With unfettered access to the Bellagio casino now at their fingertips and Mike Stamford regularly drip-feeding information to them in regards to the internal running of the casino, it was soon decided that it was time for Simone Zerga, wealthy German widow, to make her debut. Of course, that called for some new clothes.

Martha Hudson gazed into the set of full-length mirrors in front of her. A fresh-faced tailor stood next to her, watching with a patient smile as Martha touched hesitantly at the silken fabric of the suit jacket she now wore. Behind her, on a large sofa, sat Sherlock and his brother. Mycroft tilted his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

"I wouldn't ask." Sherlock's voice was quiet, yet still somehow managed to sound endlessly smug. Dismissing the comment, Mycroft looked to Martha.

"Mrs Hudson," he said idly, and he twirled his cane between his fingers. "Are you entirely sure you're ready to go through with this scheme?"

Martha made no immediate response. Instead, she swallowed, glanced at Sherlock through the mirror and turned. Her eyes locked onto Mycroft's. Her gaze was steely. Sherlock was pretty sure it was the first time he had ever seen his brother actually flinch before.

"Dear, if you ever ask me that again,"—her tone was unnervingly steady—"then I can assure you that you will not live to see the beginning of next week." She gave a sweet and sincere smile. "Is that understood?"

She tugged pointedly at the hem of her jacket and turned away as Sherlock poorly stifled a laugh. Mycroft, suitably chastised, remained silent.

It was later on that afternoon that a large black car pulled up to the sidewalk of the Bellagio casino and two well-suited men, fitted with earpieces and dark glasses, got out. As the smaller of the two retrieved several shoulder bags and suitcases from the boot, the taller man moved towards the passenger side door and opened it. A woman stepped out, her eyes narrowed in a severe gaze as they absorbed the opulent sight of the casino. As the arrival of Simone Zerga had been eagerly expected by both floor and managerial staff, no-one offered her any sort of verbal greeting but instead gave polite, short nods as she strolled through the casino, towards the hotel.

Sat outside the entrance to the casino's restaurant, Mary and John watched Martha make her way past them. Mycroft's fears were unfounded. She gave off the image of a woman deeply convinced of her own superiority perfectly well. One could see why Sherlock Holmes respected her so much. (He may never have spoken of the respect out loud, nor even shown it that well, but the fact that he was so ready to put so much of the con onto her shoulders spoke volumes.)

Mary glanced at her watch. "Hm. Moriarty should be arriving by now."

"Oh, yeah." John lazily picked at the portion of shrimps he had decided to indulge in. "C'mon then – what's his routine?"

"He arrives here, at the main entrance, at two o'clock every day," Mary said, shifting a little in her seat. "Greets the valet as he steps inside. They're different each day, but he remembers all of their names."

"He's a charmer then."

"Charming enough for people not to notice how much he dislikes them," Mary retorted, to which John chuckled, drawing his finger against his mouth and gesturing in an invitation for her to continue. A brief smile flicked across Mary's mouth, picking out a shrimp and chewing on it. "After arriving, Moriarty makes his way up to his office, where he works until about seven o'clock, which is when he goes to the main floor. There, he talks with Sebastian Moran, the casino manager and pretty much Moriarty's right-hand man."

"How long do they talk? An hour? Half an hour?"

Mary shrugged. "Only a few minutes. If he's there for more than ten minutes, it's usually to deal with a problem. Once he's done with Moran, he heads to the high rollers tables; spends a few moments talking to them and thanking them for choosing his casino. They're smart though – they can tell he's only there out of professional courtesy, so he doesn't stay long."

"And after that?" John asked, running his fingers against his chin. For someone who had purported reluctance towards tailing anyone, she was awfully thorough.

"At 7:30, he leaves for the casino entrance where he's handed a black portfolio which contains profits for the day and the new security codes." Just as Mary finished, Moriarty duly breezed past them and walked towards the casino entrance where a staff member stepped forward and pressed a black folder into his palm. John flicked a grin.

"Impressive."

"You told me to follow him. By the way—" Mary said and she lowered her voice as she leaned towards John. "You do know who you're dealing with, don't you? If this thing succeeds, Moriarty isn't going to let this go. I presume you've heard about the last time someone tried to cheat in one of Moriarty's casinos."

"I did. And you don't have to worry – Sherlock knows what he's doing."

Mary dropped her gaze, scratching at her knee in thought. "I like to think that's true."

John let her statement hang in the air, unanswered, and pointed out to the sidewalk, where Moriarty, still holding the black portfolio, stood.

"He hasn't left yet. Why's that?"

"Oh – forgot to mention that. He's waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Mary only shrugged and shook her head. "No idea. Don't know who she is."

"She?" John asked, incredulous and his eyes soon zeroed in on a silver car pulling up to the sidewalk, which Moriarty quickly walked towards as the passenger door opened. A woman stepped out. Greeting Moriarty with a delicate smile, she allowed him to steer her gently into the casino, chatting amiably to him as she brushed a curl of her long, chestnut hair out of her eyes.

"They usually head towards the restaurant," Mary said. "I've no idea if she could be important or not, but I suppose with a little more digging—"

"She is important." John's tone was short and curt. He stood, buttoning his jacket. His eyes remained locked on the retreating form of the woman. Mary frowned, sitting up.

"John? What – how is she important? How—"

"She is Sherlock's ex-wife."

Another significant aspect to the planning of the heist had been that of construction. Under Sherlock's keen supervision and through the use of the obtained architectural plans of the Bellagio vault, the group had been able to begin reconstructing the design and structure of the vault in an abandoned warehouse, conveniently owned by one Mycroft Holmes. That evening, Sherlock had been absorbed in supervising the final stage of the build. His absorption was soon disrupted when he felt an almost violent tug at his arm. Turning his head, he came face to face with a decidedly seething John Watson.

"We need to talk."

Sherlock knew a command when he heard one.

"Maybe we should take this outside." He turned away and began to walk towards the street outside the warehouse, but they were barely outside before John finally managed to speak.

"I swear, Sherlock," he breathed. "I swear I will punch you. You promised me that this wasn't about her."

Sherlock said nothing but only moved his head a little and stuck a cigarette between his lips, only to have John immediately wrench it away and throw it onto the concrete.

"Is this about her? Answer me," he bit out, tucking his hands against his hips. Sherlock shrugged.

"A bit."

"You bastard!" John's anger echoed. "Sherlock—"

"John, listen. Listen to me." Sherlock stepped forward. His tone was calm, but the passion behind it was obvious. "When I began in this world, and this business, I had one rule and one rule only. One which you adopted."

"Play the game as if you had nothing to lose."

"Nothing to lose, exactly. I lived by that rule for years – it was easy for me to do so. Until I gained something. I gained a marriage – in truth, I gained Molly."

"And by your own actions, Sherlock, you lost her."

"I wasn't the one who filed the divorce papers," Sherlock said pointedly. He gave a shrug. "But you're right. I did do something wrong; I made a mistake. I went to prison, and I lost her as a result. That's why I'm here."

"Okay, okay. So let's say you are here to atone for what you did – what happens if this job goes wrong, hmm? What happens if you are, again, forced to make a choice?"

Sherlock held his gaze. When he spoke, his voice—his demeanour—was assured and confident.

"I'm not going to have to be the one who makes that choice, John."

It was on the train that he'd found her. Freshly showered and suited and already with the seed of an idea planted into his mind by one Irene Adler, Sherlock had settled easily into his reserved seat in the train carriage and had folded out the newspaper he held in his hand. The headline screamed out at him again.

LUCK BE A LADY: TYCOON JAMES MORIARTY BUYS THIRD CASINO

With a laugh, he had gone straight to the page of the main article. The article was the same old tabloid guff, spreading rumour as if it were true fact with only snatches of real information peppered within the words to make it seem like plausible journalism. There were a few sentences however, that did pop out at him. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned forward, peering at the small newsprint.

"His most recent companion…" he read out, letting the words roll around in his mouth. His most recent companion, who still remains unidentified. Sherlock's eyes traced over the rest of the article, but there was no more mention of said companion or any connection they had with Jim Moriarty. No potential for importance. He was more than prepared to dismiss the companion as little than more than a trophy girlfriend—common among people like Moriarty—until he managed to zero in on a picture which accompanied the article. Taken by the paparazzi, it was one of Moriarty, heading quickly out of the MGM Grand casino, with a smile plastered onto his features for the cameras as his bouncers moved on ahead, forging a path through the photographers. Just off to the centre of the photograph however, was the aforementioned companion. Moriarty's hand was wrapped tightly around hers. She had her head down, presumably out of embarrassment over being photographed in such an invasive manner, but Sherlock Holmes knew his ex-wife anywhere.

With a smile, he closed the newspaper and folded it up, dropping it onto the seat beside him. He stared out of the window, his gaze just briefly flicking towards the headline. His smile grew. Luck be a lady indeed.

"How did she look?"

John huffed, unable to really believe the tenacity of his friend. "She looked – great, actually."

Sherlock smiled, but said nothing. Instead, he turned and quickly headed back into the warehouse. John closed his eyes and shook his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Even if John didn't kill Sherlock soon, purely out of frustration, he had an almighty feeling that Molly Hooper might just do it for him.