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For the rest of the morning, Moriarty remained in the hotel. He loved the thrill of exposure; he made a game of tapping every policeman on the shoulder, and asking about directions to a restaurant, or for help with finding other evacuated guests. Feeling particularly brave, he found the team of paramedics repackaging their equipment, and complained of a headache. When the scene was emptied, and the corpse removed, he found his way back to the suite, where he lounged on the bed and flipped through television channels. None had covered the murder. Anyway, his name would not be connected.

As a reward, he made a shopping detour on his walk home. There was one item on his list.

"Could I get that wrapped?" he grinned at the shopkeeper, "It's a gift."

"Anniversary?" asked the shopkeeper, pleasantly. Moriarty nodded, as the man folded wrapping-paper over the chosen bottle of wine. He then gestured at a wall of ribbons, all sizes and shades.

"A bow," Moriarty said, preparing to pay for it, "Would be lovely."

He selected a thick red ribbon, edged with gold.

Once again, John was confined to the couch. Lestrade stood between the windows; a sentry for both his car and companions. Sherlock was anxious, and unable to sit or stand for a reasonable time. His hands were constantly over John's, counting cuts and comparing temperatures. With the rag, still damp from the previous night, he scrubbed the blood from his blogger's lips.

"Stop moving." Sherlock grumbled. John rolled his eyes, which were barely open, and yanked his hands away. His wincing influenced the sarcasm:

"Alright, Show-off, give me a minute."

"Show-off?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and gave an impatient sigh, leaving John to diagnose himself:

"Distal radius fracture in," he held up his hands and tried to flex his fingers, "both wrists… so, broken. Couple cuts from hitting the railing, but nothing bad." He paused and listened, "Breathing's normal now..." He shut his mouth, and traced his tongue over his teeth, "Not bleeding anymore."

The doctor gave a weak smile, then spoke bitterly through blood-stained teeth:

"I have definitely been worse."

"You were limping again." Sherlock said, glaring at the staircase. Mrs Hudson was heard below, rummaging for her first-aid kit, as Sherlock had ordered.

"Ankle's sprained," he crossed his feet over the edge of the couch, placing the injured one on top, "Not broken. I knew I'd fall on it wrong... always do."

"Show-off." Sherlock repeated. He stood and turned toward the windows, followed dramatically by his coat.

Lestrade watched him.

"Speaking of," he began, "I could really do with a summary, before word gets out."

"It's nothing new," hummed Sherlock, clasping his fingers together, "A game, just like the last one."

"Could I just get some facts, please? I've a hard enough time tackling that, once the press start throwing out theories."

"You're right; you do have a hard time tackling facts."

Lestrade rolled his eyes:

"Seventy-two people evacuated... one of 'em's bound to say something."

"Is that all?" Sherlock was surprised to see he hadn't exited yet.

"Dunno why I bother." Lestrade said, mostly to himself, "We may need you at the Yard tomorrow."

"Text me." said Sherlock. He escorted Lestrade to the stairs, but no further.

Mrs Hudson immediately took the inspector's place:

"I've got some bandages for you, Dear, and a cold-pack."

"You're a saint." said John. He requested tea, which, after wedging the cold-pack beneath his ankle, she rushed to prepare.

Sherlock unravelled every bandage, then accepted John's advice on applying them. They were fastened a bit tighter than necessary, and John shrugged. He accepted the aspirin Sherlock brought, still on the table from the previous evening.

"You're right, though." he said, sleepily, "I shouldn't move much."

It was difficult for Sherlock to be annoyed with his patient; he quarrelled with his own laziness instead.

"Could I have my laptop?" John asked, turning his head to it. One hand was crumpled in his lap, useless, while the other did a shaky job at holding his teacup.

Sherlock huffed, retrieved the computer, and set it on the armrest.

"Why?" he asked, leaning over to unfold it and enter John's password.

"I've a blog to update." He looked apologetically at Sherlock, "You'll need to type, though."

When Moriarty returned to his home, the sun was once again beginning its descent. Irene was there already, leaning against the front door and glaring. Her heel, red to match her lips, dug into the wood.

"You're back late, James." She told him, as he reached for his keys.

"Had to stop somewhere first, Irene. Got you something."

She followed him inside as he revealed the wine-bottle. Irene tore off the bow, and tied it up into her hair, instead.

"I've been a bit excessive," he said, citing its price-label, "But I felt like celebrating."

In a single, swift motion, Irene slid off his necktie, and tossed it to the couch.

"I used every trick you taught me." He ignored her advances, and went to the kitchen to prepare the wine.

"On Sherlock?" She took her customary seat on the couch, scooping up the tie and lacing it through her fingers.

"Heavens, no. He's not very… open to that sort of thing. His pet, though, should always be kept on a lead."

Irene grinned, as Moriarty passed her a glass, brimming with the sweet-scented wine. He sipped his, looking thoughtful.

"I imagine Sherlock thinks of me as a composer… that I write out little puzzles and let him have his fun." He swished the wine around in the glass, "He's wrong, though. I'm the conductor. He can compose whatever theory he wishes, but I tell him exactly what to do, and when, and how. He'll always dance as I tell him. Every. Step."

In the following days, Sherlock fashioned his retired violin-bows into splints. John insisted the injuries were average and minor, and a hospital visit would do nothing but waste a lot of time and money. So, he rested on the couch and skimmed his stack of books and newspapers. Sherlock refreshed these daily, and his coffee-cup hourly. John would've been annoyed, had his hovering not been so genuinely well-intentioned.

Inevitably, though, Sherlock became bored:

He paced behind the couch and read over John's shoulder, voicing conclusions before John reached the bottom of the page. He tried thirty new ways of making coffee, which all ended as he expected. He found an article on the hotel evacuation, which he dismissed for being both a week too late and entirely incorrect.

"You can sit down." John offered, tossing his left hand toward the armchair, "Check the blog?"

"Nothing new," He muttered, taking his seat, "Except a comment from Stamford."

"How's he?"

"He asked how you were."

"Tell him 'fine', then, would you?"

Sherlock took the laptop and responded in a method of his own choosing. John would read and correct it eventually, as he'd done with the case-summary. As always, he dramatised it, but had yet to think of a matching title. With this, Sherlock refused to help him.

"I'm sorry about breakfast, boys." Mrs Hudson's voice echoed as she ascended the stairs, "Overslept."

She was, both John and Sherlock noticed, a great deal later than usual. The landlady continued apologising, as Sherlock guided John to the dining-room and ensured his chair was comfortable and injured foot was accommodated.

Sherlock set out the plates, three as always, while Mrs Hudson watched. She spoke quietly, as she looked through the window:

"Almost forgot," She took a long, thin package from under her arm and set it between them, "Someone's left this at my door by mistake."

It was wrapped in inoffensive brown paper, and bore Sherlock's name on a label in the centre.

"Thank you." Said John, then Sherlock. She nodded, graciously, and waited. Sherlock's glare, and insistence he heard her kettle whistling, forced her from the room.

"Aren't you going to open it?" John watched as Sherlock tapped the box and turned it over. His mind was occupied by the paper, and discerning its history. The nail-polish along the corner certainly belonged to Mrs Hudson, but suggested she received it earlier than that morning.

"Obviously." Said Sherlock. He stood and retrieved the letter-opener, then sawed madly at the top of the package. When done with the box, he shoved it aside, eager to examine the contents:

A violin-bow.

"Horse-hair." said John, with a smile.

"Obviously." Sherlock repeated. Hiding a similar smile, he dug out his instrument from beneath a stack of rejected newspapers. While John finished his breakfast, Sherlock played.

In the time it took John to heal completely, Sherlock composed a thorough musical account of their latest case. John was content to listen and inspired to enhance the version on the blog. He typed what the song told him:

The Adventure of the Dancing Men