Finally it was quiet inside his head. Sherlock supposed he must have fallen asleep; certainly his body didn't seem to be of any consequence at the moment, but he felt like he was thinking clearly for the first time in days. He knew he'd over done it and had been a bit concerned at first that he'd gone too far, even for him. But the worst had passed, and he was aware of a cool sensation, radiating from his forehead that seemed to suffuse his whole being and bring clarity. He was floating. He felt like a balloon, like he might just drift up and away from everything if he weren't tethered somehow. It was a paltry little string that held him, he could break it if he wanted to and fly off, but he didn't want to right now. Now he wanted to think.

In the darkness of his head he pulled up every event, every detail connected with Moriarty. He scrutinized them again, frame by frame, trying to find a connection, a clue, anything. Five pips. Carl Powers. Trains. Missile plans. Columbia. A golem. A Vermeer. They only thing they had in common was Moriarty himself, his illustrious career as a consulting criminal, like a trophy wall leading Sherlock straight to him. Moriarty did not want to be found now, but he still liked trophies. There must be something he was missing.

Carefully, Sherlock went through the timeline again. He stopped on his first unwitting meeting with Moriarty, in the lab at the hospital. He cursed himself. He had been so clever, so intent on showing off and so focused on what he thought was the real case. He had caught every detail and yet still missed the essence of what was right in front of him. Moriarty was good, but Sherlock should have been better. Still, Moriarty had been showing off as well. He played that scene over and over again. It held the key, he was sure now. But where was it?

His mind focused suddenly, with laser-like precision on a small piece of paper. Of course! How could he have been so blind? The answer had been staring him in the face for days, and he had ignored it, obstinately, time and time again. He groped blindly for consciousness, struggling through layers of exhaustion and chemicals, searching for a signpost that would help him get back to the world. His tether – a warm hand in his, anchoring a body that felt so far away. He went towards it.

John had spent the night half-dozing in the uncomfortable chair, occasionally jerking awake with a start to reassure himself that Sherlock was still breathing. Sherlock's hand still gripped his, and he kept his fingers on the slender wrist, the soft but steady beat easing his worry. Suddenly, just as John was in a drowsy moment between sleep and wakefulness, Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed. "The phone number!" he shouted.

John shot awake, startled. "Lie back down, you're not well," he managed, willing his heart rate to return to normal. Sherlock must have been dreaming.

"I am well, I'm better than well, I'm fantastic! Why are we holding hands? Why am I wearing your trousers?" Sherlock looked down, confused. "Is there something we need to talk about?"

"Aside from your recreational use of street drugs? No. I was keeping an eye on your pulse. You know, to make sure you didn't die. As for the trousers, you would know better than me. You were wearing them when I got home."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Well, I'll see that it doesn't happen again." He leapt to his feet. "I'm going out – may be gone for some time, don't wait up!"

John blocked the door. "Absolutely not. You still haven't eaten, you look like death, and you nearly overdosed last night."

"Nonsense, John, I'm the picture of health," Sherlock pulled his sallow features into what he clearly thought was a convincing smile. "See? All I needed was a good night's sleep."

"A drug-induced coma is not the same as a good night's sleep!"

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and pushed past John, thundering down the stairs two at a time. There was no denying he seemed energized and the sparkle was back in his eyes, but John could not see how he could possibly function given the events of the last week. Did the man actually live on his nerves? He trailed after him.

Sherlock was rummaging for his phone. "Alright, I can't stop you but I'm going with you," John said firmly. "If nothing else, you need medical supervision."

The taller man located and pocketed his mobile and wallet, and put on a pair of dressing slippers. "I'm sorry John, that just won't do. Besides, you look exhausted. You really should get some rest."

He bolted for the door. "Sherlock, you can't go out like that – it's freezing out there!" John protested. Sherlock was still bare-chested, wearing only the scarf and the trousers, which hung off his too-prominent hip bones and still barely reached his calves.

Sherlock paused and examined himself. "Quite right, John," he agreed. He grabbed his coat off the hook, stuffed something in the pocket, and tightened it around himself. He adjusted his scarf. "Much better. What would I do without you?"

"Was that my gun you just made off with?" John asked weakly. "And I suppose shoes and a shirt would take too much time?"

"Why would I take your gun? John, you must be seeing things." Sherlock grinned at him, turned up his collar, and was gone. John considered following him, but decided it would be a futile effort. Clearly Sherlock had a mission in mind. What had he shouted upon waking? John had been half asleep, but assumed it must have something to do with Moriarty. He only hoped Sherlock wasn't going to do anything too foolish.

John opened his phone. SH off hunting. Think he has a lead on M. Danger. – JW. He left out mention of last night's events. Mycroft didn't need to know. A moment later a reply came.

He already lost the tail I put on him, but we'll pick him up again. Call if any news. – MH.

John did not find this reassuring, but couldn't think of a course of action other than to wait. He made a pot of tea.

Sherlock darted through the streets of London, moving quickly, circuitously, blood pumping and mind whirling. Watching his movements, no one could possibly derive his goal with any level of certainty. He'd already disposed handily of the two men on foot, one woman on a bicycle, and the black town car which appeared to have been shadowing him. At least one of the men on foot had been a bobby, probably one of Lestrade's men. The car and the bicyclist had certainly been his brother's. As for the other man, he suspected Moriarty, although that was probably not subtle enough for his taste. In the end it didn't matter who was following him and why, provided he could get rid of them.

The phone number! That was the important thing. The number Jim had slipped under his book in the lab, while playing the part of Molly's boyfriend. He'd discounted it as a pick-up attempt at the time, and after the pool had discounted it again. It certainly rang to an untraceable cellphone that would deactivated after their little meeting. Moriarty would never have been so foolish as to leave such an obviously loose end.

But, Sherlock now realized, he wouldn't have been able to resist leaving something behind. A hint, a last gloating message. Something Sherlock could use to find him, intentionally or not. That was his weakness – he couldn't resist boasting, toying with people, with Sherlock particularly. He wanted Sherlock to know he was better than him. That was how he could be beaten.

Sherlock had tried to conjure up the number in his mind, but could only retrieve a few digits. He had only glanced at it once – normally that would be enough, but he had crumpled the paper when picking it up, in his annoyance over being disturbed in his work. Half the digits had been obscured. It was no use, he could not reasonably deduce the other numbers. He needed the note. It would still be amongst the piles of books and papers he'd left in the lab, he was sure of it. Molly never touched his things when he left them there, and never let anyone else touch them either. It looked like trash, but unless it had fallen to the floor it would be undisturbed.

It took him the better part of three hours to reach St. Bart's. He had perhaps been overly cautious in his route, but there was something to be said for paranoia. The lab was deserted. It was a Sunday, he realized with a start. He had quite lost track. He ran to the messy corner of the lab bench he had claimed as his own, scattering books and notes and slides carelessly in his haste. There it was. Scrawled in spidery writing:

(058) 7838-8382

He scrolled through his mental list of area codes. No country code, so must be inside the U.K. The area code indicated a large city, but it didn't match any he had on file. Of course creating a working phone number that matched no known location would be child's play for Moriarty. But why bother, why not just take a random number? It must be a message.

He closed his eyes and visualized the numbers floating in front of him. Was it a code or a password? No. It would be words, a clue. But what was the cypher? He tried various common encryption algorithms. Gibberish. Suddenly he smiled. It was simple, like the phone number. Moriarty did want to be found. He wasn't taking any risks that Sherlock would be unable to solve the puzzle. The numbers merely corresponded to the alphabet on a phone keypad. He deduced the most likely letters to be used in combination with each other. Leaving off the leading null, it left him with:

JU RUET TEUB

He allowed the letters to rearrange themselves in his mind's eye until at last they settled into a recognizable form.

ET TU, BRUTE? – J

He laughed out loud. Moriarty felt hurt by him! That was a good joke indeed. If tracking down a criminal he had never met until recently was a betrayal, then he was happy to play that part. He took out his phone and dialed the number, not as written but in its unscrambled form: (038) 8827-8835.

It rang too long. Just as he was beginning to doubt that it was still connected, a confused female voice answered.

"Hello? Who is this?" He knew that voice.

"Molly," he said. Of course.

"Sherlock is that you? What are you doing calling me on this number?"

"Molly, tell me quickly, where did you get that phone? It's very important."

"I…I don't know… I heard ringing but it wasn't my mobile. I found this one behind some books in my flat. It's not mine, I don't know where it came from. Someone must have left it here. Is something wrong? Something's wrong I know it." She was tense, babbling as she always did when afraid.

"No, Molly, everything is exactly right. Turn the power off and take the battery out, then go outside," he said, flipping his phone shut. He waited 60 seconds and re-dialed Molly's actual mobile number. She answered immediately.

"Sherlock, what –" she began. "

"Listen to me carefully. I want you to hang up and leave your flat immediately. Bring the mobile you found. Go to Regent's Park. I will meet you there, on the outside of the zoo near the aviary. Don't get a cab on your street. Walk three streets over, and change cabs at least once on the way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but –"

"Now!" He ended the call. Had Moriarty left the phone at her apartment while he was pretending to date her, or had he planted it after their encounter at the pool? Did it matter? His point was clear. Molly was yet another trophy waiting to be collected. Just like the others. Just like John. Just like Sherlock, ultimately. Moriarty would know by now that he had found the phone, he'd be a fool if he hadn't set it to signal him when it was activated, but hoped that his precautions would be enough to keep Moriarty from knowing where Molly was meeting him. Her flat was certainly bugged, but he was gambling that there wasn't outside surveillance on her home. Nothing to be done if there was, anyway.

He made his way carefully to Regent's Park, disguising his path as well as he could, although he had to hurry – he did not want Molly to reach their meeting spot before he did, and it was starting to get dark.

Sherlock made it there with only moments to spare, and did not seem to have been followed. Molly appeared shortly, looking nervous.

"Do you have it?" he demanded. She nodded and dug in her purse, retrieving a cheap prepaid flip phone and its disconnected battery.

He took it. "Good girl. Now tell me, did you notice anything out of the ordinary today, anything at all in your apartment or on the way here? Think!"

"N-nothing. Nothing. Just the mystery mobile and you acting all dodgy. What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said dismissively.

"This phone was in my house and I didn't put it there, and I don't think any of my friends did either, so yes I am very worried about it!" It wasn't like Molly to be so firm, she must be quite upset. "It was him, wasn't? Jim? Moriarty? He did this. What does it mean?"

Sherlock relented. "Yes, it was him. What it means for you is that you will not go home tonight. You will stay with a friend, but not too close of a friend and not family. Tomorrow you will go home and you will search every corner of your flat and all of your possessions and discard anything that seems out of place. You will change your locks and give the key to no one, and change your mobile phone and number and all your internet passwords." He considered telling her to move to a new flat, but Moriarty would find her in any case if he wanted to – he could find anyone. The best Sherlock could do was make sure he didn't have completely free access to her home, person, or data. He made a mental note to search her flat for bugs himself when he was done with this business – she would never find them all.

"Is it that serious?" she asked, more frightened than ever.

"Yes. Maybe."

"And what does this mean for you?" she ventured.

"That's what I plan to find out." He tightened his scarf. "Go, get to a friend's before dark. Don't tell me where you're going."

She nodded. She reached out and touched him lightly on the arm. "Be careful?"

"I am nothing if not careful," he said, flashing her a hollow smile. She left and he followed her discreetly until she got safely in a cab. Then he turned his attention to the mobile. There didn't seem to be anything amiss with it. He re-inserted the battery and powered up the phone, listening for any faint signal or sign that additional hardware had been installed. There was nothing.

The phone was empty except for his own mobile number in the contacts. There were signs of a number of deleted outgoing text messages, probably automated and triggered by certain activities, but no way to quickly retrieve them. And there was one incoming text message, sent less than an hour ago. Two lines of text from a blocked number. The first read "Totus mundus agit histrionem". Latin again. All the world plays the actor. He knew that phrase. Another Shakespeare quotation as well. It was the motto of the Globe Theatre. Clearly, Moriarty was expecting him.

The second line read "Ego futui domina – J". I fucked the lady. Sherlock's thin lips narrowed even further. He threw the phone to the sidewalk, and ground it into the pavement with his foot for good measure.