Wow…I didn't think it was that serious. I'm sorry. I had no idea it would affect everyone that much.

I'm sorry.

Thanks to all those who reviewed anyway, too!

TheSmilingCat

My Beautiful Ending

Guest

lesser mortal

AppleGirlin

Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat.

Logical Fallacy (2X)

NokNok JJ

FlyingPigMonkey

Basically what I have to explain is that Jim didn't want to hurt Molly but if she 'called his bluff' and he didn't do anything then he'd look weak and stupid and she'd win.

Jim doesn't let anyone beat him.

But it wasn't actually serious what he did. Shallow, unpainful wounds. Like shaving cuts, really. We ladies survive those all the time.

He was making a point, he wasn't trying to hurt her.

And she didn't get physically hurt, she was just emotionally hurt because she obviously didn't want him to do that.

But before you feel too bad for Molly, remember that she did kinda paralyze Jim and trap him in the morgue for three days.

Jim didn't just 'forgive' her for that, he just bided his time to get his revenge.

And to him, it's just part of the game, just what makes their relationship interesting to him (and readers, too, hopefully). He would love to go back and forth forever.

Molly, of course, would not lol.

I hope that clears everything up and again I am sorry.

I hope I didn't disturb anybody.

And like I always say, please don't hate me!

Sherlock.

Jim Moriarty is alive and he knows you are too.

He'll be coming for you.

I don't know when and I don't know what he'll do but I know he'll try to do something.

I'm so sorry.

For everything.

—Molly

When you wake up, you first try to remember your dreams.

(Fuzzy and full of emotion, like bits of memories that can't be placed and don't make sense anymore now that you're awake.)

Then you remember where you are.

(Safe at home, warm in your own bed? Somewhere unfamiliar where you don't belong?)

You let the morning and the atmosphere greet you as you float slowly into consciousness.

All is well, even if it's not.

And then you remember what happened the night before.

Everything that happened before, your life.

You remember who you are.

Molly and Jim opened their eyes.

The intangible, invisible force that allows you to just know because you feel awoke them at the same time the way it awakes you only a minute before your alarm.

Toby, however, it did not wake and the cat was still sleeping.

On top of them.

It was actually a sunny day today, and he was stretched out equally across their chests absorbing the sunlight and warmth that beamed in through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, casting lines of light and darkness across the room.

(Uneven, scattered but equal lines that coexisted next to each other, despite their contrast, and did not compete.)

Jim and Molly felt the warm weight on them and found themselves unable to move.

They looked at Toby first, then at each other.

They couldn't help but laugh, at first…

But then they remembered what had happened the night before. Everything that had happened before.

Then they remembered who they were.

"Anything I can get you, make you more comfortable?" Mycroft asked.

Moran rolled his eyes.

The employee (gray uniform instead of a black suit) released Moran from his handcuffs and even exited the office (leaving Mycroft an 'easy' target), but Moran knew he was being watched (and guessed that Mycroft's desk probably had a panic-button, too).

"Yeah." He snorted, "Bring back the pretty brunette. What was her name again? Athena or something?"

"I wouldn't know." Mycroft shrugged, "It's all Greek to me."

He chuckled at his own joke and Moran rolled his eyes.

Again.

He was beginning to get tired of this guy.

Mycroft leaned back comfortable in his chair, opening the newspaper he'd brought in with him this morning.

Moran scanned the headline.

'London Bomber Captured'

He then went on to read the first lines.

'The city can finally return to normal now that Sebastian Moran, the cause of the three non-fatal explosions, has been arrested.'

'The ex-sniper was working on behalf of an unknown businessman who funds terrorist organizations and recently defected to Iran, bringing with him British money and secrets.'

'Moran is also responsible for killing at least eight British and American soldiers in Afghanistan, proving that he was a secret agent for Al Qaeda his entire military career.'

'He also worked for a prominent private military firm but betrayed them obey the anonymous terrorist.'

'Authorities are searching the globe for his employer who gave him the orders to spread panic and terror throughout London and request anyone with information on this unnamed man to turn him in.'

Moran rolled his eyes a third time, but Mycroft could not see due the paper in front of his face and so Moran had to make another audible snort of dismissal and disapproval.

Mycroft set down the newspaper on the desk.

"I take it your not a fan of my fiction." He gathered.

"It won't work." Moran sated, "Now my employer will never come out of hiding and you'll never find him."

"Of course we will." Mycroft laughed, "Everyone in the business-world knows exactly who you were employed by. And now that you've been arrested, no one will give him shelter."

"What about the 'terrorists'?" Moran suggested, "I'm sure they'll be happy to help their new 'ally'."

"Perhaps…" Mycroft allowed, "But your employer won't be happy to help them. He doesn't want to be linked to any criminals. And so now he's left with two options."

"And what are those?" Moran took the bait.

"Come back to London to 'set the record straight' or be hunted down and captured." Mycroft declared, "Both result in him being in my custody."

"We'll see." Moran said.

"We will." Mycroft said.

Moran glared at Mycroft who smiled pleasantly back at him.

"Your employee…" Moran began.

"The dark-haired goddess?" Mycroft teased.

"No. The man who was just here." Moran corrected, "…he's not yours, is he?"

"Not technically." Mycroft explained, "I'm only borrowing him and a few of his coworkers—"

"From the defense-contracting firm." Moran completed, "I know. I recognize them. Used to work with some of them…are you sure you can trust them?"

"Yes." Mycroft affirmed, "They company alerted my people to your whereabouts, leading to your arrest and they've already assured me that the men guarding your employer will bring him to me."

"Really?" Moran asked, skeptically.

"…but, in case they don't…" Mycroft continued, "I still have my best employees out looking for him. That's why I'm renting out these soldiers. I only give them with domestic duties, though. Right here at 'home' where I can watch them."

"So you don't trust them, then." Moran reasoned.

"No, I do." Mycroft countered, "But I still trust my men more."

"Well, the company's men are better." Moran argued.

"No, they're not." Mycroft scoffed, "They hire just anyone, it seems. Even a sniper who's known to be a little too 'friendly' with his 'fire'."

"I've mellowed since my military days." Moran dismissed, "Once I had something to do, I didn't have that problem anymore."

"Oh, so you have that burning need for action too, I see." Mycroft accepted (sarcastically), "It's quite maladaptive in this day and age. I've never much understood it myself. I could spend my whole life behind a desk and never get bored."

"You'd get fat." Moran told him.

"There are worse things that could happen." Mycroft shrugged, "I could get killed if I went outside. Besides, that's what dieting's for."

"What dieting is for is women." Moran snorted.

"Well, women like men that can understand them and their troubles." Mycroft reminded.

"Yeah," Moran agreed, then adding "But men like that don't usually like women." with a laugh.

Mycroft laughed as well.

He was beginning to like this guy.

"You're awfully chatty today, Mr. Moran." He commented.

"It's an interrogation." Moran reasoned, "I'm supposed to talk, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are." Mycroft confirmed, "And I appreciate a prisoner who can hold a conversation. The last ones have been a bit boring…"

"This reminds me of the stupid counseling sessions they made me go to after I left the army." Moran recalled, "You're wasting your time and I'm wasting mine."

"I disagree." Mycroft smiled, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."

There wasn't much to say, really.

Just:

"Is there warm water in the shower?"

"Yes."

And:

"The clothes are in the car."

"I'll go get them."

Molly was polite, quiet and distant.

She avoiding Jim's gaze and when their eyes did meet, hers were…somewhere else.

Not empty—just gone.

When they would be back, Jim did not know.

When she would be back, Jim did not know.

There were no towels and so Molly used what she had worn yesterday to dry herself as she exited the shower in the bathroom upstairs.

They were wrinkled already and now they were wet.

But Jim's suit-jacket was neatly folded and dry.

She'd tried to return it to him:

"Here, this is yours."

"Keep it. I have others."

"It's fine. Take it—"

"No. Keep it."

"No."

And so now Toby had made a new bed (replacing his human one) on the folded jacket, sleeping the morning away while Molly and Jim got ready in almost-absolute silence.

When Molly stepped, hair still dripping, out of the bathroom Jim was waiting for her in the dim hallway.

He was holding out an outfit he'd picked out for her (from the shopping-bags (from the mall)) towards her.

It wasn't her normal style, but she took it anyway and changed back in the bathroom.

When she emerged again (this time wearing a lavender sundress) Jim was still there.

"It suits you." He said, admiring Molly in the dress he had chosen.

"Your turn." She said, not looking at him as she stepped aside to let him use the shower.

And she hadn't used all the hot water, too. She wasn't happy with him, but she wasn't being spiteful, either.

Jim wondered what Molly was thinking.

After taking a quicker shower than he preferred to and also using yesterday's clothes as a towel, he hurried out of the bathroom (this time wearing an olive suit).

And Molly wasn't gone.

She was standing there in the middle of the hall, staring at him.

Her eyes had returned.

She had returned.

"You're going to go after Sherlock, aren't you?" she stated, evenly.

"Yes." Jim stated, evenly "I am."

"Why?"

"Because it's what I do. I don't ask 'why'."

"You know it'll never end then."

"I know…But doesn't everyone want something that lasts forever? Someone…"

Jim tried to smile.

Molly tried to take a breath.

"You didn't ask me anything about him. You didn't try to get any information out of me."

"That's because I know you don't have any. You said it yourself, Sherlock doesn't trust you anymore."

"Then why…why did you do it? All that…just—just for fun?"

"Why did you? You acted as if you knew something about Sherlock when you didn't. You let me do 'all that' to you without saying a word about him…You were stalling me. Distracting me."

"Yes."

"You've already warned him that I know."

"Yes."

Jim chuckled.

Molly sighed.

"Still not 'choosing a side', then, Molly?...Or are you back on Sherlock's now?"

"No, Jim. I'm here. With you."

"You didn't tell Sherlock what happened, did you?"

"I didn't. But what I don't understand is, if you knew I didn't know anything…why not just go off looking for Sherlock, why waste time with me?"

"Because that wasn't about Sherlock! It was about me and you. About us."

Molly blinked at that, surprised.

Jim was glad he could still surprise her.

But then she turned away from him, shaking her head down at the floor.

"How can there even be an 'us', after what happened…?" she asked.

Jim took Molly's hand, unexpectedly and so she looked up at him.

"How can there not?" he asked.

Where was Sherlock?

All of his brother's employees were out searching the world for James Moriarty and Sherlock would have been able to evade their tail, anyway.

But Sherlock couldn't hide from Anthea.

She knew better than to try and follow Sherlock (who would notice he was being followed and escape).

She would be following the wrong man, then.

No, Anthea knew that all you had to do to find Sherlock Holmes was to find John Watson.

The businesswoman was in her office when two men knocked and entered.

They looked professional, yes, but not in the same way.

Military, maybe?

Or police?

"Hello, ma'am." The gray-haired man greeted, "I'm Detective Inspector Dimmock and this is…um…"

"Sergeant Anderson." The blond man identified himself.

"…Okay…" the woman acknowledged, looking up from her computer screen, "How can I help you?"

"We need to talk to you about when you were robbed by Moriarty." The first man stated.

"Oh, so you two actually believe me." the woman laughed, "Nobody took me seriously at the police station. They said Moriarty was dead. They said he wasn't real. They said I was crazy!"

"We know he was real and we know he's still alive." The second man declared.

"But how did you know it was him?" the first asked.

"That's easy." The businesswoman smiled, "It was his bank account. There was a message left for him with his name on it."

"A message?" the first man repeated, "From who?"

"A strange name." the woman shrugged, "Mycroft Holmes…"

"First Mycroft's people arrest Sebastian Moran and next day the news is saying he's the one responsible for the bombings—"

"—and then Mycroft's sending Moriarty messages on his bank account—"

"—So he knows what Moran's up to and is trying to stop him—"

"—Or he's trying to help him."

Lestrade and John paused in their 'deductions'.

They stood on the street outside the businesswoman's office building.

They didn't want to mistrust Mycroft…but there were too many questions, too many coincidences regarding Sherlock and Moriarty for them to just ignore the facts.

And the fact was that Mycroft Holmes was avoiding them.

He hadn't answered their many calls and he wasn't at the Diogenes Club the many times they'd looked for him there.

"Either way," Lestrade reasoned, "Mycroft knows something about this and he obviously doesn't wanna tell us."

"We can't worry about him right now." John decided, "Moriarty is more dangerous and so finding him has to be our priority. But if that leads us back to Mycroft…then we can deal with him, too."

"Well, since we can't get to Mycroft and we can't trust anybody at the Yard, either, we need to go to someone else for information." Lestrade suggested.

"Where?" John inquired, "Molly Hooper?"

"No." Lestrade answered, "We need to see the people that employed your 'friend', Sebastian Moran."

John nodded.

"Guess we're going back to the third bombing site, then." He accepted.

Sherlock watched John and Lestrade start down the sidewalk, back towards Lestrade's car.

Once they were a safe distance away, he followed after them.

Anthea watched Sherlock tug the hood of the sweatshirt tighter, making sure it was covering enough of his face, before starting down the sidewalk after John and Lestrade.

Once he was a safe distance away, she followed after him.

Jim had put more food in the fridge.

And when he opened the double-doors, the dead deer was gone.

Molly had reluctantly followed him downstairs to the basement (carefully keeping her mind in the present and not having flashbacks to the evening before).

The generator was on again and so all the lights were working in the (all but) empty mansion.

The food was convenience-store bags of crips, sodas, trail mix (his idea of a joke), deer jerky (another joke) packaged cakes and candy.

The type of bland, cheap staples he knew Molly used to live on.

She never used to have any flavor in her life—before him.

And as much as Jim hated this kind of food, even he knew that sometimes it felt good to return to what was comfortable and familiar.

Boring…

…but good.

(Besides, there wasn't much of a selection at the tiny gas station store about forty miles down the road.)

Jim had set out all the food on the metal table.

Where else could he have put it?

There were no chairs in the room and so he jumped up onto the table beside the 'meal', patting the surface next to him as an invitation for Molly to do the same.

It was rectangle.

Molly sat on the short edge and Jim sat on the long edge towards the corner.

Their shoulders touched and their fingers brushed but it wasn't the same.

Nothing was the same.

(But when was it ever? Life is change.)

Jim was closer to the food and so he handed Molly the plastic-wrapped packages he thought she'd like.

But as perceptive and intuitive as he was, he wasn't always as right about her as he assumed he was.

She just never corrected him.

There was no conversation; just the whir of the generator, now a white noise.

They were used to it.

It was constant, loud and ignored—but still there.

(Kind of like certain feelings.)

And so it was quiet.

Jim didn't like quiet.

"Do you mind if I—?"

(He would at least be polite about it, considering.)

"No. Go ahead."

(She would not be sensitive about it, despite.)

Jim hopped off the metal table, strolled over to the wooden one and switched on the radio, then returning to where he sat next to Molly.

It was news instead of music, this time, because both of them were in muted, tired moods that asked for a steady drone of words rather than the instability of a melody.

But it came as a confusing shock to both Jim and Molly that Sebastian Moran had been arrested for the explosions back in London.

"But he didn't do it." Molly said, "He thought you did it."

"It was probably Sherlock who did it, trying to get James's attention." Jim figured, "And it was probably Mycroft who gave the order—which means that he has our 'friend' the sniper."

"So it's a trap for your brother, then?" Molly guessed, "He tries to get Moran out of jail and then gets caught himself?"

"My brother isn't that stupid." Jim dismissed, with a laugh, "He has no reason to bursting in to 'save the day'—especially when he knows it's a set up. No, once James hears about this, he'll be gone. Dissapeared. Like magic."

"Oh." Molly accepted, "…well at least we won't have to worry about Moran chasing us now that he's in custody."

"Well, I worry about him anyway, the poor little prisoner-of-war." Jim shrugged, and then smiled for the first time that day "…we should go rescue him."

Sherlock!

I'm alive.

You're alive.

Let's have dinner.

…or, at least, a tie-breaker round or something.

My place or yours?

—Jim

Police-tape still quarantined the building that housed the London office of the military and security contracting company and the street surrounding.

City workers cleaned the rubble and broken glass from the pavement as reporters filmed and took pictures while being futilely fended off by police officers.

Amongst all this confusion, John and Lestrade were able to walk into the building as if they belonged there and take the elevator up to the top floor.

When the double-doors opened another businesswoman greeted them with a polite but suspicious "how may I help you?".

Fed up with his wife (and Molly, too, as of late) Lestrade decided he liked redheads now when he saw this woman in her pretty but professional gray pantsuit.

John definitely agreed.

They both smiled, hurrying towards her and to speak first.

"Hello, I'm John—"

"And I'm Greg. Nice to meet you."

The both extended hands and the woman didn't know whose to shake first and so she just said "I'm Samantha."

If they weren't going to give their last names, she certainly wasn't going to give hers (especially considering the news this morning).

"How may I help you?" she said again, this time more sternly.

"We're reporters." John lied, "We'd like to speak with the man charge of this company regarding the bombing that occurred here."

"Please." Lestrade quickly added, and then "Thank you."

" 'The man in charge', huh?" Samantha repeated, raising an eyebrow, "Alright, then. I'll take you to him. Right this way."

Lestrade and John followed Samantha past the front desk of the oppressively gray waiting-room, past the glass and metal walls and doors, all the way down the hall to the one office that wasn't transparent.

Its door was already open, though, and inside was a glass desk, a big glass window overlooking the gray city and a man in a dark gray suit (presumably 'the man in charge').

He looked up from his laptop when he saw the three enter.

"Visitors?" he questioned, standing up and then walking past the desk over to the two new people and one familiar one.

"Reporters, Mr. Porlock." Samantha stated, rolling her eyes.

"I see…" Porlock said, examining John and Lestrade with suspicion, "Well we're not answering any questions at the moment. I don't know why she let you in."

His eyes turned from the men over to his employee who he also examined with suspicion.

Samantha shrugged.

"We just want to know about Sebastian Moran." John stated.

"So does everybody else." Porlock dismissed, "And I'll tell you what my secretary told them. This company doesn't condone Moran's behavior and he didn't do it on our orders. He went rogue. We didn't know anything about what he was doing beforehand and we don't know anything more now."

"Well who did you hire him out to?" Lestrade asked, "We heard he was working with James Moriarty.

Which one?

Luckily both Samantha and her employer's faces were trained not to show (and so tell) anything (confusion, surprise, the fact that there were two James Moriartys).

"We can't discuss our clients—" Samantha started.

"And we don't know anything about that." Porlock finished, "Now you two have a nice day, Sam will show you out."

Before Lestrade or John could say anything, Samantha was already ushering out of the office and down the hall with another "right this way".

When she had politely directed (pushed) them into the elevator and sent them back downstairs and out of the building Samantha returned to her employer's office.

"Your 'secretary'?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Why did you let them in?" Porlock asked, not looking up from his laptop "I told you no media and no police."

"But they're not media or police." Samantha informed, "They're John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, disgraced friends of the disgraced and deceased Sherlock Holmes."

"So?" Porlock shrugged.

"So they're obviously investigating Moriarty." Samantha explained, "Who knows what they'll find out. We have to put a stop to it."

Porlock shook his head chuckling.

"You always want to kill your problems instead of solving them, Sam." he noted, "But why make enemies, when we can make friends?"

"What are you suggesting we do, then, sir?" Samantha inquired.

"Have them followed, for now, make sure they don't figure anything out…" her employer ordered, "And when this Holmes and Moriarty situation is finally over…hire them."

Sherlock stopped, turning around to face Anthea.

His hood hadn't fooled her and her sunglasses hadn't fooled him.

But they both blended it in with the crowded and chaotic street outside the military firm's London office.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"I could ask you the same question." She returned.

Anthea removed her sunglasses with the hand that didn't hold her smartphone, stowing them in her purse (where she kept her gun right next to her lipstick).

Sherlock pulled the hood of the sweatshirt from his head.

Anthea giggled.

No wonder Sherlock had been covering his now shorter hair, it looked so…funny as a redhead.

"Mycroft made me dye it." Sherlock grumbled.

His quick glance away betrayed his embarrassment before he corrected it and glared right into Anthea's eyes.

"You need to do more of what Mr. Holmes tells you to, Mr. Holmes." Anthea suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not Mycroft's employee." He reminded, "I have better things to do than his bidding."

"But you know you can't be following Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade." Anthea countered, "If I recognized you, so will they."

"They won't see me." Sherlock dismissed "And if they do, they'll just have seen a ghost. Now, they may not be geniuses but they know better to believe in ghosts. And so they won't see me."

"Still, there is work to be done." Anthea countered.

"I know." Sherlock acknowledged, "That's why I'm searching for Jim Moriarty's phone. So I can make that work easier."

It was a lie.

Sherlock wasn't sure if Anthea believed.

Anthea wasn't sure if she believed it.

"By following them?" she asked, "And avoiding our people?"

"I'm not requiredto report all my activities to my brother." Sherlock replied, "And following John and Lestrade was just for 'fun'. I do still try to have fun sometimes, despite being 'dead'—even if Mycroft doesn't want me to. Especially if Mycroft doesn't want me to."

"He's trying to keep you safe." Anthea told him.

Sherlock laughed, dry and bitter, shaking his head.

"If I don't follow John…" he reasoned, "…you won't be able to follow me. And that could be a problem for you. I know how Mycroft likes to be able to find me."

"But some things are more important than that." Anthea acquiesced.

And Sherlock allowed himself to smile, just a little.

Yes, some things were more important.

Like:

John's safety.

Lestrade's safety.

…and finding Jim Moriarty.

John and Lestrade suspected that he might be alive and now (thanks to the two text messages he'd received) Sherlock was inclined to agreed with them.

But Sherlock knew better than to try to search the world for his whereabouts.

Apparently, all you had to do to find Jim Moriarty was find Molly Hooper.

Sherlock nodded to Anthea a curt goodbye and continued down the sidewalk away from her, wandering until he was sure that he was no longer being followed, and then starting towards Molly Hooper's flat.

Jim packed the guns and knives into the trunk of the car, slamming the door shut when he was finished and leaning against it to watch Molly as she laid out the cans of cat food.

"Don't eat it all at once." She told Toby, "We'll be back soon, I promise."

The cat stared up at her with confused but loving wide eyes.

Molly was bent down as close to his level as possible, but she was still taller than him.

He mewed and she pat him on the head, accepting the noise as understanding.

The she stood and turned to face Jim.

They were outside, in the overgrown lawn of the manor that was once again being abandoned.

The cat-food cans were on the stone steps and the front door was open.

That way Toby would know that he could go in and out of the house as he pleased.

Until Molly and Jim came back to get him.

If Molly and Jim came back to get him.

"So many guns…" Jim commented, arms actually tired from carrying them up out of the basement all the way to the car (Molly would have to drive this time), "I don't even think James knows how to use a gun. Why didn't he just get rid of them?"

"I don't know how to use a gun either." Molly informed, "You said we weren't actually going to be using the weapons."

"We're not." Jim confirmed, "But we have to look like we planned to."

"So they take us seriously when they capture us?" Molly asked.

"Yes." Jim answered, "…which reminds me, why are you socomfortable and willing for us to be arrested?"

"Well, it's all part of the plan, right?" Molly shrugged, trying to sound cheerful yet nonchalant.

"You want me in captured, don't you?" Jim suspected, with a smirk, "Even if that means you are, too. You want me in custody so that I won't be able to go after Sherlock."

"Yes." Molly affirmed.

Jim chuckled.

"Always trying to keep us apart…" he sighed, "…but what makes you think that Sherlock doesn't want to see me as much as I want to see him."

"Because he's smarter than you." Molly stated, "And because he knows when to stop."

"Well, it's lucky that people like us don't, then." Jim smiled, "Or else nothing would ever happen in this boring world."

Molly smiled too.

Because she was supposed to smile.

Jim had used that word again.

'us'.

As if she and he were connected.

But they weren't.

They couldn't be.

…as long as Sherlock Holmes was between them.

"Coming?" Jim called.

He was already around the trunk, opening the passenger side door of the car.

This, of course, meant he wasn't going anywhere without Molly since he wanted her to drive (his arms must have been tired from lifting all the guns).

Molly nodded and started towards the car, towards him.

She and Jim were nothing as long as Sherlock was something.

As long as he was who they dreamed about when sleeping, who they thought about when they first woke up in the morning, who they wanted (to protect or to destroy).

There was no such thing as 'us'.

No one word to describe them.

Just Molly and Jim.

(And Sherlock, because there was always Sherlock.)

Still, when Jim called, Molly came.

And where Jim went, Molly followed.

'Jim'?

Still alive, then?

And also thanks in part to our dear friend Molly, I presume.

You want a rematch? You try to kill me, I try to stop you, that sort of thing?

No thanks.

That game has gotten old.

War is hell and hell is boring.

I suggest another arrangement.

But I won't waste my time looking for you.

If you want to talk, you come to me.

—Sherlock

ATTENTION EVERYONE!

You need to search this now (…well, after you review, of course):

IOU Explanation – 53-8-92 – Grimm's Fairy Tales Cipher

(Google it and it'll be the first link.)

This is just too amazing, brilliant, genius (and all the other adjectives John would use)!

You have to see this!

You don't understand how stupid I feel and despite that I am still so amazed.

While I was busy being an idiot (the kind of idiot who thinks she's smart when she's not) reading Wikipedia articles and trying to figure out if you could make a bomb out of Uranium, Oxygen and Iodine, doing ridiculous arithmetic that added up to nothing, and worrying about Greek letters…

…somebody actually figured out what that the whole 'IOU' thing was about.

That made my day and ruined it at the same time lol.

I really hate it when people are smarter than me and I hate feeling stupid but this person just HAS to be right about it.

I'll die if she's not.

You need to read what she wrote. I'm still in awe.

Oh, and please review, too!