"Greetings, citizens of England. I hope I'm not disturbing you in the middle of something important, but perhaps you'll forgive me…I do believe this is a bit more pressing at present…"

The voice, the face, was broadcast to every television, computer, and cell phone in the country at half six. Anything with a signal picked it up and played it. V for Vendetta fans went nuts for the first few minutes, expecting a V of sorts to call them to arms, but it quickly became apparent that this message was nothing of the sort.

"My name is James Moriarty, England, and I'm a simple man at heart, like the rest of you. I like being recognized for my abilities. I like getting what's due to me. I'm a hard worker and I love a good laugh. But unlike you, I have rather unorthodox methods of ensuring that I get exactly what I want…

"Another thing you should know, England, is that I am impossibly smarter and cleverer than any of you." The face on the screen, boyishly charming and apologetic, shrugged. "Sorry about that. Better luck next time.

"Anyway…now would be the point in the conversation, if we really were conversing, dear listeners, where you told me a little bit about yourselves. However, me being immensely intelligent and capable, I could find out anything I wanted about you with a few lines of computer code, so that's sort of moot, isn't it?'

He bit his lip, about to reveal some wonderful secret. "I hope I get to learn a little bit more about you, though. I think any sort of monarch should be well-informed." He blinked; he'd divulged something without meaning to. "Oh, did I mention? I intend to replace the Queen in a few weeks. The poor lady's getting a bit old for the job, don't you think? Out with the old and in with the new, right?"

He chuckled darkly and shook his head. "Oh, England, England, you really should see me in a crown. You'll get the chance, soon. This is just a little hello message to you all, letting you know about a change in management coming up. At present, there are only a few minor, bureaucratic details to be cleared up…

" 'Oh, Jim,' you'll be asking, 'how do you intend to take over England and become king? The Queen is guarded by the best security in the whole of Europe!' Well, you'd be right, listeners—but who do you think owns the security? I own everything, England—everything. You've just been too unexceptional to notice it. I own every single one of you already, and if you don't I'm right, you're thicker than I thought…and that's a disappointment to me, England. That's a disappointment to your future king.

"You'll also be asking about the order of succession—after all, there are others ready to take the Queen's place. Well, of course there are. That doesn't mean they'll be…available for the job when I get to it. And you'll be asking why I even want to be King when we're in a constitutional monarch and the royals have no actual power. To that I say—why not? I didn't necessarily say I wouldn't take care of Parliament, too…

"Anyway, that's all I had to say, England. Don't worry about how it's going to happen—just be ready when it does. And of course, double and triple the security on all the royal family. I told you, I love a good laugh…

The man faced the camera directly and smiled. "Now, I'd like to address two very important men before I go. You might not know this, England, but you're not really run by Parliament as much as you think you are. No, there's a man, a very quiet, secretive, fat man who runs everything behind the scenes. Mr. Mycroft Holmes, I'm speaking to you now. You know where I am now, of course, and you also know it's useless at this point in the game to try and get me. I'll just hand off the torch to that delicious brother of yours… So, Mr. Holmes, I assume you've received your invitation to my little party. Your brother will be there, and my friends are coming, too. Dress sharp—there'll be cake, so don't fret."

He licked his lips. "And Mr. John Watson—hello, Johnny. I understand we might have to take your new…disability…into consideration. Don't worry—the party will be wheelchair accessible, if you want Mycroft to push you along. Don't hurt yourself getting over here, love.

"Oh, and Johnny? He's going to be there, but please try and control your temper. You're going to be surrounded by very esteemed company, and you wouldn't want to throw a scene in front of Her Majesty."

Moriarty smiled. "Byeeeeeee…..!"

The screens of Britain flickered off, leaving a confused nation in their wake.

Thousands of miles away, in a warehouse in Belgium, Moriarty guffawed and slammed the laptop case down. "Bloody brilliant," he said. "I haven't had this much fun in ages."

Almost immediately, someone was behind him, pressing lips to his throat. "That," Sherlock whispered, "was delicious."

"You're beginning to sound like me—did you notice?"

"Should I start giving you a nickname?" He kissed the edge of Moriarty's jawbone. "Jimmy and Sherly…"

"That's vomitous. If you call me Jimmy again, I'll have Moran make you into a suit, and I'll have no one to call my queen."

Sherlock sniffed. "Queen? Now that's just insulting."

"No, it isn't. You're prettier than me, and clearly I'm going to be king. Consider yourself lucky you get a title at all."

"But queen, Jim…"

"Oh, details…we'll discuss them later. Get back to work."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

John watched the transmission from the pub, clutching a pint with a blank expression as Moriarty taunted him from the screen, interrupting a very important football match.

Well. Wouldn't be long, then.

He gulped down the pint, put a few quid on the table, and grabbed his cane. After a small struggle getting off the bar stool, he landed clumsily on the floor and silently picked himself up, wincing as he limped away.

Wouldn't be long at all.

"Lestrade, you've got a call—from Her Majesty's secret service, it looks like."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and didn't bother looking up from his desk. "This isn't a bloody James Bond movie, Anderson—I'm a bit inundated with work after that bloody transmission…"

"Boss, I'm serious—they're on line 4."

He grumbled and picked up the phone, which had previously been ringing nonstop since Moriarty's message. "Gregson Lestrade's office… You're really—blimey, I had no idea… Of course, I'll do anything to help… The Queen asked specifically for—bloody hell…. Sorry, just… Yes, I suppose you could say I have experience with him. Yes, I'll be over right away. But listen, you should know, if he's really targeting Her Majesty, doubling security measures really won't do anything, sir. He has too much information…"

Mycroft watched Moriarty ramble on calmly from his desk, hands folded under his chin. Watched the message again. Smiled.

There had been too much he'd been wrong about, but there were a blessed few things he'd gotten right. So this was happening.

"Anthea," he called out into the front office. "I've received confirmation of my invitation to a very important occasion. We're going to need that champagne I called for. Do mind it, dear—it was rather expensive."