Hey guys!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and to everyone who answered my questions!

It takes about 15 minutes for most to read these chapters...and it takes me about 8 hours to write them (luckily I take breaks lol).

And most people (everyone?) reading is female, like I predicted...I, too, am a female (of course, lol).

And as for age...well we've got a lot of young people (16-20ish) like I thought there'd be, but at least a couple readers old enough to have children, which is really flattering to me since real-live GROWN UPS like my work...

...not that I don't appriciate my peers's approval, as well, because I do (in fact I've been trying to garner my peers's approval my whole life, although I'm only able to do it over the internet).

ince 16-20 year olds are my 'peers', that makes me somewhere between 16 and 20...lol, I'm 18 (but I seem to have (mentally, physically, emotionally, socially) stagnated at about 16 and am a perpetual child).

lol

Not that any of you actually care about me (you care about the story, though, which is what I need you to-so I guess if I died...nvm, let's not even THINK about that) I just wanted to give out my info to be fair to the people who gave out theirs, lol.

I don't think I came down with the Writer's Block I was fearing...for now...

And John's blog post can be found, of course, on his blog at: www. johnwatsonblog . co . uk / (remove space).

:)

Smile, everyone and read!

It was March 16, 2012 and John Watson had just updated his blog with another post entitled "The Hounds of Baskerville".

That meant he and Sherlock were back in London.

Seated on her couch, Molly attempted to read about Sherlock Holmes's latest case and latest brilliant exploits but she found herself too distracted.

I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored—

"I'm going to kill him, you know."

'Footprints that appeared to have been made by, what he called, a 'gigantic hound'—

"I'm allowed to now. James set me free. The dog's off the chain…"

Something that just seemed so unbelievable and so unstoppable... Those eyes—

Molly remembered Jim staring at her, always staring at her with those intense (insane) looking eyes…

No.

Don't think about him.

Keep reading.

We returned to the moors, to the place where Henry's dad had been killed and there he was. He was close to killing himself—

"…Oh I don't know… Kill myself, probably…"

Maybe the fear and doubt he'd felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanized him—

"You're so…so…sentimental. It's pitiful. You—just like everybody else, everybody normal..."

Sherlock had made a mistake. He is only human, after all—

"I'm going to kill him, you know."

"The Game is almost over now, what else is there to live for…?"

"I'm going to kill him, you know."

"Sherlock Holmes is going to die…and so is Jim Moriarty..."

Molly set down her laptop and stood up.

She had to do something…

…but what?

She could warn Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock…"

"What do you want this time, Maggie? I am not going out for coffee with you—"

"Oh, nothing like that. I just wanted to let you know that Jim—you remember Jim, right? Jim Moriarty. Mass murderer who tried to kill you a while back? That Jim, my ex-boyfriend…"

"…I do…"

"Yeah, well…he's back. And he's going to kill you. Just thought you ought to know."

"And how do you know this, Mary?"

"…uh…well…about that….remember when I said he was my 'ex-boyfriend'…? I wasn't lying about that or anything. We did break up…Yesterday…yeah…but we kinda got back together first …yeah…um…Sherlock?"

"LESTRADE!"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade here, sir! Reporting for duty, sir! How may I serve you today, Mr. Holmes, sir?"

"She's been consorting with the consulting criminal! Arrest this fiend!"

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!...Come with me, Miss Hopper."

No.

Bad idea.

Molly could not tell Sherlock anything.

Even if she lied and said that she had 'just happened' to see Jim walking down the street or something and he had just casually mentioned what he was going to do… or told Sherlock that she had gotten an anonymous text message detailing Jim's intentions for Sherlock…

…Molly knew that Sherlock would know.

He would look at her and know.

There was no hiding from Sherlock's all-seeing eyes and omniscient mind.

And simply telling Sherlock that Jim was planning to kill him still wouldn't actually stop Jim from going through with his plans.

…so what could Molly do?

(Molly was tempted to just do nothing and let Sherlock and Jim go at it. If Sherlock was so smart then he didn't need her help and what did she owe him anyway? Nothing...But doing nothing wouldn't be the right thing to do.)

What would Sherlock do?

What would Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and best and brightest super-genius, do if he were in her situation?

…what did he do?

Sherlock had 'handled' Jim before…he had stopped Jim before.

What did he do?

Molly sat back down, pulling her laptop to her and checking the archive of John Watson's blog.

She re-read the April 1st, 2010 post, "The Great Game" trying to ignore the embarrassing bit that made her seem so stupid—

Out stepped Moriarty. It was Jim. Molly Hooper's boyfriend from the IT department at Bart's! Even that little meeting had been part of the game. The two men talked, both clearly pleased to, at last, be face to face. Again, I felt like a pawn in their game.

—("…tell me about it.." Molly sighed to herself), and got the 'moral' of the 'story'.

And the moral of the story was:

YouCAN'T stop Jim Moriarty…

…but you CAN distract him.

Molly, smiled, closing her laptop.

She knew just what she was going to do.

Although it was a reasonably sunny early spring day, Antonio Ricoletti was chilly and so pulled his long, black winter coat tighter around him.

He had bought it on sale at the airport when he arrived in London from Italy (where the warm Mediterranean climate was much more to his liking), along with the dark sunglasses he was wearing.

Normally the art thief preferred more expressive clothing (bright colors, unique patterns, thin and comfortable (preferably silk) fabric) but he simply couldn't stand the weather here.

That and he knew that Mr. Moriarty did not like to call attention to himself.

Everything Ricoletti had heard about the 'consulting criminal' had indicated that he should do his best to help conceal the identity that Mr. Moriarty definitely wanted concealed and do his best not to make Mr. Moriarty mad.

And so Ricoletti was here, standing in front of the British National Gallery, in dark clothing trying not to be noticed and eagerly (and nervously) anticipating his meeting with the mysterious Mr. M.

The fountain was on, despite the cold air (which was probably warm to the locals). Ricoletti 'admired' it and the architecture of the building.

But he would much rather have been inside the gallery, however, 'admiring' the paintings (and stealing them).

Where was Mr. Moriarty?

It's not that Ricoletti was getting impatient, or anything…no, no, no. That's not it at all. He knew better than that.

He knew he was lucky enough to get a meeting with the world's only 'consulting criminal'-who was powerful enough to arrive for it whenever he pleased.

And he eventually did.

Only about an hour an a half late.

Ricoletti didn't mention it.

Instead he said, "Buongiorno, Mr. Moriarty." In his normally light Italian accent that he liked to play-up whenever he talked to foreigners (especially Americans—but the British, too).

"Bonjour!" Mr. Moriarty replied( in French?), smirking.

He was wearing some kind of 'ironic' t-shirt with an edited image of the Mona Lisa winking printed on white and bright red skinny-jeans.

Of course he was.

No, no, no. Mr. Moriarty was powerful enough to show-up as late as he wanted and wear whatever tacky hipster clothing he wanted. Ricoletti was not going to comment or even roll his eyes in disgust (and jealousy of the pretty colors).

"Sorry it took me so long." Mr. Moriarty apologized, with a shrug, "I was in the gift shop. Got this great shirt. Hilarious, right?...picked up a little something for you, too, Signor Ricoletti. Here."

Mr. Moriarty reached into one pocket to his neon (and way too tight-no, no, no) pants and, after a few long seconds of struggling to shove his fingers in and then get them back out again, he was able to pull out a cheap-looking—no, no, no—a nice-looking necklace that read: 'I-(union jack)-London'.

Wow.

"Uh…grazie …" Ricoletti thanked, reluctantly taking the charm and then wondering just what he was going to do with it, "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty."

"De nada." Mr. Moriarty responded (in Spanish?), still smiling, "It'll be something to remember your vacation in our fair city by…"

Ricoletti tried not to shiver (was it the wind…or the 'consulting criminal'?).

"Yes, but, as I'm sure you know, I am not here as a tourist, Mr. Moriarty." He reminded, accent softening and then re-heavy-ing once he heard it slipping, "I am here on business…"

"Still," Mr. Moriarty insisted, "…put it on…"

Ricoletti froze.

Did this guy actually expect him to wear a necklace?

(And a cheap-looking one at that.)

Sure, he liked art…but that didn't make him gay!

"…um….I…" Ricoletti fumbled, accent all but gone, "I don't think—"

He was interrupted by someone jumping on him from behind, wrapping arms around his neck.

(What, was he being attacked or something by one of Mr. Moriarty's goons for not putting on the necklace?)

No.

He knew exactly who it was.

Ricoletti was saved!

(For now, at least.)

"Rosetta!" he exclaimed, whirling around to embrace his wife (and escape, momentarily, from Mr. Moriarty), "You've followed me all the way here!"

"Oh, Antonio, you know I'll always follow you," Rose chided, kissing both her husband's cheeks, "You are forever my stone and I am forever your shadow. The sun in the sky—"

"Aww, isn't this-just-so adorable?" Mr. Moriarty (fake) sobbed , wiping a (fake) tear from his eye, "Two star-crossed lovers, reunited at last! It's like Romeo and Juliet!"

(Well, at least he got the country (Italy) right this time…)

"Antonio, who is this man?" Rose asked, turning from Ricoletti to Mr. Moriarty and then back to Ricoletti, confused and offended.

(She too had a heavy Italian accent, Sicilian specifically (just like her raven hair and tanned skin), but hers was natural.)

"This is Signor Moriarty, Rose…" Ricoletti explained, "The man I told you about—"

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mr. Moriarty greeted, swooping over to grab Rose's hand and kiss it, "Your beauty is more radiant than the flower that shares your name, Miss—"

"No." Rose snapped, snatching her hand back, "Not 'miss'…Signora…Signora Ricoletti. We are married."

"...congratulations." Mr. Moriarty said, less than enthusiastically, and returned to his full height.

Rose clung to Ricoletti, leaning up to kiss him again, this time on the very corner of his mouth.

Ricoletti sighed (although arm already around her, he couldn't help pat her on the back for her standing her ground like that—that was his Rose, after all, very forceful…).

"Please forgive my wife, Mr. Moriarty." he apologized, "She's Sicilian, you see…they do things, um, differently there…"

Rose stamped on his foot…with her red, high-heeled shoe (ouch!).

Ricoletti tried not to wince.

"It's fine." Mr. Moriarty stated, "She really is a beauty. A nice 'catch', Signor… She can go have a look around the gallery while the men talk business."

Ricoletti opened his mouth to respond but Rose beat him to it.

"My husband and I are a team." she declared, "We do everything together. We work together."

Mr. Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Even steal priceless paintings?" he asked.

"Yes." Rose confirmed, but then added "…well not exactly—"

"It's true, Mr. Moriarty, my wife and I do work together," Ricoletti elaborated, "I should have told you. I steal the paintings and she makes the forgeries. As many as we want. We sell them all, keep the originals for our own private collection. That's our business…it's perfect, no?"

Rose squeezed his hand and he dared to look away from Mr. Moriarty for a moment to kiss her on the forehead.

"Yes, yes it is!" Mr. Moriarty agreed, nodding and smiling approvingly, "Perfect, indeed…"

Ricoletti and Rose matched his expression, finally feeling as if they could work with this (creepy, strange) man.

But then, of course, Mr. Moriarty's face fell into a blank, dead stare.

The nothingness was scarier, Ricoletti thought, than if he had gotten mad.

"…if you two are so perfect together…?" he began, "then what do you need me for?"

"That isn't what I meant!" Ricoletti exclaimed, "I just—"

"Come on, Antonio!" Rose cut him off, pulling on his hand, "We don't need him. Let's go."

"Wait, wait, Rose, wait—" Ricoletti tried, now standing his ground and stopping her from stomping away, "Let me just—"

"No, this man is rude." Rose asserted, still trying to walk herself and her husband away, "We don't need him. We don't have time for this."

"Let the man speak!" Mr. Moriarty interjected, "For god's sake, Signor, doesn't this ever get annoying? Doesn't she ever get annoying?...following you around everywhere, never leaving you alone…You don't need her! I can't imagine how you're able to work with this—this distraction!"

"How dare you!" Rose shouted, raising a hand to slap him.

Ricoletti caught the hand.

"Rosella, stop." He said.

And she did.

Rose, now quiet (but still seething) stood behind her husband and he continued to speak.

"Yes, Mr. Moriarty, at first I admit it did get annoying," Ricoletti sighed, "she did get annoying, always following me, chasing me all over the world, finding me no matter where I tried to hide…cristo, once I even tried to have her killed for it!" he chuckled lightly at this point and so did Rose, as if they were recalling a fond memory, "I thought that I, Ricoletti, the world's most notorious art thief didn't need one woman-when I could have a different girl every night- didn't need Rose…but I was wrong. I did need her. I do need her. And she's not a 'distraction'…"

"Sure, but—" Mr. Moriarty started.

"No. Let me finish." Ricoletti interrupted, and then took a deep breath, "Rose is not a 'distraction'. She is, how you say, an asset…She's brilliant. She can look at a painting, just look at it once, and then re-create it as if she was the original artist herself! It is like magic, almost unnatural…and she knows all the ways to age it, the right papers, inks and oils and colors to use... She doesn't just make forgeries…she makes art. True art. And it is beautiful… I do my best work with her. We do our best work together."

"Fine, fine." Mr. Moriarty dismissed, rolling his eyes again and shaking his head, "Pretty and smart. You didn't just pick her for her looks. I get it. …"

"No you don't." Ricoletti countered, also shaking his head and he found himself laughing, "You don't get it. You don't get it at all…" he turned to his wife, "He doesn't get it, Rose, he just doesn't get it—"

"Come on, Antonio, let's go..." Rose breathed with a small smile, taking her husband's hand and leading him up the stone steps into the gallery, "…someone like him, he'll never 'get it'…he'll never understand…"

"Oh, go get a room." Mr. Moriarty grumbled before trying (and failing) to push his hands into his too tight pockets, turning away and stalking off down the street.

Signor and Signora Ricoletti didn't seem to mind.

At primary school, during recess, some days some of the more outgoing (popular) kids would organize a class-wide game of hide and seek.

Molly liked these days.

These were the days that everyone was included (everyone, for once, including Molly).

Most of the girls would hide in pairs, giggling to themselves from under the slide or behind a tree and soon be found, but Molly...

…Molly wanted to win.

It wasn't because she had to be the 'best' or had anything to prove….it was because she just wanted to be 'good' at something so that everyone would like her and talk to her and keep asking her to play when they got together these big, thirty-kid games of hide and seek.

So Molly hid alone.

Each game, while 'it' counted with his or her eyes covered against a tree, Molly would run, find the 'best' hiding spot and make herself invisible.

Usually, she was found fourth or third or even second to last…or the teacher would call everybody inside and recess would be over before everyone was found and anyone won.

But one day Molly won.

Oh, she was so proud, huddled between the door (held open by a brick) and the wall, in the dark, pyramid-shaped crevice, watching the other children get chased out of their hiding places, watching 'it' run past her so many times without seeing her.

Even the teacher, when she emerged from the door to mark the end of recess, didn't see Molly there as the children lined up in rows by gender.

Molly waited.

Even if 'it' and everyone still couldn't find her, after so long, the teacher was going to call roll, notice Molly was missing from the line and then call out her name once more.

Then Molly would jump out, awe everyone with her perfect hiding place (the best hiding place, which she was smarter than them all for finding) and finally win.

Molly waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The class filed, following the teacher, back into the school. The teacher never called her name.

No one did.

No one even noticed she was gone.

The door slammed shut, pulled closed by the last student in line, revealing Molly and her 'perfect' hiding spot.

But even then no one saw her.

No one found her.

And Molly was alone.

"Honey, I'm home!" Jim called as he pushed open the door to Molly's flat.

No answer.

…Tsk, tsk, Molly, 'playing hard to get'…

He knew she wouldn't (couldn't) ignore him for long.

She'd always 'come crawling back' to him (and him showing up at her apartment was not him 'come crawling back' to her... definitely not).

Jim closed the door behind him as Toby rushed up to him, rubbing against his legs (it was just the hideously tacky skinny jeans, so it was okay) and purring his usual greeting.

"I'm only here to retrieve what belongs to me…" Jim continued, as he walked further into the flat, "…so you can just stay out of my way and I'll be in and out in a second.."

Still no answer.

Jim knew Molly was off work at this time.

And since she had no friends (no life) there was nowhere she would be but at home (like a good little nobody).

But the lights were all off and although Jim checked every room he did could not find Molly.

…where the hell was she?

Warning Sherlock that Jim was 'coming for him'?

No.

She wasn't that stupid.

(Jim imagined how the situation would play out… Molly trying to tell Sherlock Jim's plan to kill him (and himself)—without revealing the reason she 'just happened' to know about it…and it was hilarious.)

Jim went back into her bedroom to check again.

"Just where are you hiding, Molly, my dear…" he muttered to himself as he bent and checked under the bed.

Toby followed him.

Standing back up, Jim then saw the closet, its doors closed tightly.

"Come out, come out wherever you are…" Jim sang as he tip-toed towards it, and then suddenly, sharply pulled both doors open, "Found you!"

…except he didn't.

Molly was not hidinginside her closet.

"Yes, I found you… my favorite suits!" Jim saved, "There you are!"

Toby mewed, and Jim turned his head back to see the cat sitting on the bed, staring at him skeptically.

Jim looked back into the darkness of the closet and the outline of the hanging clothing (mostly Molly's and then his dry-cleaning, separated from hers by its plastic armor).

He would have taken his clothes…

…but he didn't want to look like some servant (because he cared so much about what people about him), walking around, carrying dry-cleaned suits (didn't he have people for that?).

And so he just left them there in Molly's closet.

(Yes, that was definitely why.)

Jim Moriarty and Antonio Ricoletti had ended their 'working relationship' before it even began due to 'creative differences'.

('Creative differences' meaning that if Ricoletti wanted to be whipped and bring his wife along on the job then Jim would have no part of that.)

And although an international art thief (the world's most notorious art thief) stealing a famous painting from the National Gallery was crucial to Jim's plan…

(a plan which involved the police inevitably 'consulting' (relying) on Sherlock Holmes to solve the case, and the media making Sherlock famous just as soon as he did solve it (and had found and caught the painting and the art thief), which in turn would lead to Sherlock taking on more and more high profile cases until he was a superstar…whereupon Jim Moriarty would shoot him straight out of the night sky.)

…he just couldn't work with Ricoletti (well, Ricoletti and Rose. Ricoletti alone was fine. But the two of them together…) and so he'd have to find another way to put his plot into motion…and something else to distract himself.

(Not involving Molly Hooper. Because Jim had loads of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.)

And so he called 'the boys' up for a 'guy's night out'.

"We can't just keep meeting like this, all four of us together." Doyle reasoned, "Someone'll get suspicious…especially when it all goes down."

He was sitting down on one of the chairs, but looking back and forth, up and down the hall to see if anyone was coming.

"Don't be such a scaredy-cat." Jim scoffed.

He was pacing back and forth, up and down the hall, anxiously, as if he was hoping someone was coming.

"What did you even need to meet us all about, anyway?" Doyle asked, "I already did my fourth of the work. I don't know about them," he gestured to Conan and Arthur, "But you don't need to check up on me."

"Hey!" Arthur exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and glaring at Doyle, "I did my part too!"

"So did I." Conan added, remaining seated and munching on a bag of crisps he picked up from the vending machine.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Jim soothed, ". I trust you all did your jobs satisfactorily…this is just a friendly, routine 'check-up'…for assurances, sake."

"…I assure you, sir, I've done my part." Doyle muttered, folding one leg over the other, and looking away from Jim bitterly (regretting working with the 'consulting criminal' already).

"As have I." Conan piped up, chomping on his snack, crumbs spilling onto his uniform.

"…wait a minute, you said a 'check-up'…?" Arthur wondered, "…is that why were meeting at a hospital…?"

Conan choked a bit on the potato-chip, laughing and Doyle groaned, rolling his eyes.

Jim's pacing jerked to a stop…but only for a moment.

Doyle saw this and turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah why are we meeting in a hospital, anyway?" Conan asked, mouth full and food flying out everywhere (Arthur scooted away two seats over, brushing himself off, Doyle chose to ignore).

"…could be 'cause it's a public place and he likes to meet in public places since they're safer…" Doyle mused, glancing up at Jim, almost smirking, "…but there are an awful lot of public places here in London, some a lot more 'public' than the hallway to a basement morgue…so, yes, why are we meeting in a hospital, then, Mr. Moriarty?"

"I dunno…" Jim shrugged, spinning on his heels to face Doyle and stare intensely (insanely) into his eyes, "…maybe I just like dead people."

That shut Doyle (and Arthur and Conan) up pretty damn quick.

Doyle realized that there was no real purpose for meeting in St. Bartholomew's hospital, and no real purpose for this meeting (other than to meet in St. Bartholomew's hospital)…and that there was no thing he (or Arthur or Conan) could do about it.

Suddenly, the long, awkward silence was interrupted.

'…I-I-I-I'm staying alive, staying alive…'

"Oops, that's me!" Jim chirped, embarrassedly, reaching into the pocket of his black pants.

" 'just like dead people', huh?" Doyle quoted skeptically.

"I'm just gonna go take this…" Jim said, already hurrying down the hallway.

Arthur, Conan and Doyle watched him go.

They waited in the waiting room of the morgue for an hour and half.

"…He's not coming back, is he?" Arthur spoke up, checking his fake-designer watch for the hundredth time.

Doyle shook his head, staring at his lap.

"…so is that a 'yes'…or a 'no'?" Arthur asked, and then decided after a few more seconds of silence, "…I'll take that as a 'no'…"

"Well, I'm going to get another bag of crisps." Conan declared, patting his knees and then standing up, "Anyone wanna come?"

"I'll go!" Arthur agreed, jumping up and following Conan down the hall.

Doyle got up too, and left, wondering just what the hell he had gotten himself (and his employer—who, by the way, would be furious) into.

"We really don't need him, you know..." Rose reminded, "We don't need anyone. We can do this just the two of us. Together…"

"I know," Ricoletti nodded, "I know…"

They were strolling, arm and arm, through the British National Gallery, 'admiring' all the beautiful, priceless artwork (casing the place).

It was quite romantic, actually.

Ricoletti didn't know how anyone (Moriarty) could work without a woman (or a man—if one happened to swing that way) on hand to help out.

Before… when it had just been him, (Signor Ricoletti, world's most notorious art thief), alone Ricoletti had only been able to steal paintings (which he did very well) and then sell them.

Sure, that earned him his fame…but not nearly as much money as being able to sell of around ten forgeries (perfect replications, art in their own right) of whatever art he happened to have 'acquired' ('admired' (stolen)) and put up for sale on the black market.

But Ricoletti didn't just do it for the money.

He did it for the love.

(…Awwww, how adorable…)

To think what would have happened to Rose if he hadn't rescued her from that secret 'school' in Sicily where they sent all the 'different' children (kept them well into adulthood, like Rose's case) who had photographic memories and could replicate any image they'd seen exactly…but couldn't 'fit in' with the 'normal' people.

Now Rose could (pretend to) be as 'normal' as anyone—when she wanted to. And all it had taken was some individualized attention (which none of the 'students' at the 'school' had received) and some love.

Ricoletti felt Rose stop, pull away from him and walk towards the wall of hanging paintings.

"Rose?" he called after her, as she pushed past people towards her target.

"This one, Antonio." She said, pointing at it, "This one."

"Oh, yes, dear, you're right, it's beautiful…" Ricoletti nodded, moving to stand behind her and place and hand on her shoulder.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Ricoletti gazed up in awe at the brown and orange landscape of a mountain and a magnificent waterfall.

"No, it's perfect." Rose stated.

"It is…" Ricoletti agreed, smiling, "…We'll take it."

"Meet at the coffee shop…" she had said (like he knew she would) on the phone and so he was there.

Jim knew Molly would 'come crawling back' back to him, sooner or later, and see the 'error of her ways'…

"Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry! I never should have chosen Sherlock over you! Who could be so stupid?! You're obviously the smartest, the best…God, Jim, you're perfect! Won't you please forgive me?"

Yes.

Jim could see it now, playing like a movie before his eyes, Molly crying into her cup of coffee across from him at their usual table.

…except there was one problem.

When Jim arrived at the coffee shop… Molly was nowhere to be found.

(She could just be running late…No. When she called she had told him she was already there.)

Jim asked the barista if she had seen a 'mousy looking girl, probably in a labcoat, and dressed like a blind librarian if not, go into the bathroom or something'.

And the barista said: "yes, I saw her…your girlfriend, right? I remember you two came in here a couple times before…anyway, she was here…but she left about ten minutes ago".

Left?

Molly called him there and then just left?

No.

Oh no.

Oh no she didn't.

The nerve of her, intentionally standing him up like that!

When Jim got a hold of Molly she would burn for this!

As he stomped away from the counter...

(and the barista who was confused and frightened when Jim decided, for some reason, that he wanted to grind a bag of coffee beans—with his bare hands (needless to say, that didn't work out well…for Jim's bare hands… or the coffee beans))

…Jim passed by his (and Molly's (their (them together))) normal table by the window.

On the table lay a dried, faded flower (that smelled terrible from being fished out of the garbage)…

….one of the ones Jim had stolen from various bouquets in various people's arms on his way to Molly's apartment Valentine's Day evening, until he himself (and so her) had a full bouquet.

The red hyacinth.

It meant 'play'.

…so Molly wanted to play a game, did she?

Jim grinned and picked up the dead flower.

Where are you, my little mouse?

####

Come find me.

Ricoletti was the art theif from the 'Reichenbach Fall' episode, in case you forgot.

My second best (and almost equally useful) friend, Google, told me that he was originally part of some short play (google 'Ricoletti' and it's the first result) and he wasn't an art theif then (I don't think) but his pretty, young wife was a money counterfiter (she wanted him gone, he wanted her dead)...

...yeah, well, changed that bit (fanfiction liberty (excuses, excuses)) so that it worked better with the plot, lol.

Hope you liked it!

(Hope you review!)