Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes belong to me. Amadeus, however, is locked in a little box under my bed. And I am the only one with a key. ;D

A/N: For all the wait, this chapter's pretty good, if I do say so myself. I felt like I got Holmes in good character and Moriarty's good too and it's just all good. So enjoy!


Staccato footsteps echoed loudly as Amadeus strode down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder. "Faster, woman!"

Irene shot him a glare. "You try running in heels and a hoop skirt."

"You think he'll accept that as an excuse?" Amadeus snapped.

He had a point, unfortunately. Irene picked up the pace.

The two skidded to a halt at the end of the corridor and paused for half a second to catch their breath. Then, very calm and composed, they twisted the ornate doorknob and stepped inside.

The room was so hot it was nearly unbearable, all windows shut and locked tight and the fire always blazing. As the door closed behind them, the last channel of cooler air was blocked off and the heat surrounded the two in the most uncomfortable way. They exchanged miserable glances and padded quietly to the chair in front of the fireplace.

Moriarty was thoughtfully turning the brittle pages of a dictionary, no doubt taken from one of the shelves across the room. Briefly Irene wondered who had gotten it for him—she had never seen him leave his chair since they had arrived here.

The silence was at least, if not more, stifling than the heat, but neither dared speak. For all their rushing, it didn't seem as though much was happening. Yet finally, Moriarty stopped fingering through the pages of the dictionary, although he still did not look at them.

"You are late," he said. Both quickly offered their apologies.

Again the room was silent. Amadeus shifted awkwardly and Irene gave him a reproachful look. Her head snapped back immediately though, as the professor spoke again.

"The landlady. She is dead?"

Irene braced herself. "No, sir."

She tensed as he looked up, turning his cold, colorless eyes on her. "Why not?" he asked slowly.

Irene swallowed. "She received medical attention before the poison could finish its work, sir."

"Indeed." Moriarty continued to stare unblinkingly. His range of vision seemed to widen, and suddenly Amadeus too was included in his gaze. "Somehow, you both have failed me. How is this possible?"

Amadeus mumbled while Irene shook her head.

Professor Moriarty's eyes wandered to the fireplace. They lit orange until he closed them, sighing. "Perhaps I am at fault…for placing such trust in you." He sighed again and pressed his fingertips together. "The next target is Doctor Watson's wife." Moriarty regarded Irene out of the corner of his eye. "You have connections in Norway, do you not?"

"Yes sir."

Without warning, Moriarty exploded into a fit of harsh coughing. Hunched over, his shoulders shook, tears streaming from his eyes. A minute later the fit passed and he sat up, wiping the water from his cheeks.

"Ensure that she has been disposed of within forty-eight hours. If this is not done, you will take her place. Am I making myself clear?" he said hoarsely.

Irene lifted her chin, a proudly determined look in her eye. "Yes, sir." Amadeus stared at her.

Moriarty leaned back in his chair, still attempting to catch his breath. "Away with you. Both of you."

The two of them hurried out of the stifling room.


Holmes's living space was a paradise for the fly drifting lazily around. It paused for a minute on the desk, where half a slice of toast had been left, then soared across the room and landed on a chemical stain on the wall. After determining that it didn't taste nearly as good as it smelled, the fly buzzed into the air and finally came to rest on Holmes's forehead.

Without warning, the stationary hand on the arm of the chair leapt into action and Holmes smacked himself in the face.

Slowly he opened his eyes and examined the fly now smeared all over his palm. Pursing his lips, he wiped the guts on the velvet side of the armchair and drew his sleeve across his brow to remove any lingering innards. Letting his arm limply drop, Holmes closed his eyes again and heaved a mighty sigh.

Suddenly there was a loud bang from the street. Immediately Holmes was on his feet, plunging his hands into his shirt and searching for the gun he kept on his stomach. Finally he found it and pulled it out after a few attempts, staggering over and throwing up the window. His eyes searched the street below for a body.

They found none. In fact, the source of the noise hadn't been a gun at all—simply a large trunk tipping off the end of a cart and breaking on the ground.

Holmes sighed again and reluctantly put the gun away.

His sudden fit of movement had awoken his stomach, which was now growling loudly. He hadn't eaten for three days, and right on schedule, his body was complaining. But Holmes had more important things to do than eat.

Having stolen a good fifteen minutes of light sleep, he felt well-rested and re-energized—or so he told himself, as he resumed pacing relentlessly across the floor.

The sleuth knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It had been obvious since this case began. He had to go to the Duke of Hampshire's estate. There was no other option, and there never had been. Holmes had known this all along. If only Watson had listened to him, had agreed to go to the estate and hadn't argued, none of this would have happened.

So furious that he stopped his pacing, Holmes pushed away the guilty stab of pain that came with the thought of Watson. The image of his friend's face before he left floated before Holmes's eyes, his expression still as filled with unbridled anger as it had been three days ago. It bordered on hatred.

Oh stop, Holmes thoughts scolded. Watson doesn't hate you.

But his friends were being attacked.

You're his friend too.

But he had been attacked.

But you saved him.

But it was Holmes's fault he had been attacked in the first place.

Watson knows you're dangerous company.

Yes…and he was going to leave….

Holmes's brain had no reply to this. It was true, Watson was leaving, and Holmes didn't like it. He had wished for anything and everything to happen to make his friend stay. But this…Holmes didn't want this.

He squeezed his temples. He had to go to the estate. But did he dare go without Watson? It would be twice as dangerous. Despite the fact that he used to go on his escapades alone, he had disliked doing so since he had met the doctor. Having someone to cover his back, someone to talk a bit of sense into him now and again, had made all the difference in the world.

He would just have to readjust to working alone. After all, he would've had to sooner or later.

In two minutes, Holmes was dressed in worn boots, fraying pants, and a severely patched coat. The moustache he was attempting to stick to his upper lip was giving him trouble; he was still fiddling with it as he walked into the kitchen.

"Nanny, you wouldn't have a muffin for the road, would you?"

Mrs. Hudson turned to look at him and jumped. She sighed. "Holmes, how many times have I told you not—"

"Nanny, I have no time to discuss myself," Holmes said.

"Well, this is new."

He gave her a look. "Daylight is wasting. Do you or do you not have a muffin?"

"No, Holmes, I don't."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I suppose I shall have to make do without them."

"Exactly," Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Now if you will please get out of my kitchen, I would much appreciate it."

With a huff, Holmes headed for the door. However, before he could reach it, it swung open. Both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson stared in surprise as Inspector Lestrade strode in, flanked by two of his men.

"Inspector!" Nanny exclaimed.

"Lestrade," Holmes said. "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade reached out and seized Holmes's wrists, clapping a pair of irons on them. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and suspected murder of Doctor John Watson."

Holmes's eyes went wide. "What?"

The inspector ignored him and looked at Mrs. Hudson. "And Mrs. Martha Hudson, I place you under arrest for assisting in the kidnapping and suspected murder of Doctor John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson looked terrified. "Inspector, you can't be serious!"

He nodded grimly. "I'm afraid I am."

With that, Mrs. Hudson and Holmes were escorted out of the house and into a carriage bound for Scotland Yard's headquarters.


I pray that wasn't too cliche an ending. And yes, Nanny did just get arrested. But don't worry, she'll probably beat Lestrade's men senseless with a spatula or something sooner or later. Hope you had fun and review, if you would be so kind.

By the way, thank you so much for the reviews all y'all have sent thus far. I love them!