his steely eyes locking onto Moriarty's. His mind was buzzing again. "I'll repeat," he said, the edge in voice sharp as a rapier's cut. "What do you want? A man of your calibre does not just turn up at my door for a chat. You either want to kill me, which I doubt, or you want to intimidate me, which I also doubt, because we both learned on that rooftop that I can't be intimidated easily; not by you, not by anyone. That leaves only one option. You want me for something – you're here to recruit me."

"Recruit you? Recruit you! Why would I want to recruit you, Sherlock? I have a crown, I have a key, I have paid back the fall that I owed. Is it so hard to believe that I am simply here to chat?"

"Yes."

The smile slid of Moriarty's face and he turned away, back to Sherlock, facing the desk and the wall. "You're slow and getting slower, but I must concede, you aren't a fool. Look at me, truly look at me, and if you are the God you think you are, tell me why I'm here. The clues are all there, Sherlock – I made sure all of them were in plain sight. Now, find them. FIND THEM!"

Sherlock stared, mind beginning to race, eyes beginning to flit across the room. Something wasn't right. Something was off; a broken thread, a missing piece. But what? Moriarty doesn't just appear. He plans, he waits, he weaves his web. Something in this was a trap – and despite what he said, despite the assurances to the contrary, Sherlock knew that this was a recruitment mission. It was clear in his eyes, that silent but deep need inside him. What did Moriarty need with him? He was an enemy; ordinary, plain in Moriarty's eyes, not an equal but a ruling duke to his mighty king. Moriarty wanted him for something, but for what? And why? And what was this feeling, creeping up from the pit of his stomach, worming into his brain and burrowing through his mind that told him – screamed at him– that something was wrong? What?!

Think. Moriarty was here when he got in, tea made, ready and waiting. Was there hidden meaning in the mug, in the words he used? No, Sherlock didn't think so. Further back! Rewind, back, back, back. Mrs Hudson said there was a man upstairs…not Moriarty, but a man, a client. So, what, Moriarty had disguised himself? No. No makeup, no mask, no props. So why didn't Mrs Hudson recognise him? His face had been over the paper for weeks, months, years, grinning, staring with a madman intensity that made Sherlock's skin crawl. She knew who he was. So why…?

And there was something else. Something about that day…about the Richenbach Fall, as the papers seemed keen to call it. His death. A gun in the mouth, a bullet through the brain. Sherlock looked up; Moriarty was poking the horns of the bison on the wall, the back of his head clearly showing. Something off, something wrong…

Yes. The sniper had pulled the trigger; a thousand details connected to four massive words.

A smile lit up Sherlock's face and he walked forward, his head high and his fingertips touching in long and pointed triangle. "You're not him. You're not Moriarty."

There was a pause before Moriarty dipped his head and started to laugh. "You're getting better," he said, turning round. "Good, Sherlock, good. Now, can you tell me who I really am?" A glimmer appeared on Moriarty's face, vaguely gold and shimmering; underneath something was changing, the features shifting, the bone structure twisting and warping. The shimmer spread, growing – Moriarty grew taller, slimmer, his hair lengthening, his cheekbones rising and sharpening. Gun. Behind the desk. A grab and a twitch, a bullet. Sherlock darted to the side, laid his hands on the sleek black weapon, twisted round and felt the trigger.

Time moved slowly, swimming through tar. The man staring down the barrel of the gun wasn't Moriarty anymore. No. This was something different; a taller man, with milky skin tinged with blue and swept back raven hair. He was dressed in leather, three different colours; gold for riches, black for death, and green for envy. A rigid coat brushed his ankles, and a gold buckle, gleaming dully in the light, went from the tip of one shoulder to the opposite hip. He looked at the gun and shook his head, a wry smile dancing on his lips. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

No time for a witty comeback – just the flash and smart of the gun. The bullet went through the leather like a knife through butter, straight to the left ventricle of the heart. Shock ran across the man's face, his dark eyes widening, his grasping fingers slowly reaching for the hole in his armour.

"You missed."

The voice came from behind him, and Sherlock barely had enough time to turn around before the gun was plucked from his hand and thrown into the kitchen sink. It was him, the man, smiling. Sherlock whipped round; the man he had shot was gone, vanished, not even a splatter of blood on the floor. No. What? Madness, stupidity. Was he going mad?

His voice came out as a quavering note...as a plea. "What?"