Sherlock sat in his plump chair in his flat on 221B Baker Street. He held his violin in his lap as his light eyes stared straight at the two men in front of him. Both Frank and Morarity were standing there, arms crossed and staring down Sherlock, looks in their eyes did not indicate they were malicious. Rather, they were not there to kill Sherlock outright, they wanted to chat with him, reasons for were beyond even him. However, the things they said to him

"Look at him, look at his little eyes," Morarity, snorted at him, pointing at his eyes. "Look at 'em, what sort of horror shows go on behind them that we're not privy to, I wonder. Are they worse than mine or they will become worse as mine as time goes, which is it Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't ask him, Jim, the man's not going to answer you truthfully. After all, he's no different than us, even if he pretends he isn't," Frank's silver eyes moved toward Morarity. Morarity agreed and sighed, shaking his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at them both. He responded with, "You're wrong, I'm not crazy. I'm not like either you!"

"He claims he isn't," Morarity titled his head. "Sounds like something only a crazy person would say, wouldn't you agree, Frank?"

"Oh I agree, Jim, look at him, he's cracking at the shell. We better get a skillet near him, I dare say we're having eggs Benedict," Frank grinned at Morarity and the two gave a hearty laugh.

Sherlock looked at them both, his brow raised as he stared. When the two finally stopped laughing, they started to point at him, in an accusing fashion. "He won't admit it, he'll never admit it," Morarity was the first to say. Frank nodded and smiled.

Frank said in response, "He'll no sooner swim the Thames than admit the ugly truth. When are you just going to admit it Sherlock, what's it going to take for you to just admit…"

He trailed as he gazed at Sherlock. Sherlock could only stare back. Frank smiled as he finished his sentence. "You think you're normal, don't you, Sherlock. What you do, it is all fun and games for you, I am sure of. Nevertheless, even you do not realize what people think of you. They think you are nothing more than the men you put away. A crazed man who hides out in his flat for weeks at a time, only coming out to hunt, a frenzied man who is only going get himself killed because that is what he does. He lives on the edge of society and does not realize that society thinks lesser of him than we do. That same society who will push you off the edge when you are no longer useful, that society is frightened of you, they don't know the real you. Even you don't know who you are anymore, isn't that right?"

The words Frank spoke were needles in Sherlock's head. He tried to rationalize everything spoken and yet, he could not. Frank knew this as he stared at him; his silver eyes seemingly attack Sherlock's light blue eyes. Sherlock shook his head as he affirms as before, "I'm not crazy. I am not like you. They won't turn on me!"

Morarity rolled his eyes. He gave his response in his usual fashion, with some words and sentences his voice raised to shouting levels and some he accented. "Society will abandon you, your friends will abandon you, and I don't think it'll take much for your family to abandon you either. How is he, Sherlock, your brother, you still talk, I am sure you do, you do not want poor mummy worried or barging into your life unannounced. Admit it, you would want that don't you, your family not in your life. You will keep your brother around, only because you want to feel superior. Nevertheless, with no mummy or papa to run amok in your life, you are free to do whatever you wanted. Moreover, I do not mean staying up past nine, genius," Morarity snorted as he started to pace around the flat while Frank continued to stand there. With his arms behind his back, Morarity continued to tell Sherlock everything wrong about him and his life. What he called the horrible truth that Sherlock would not admit to himself, even under the threat of killed by his nemesis.

Sherlock could not stand up to give Morarity a good punch in the face and so left in his plump chair cradling his violin, like a security blanket. Everything they have said so far has been nothing but needles in his head. Sharp needles, medical by the points, stabbing the delicate cranium in throes of rage, Sherlock was unable to do anything to stop the pain and they were getting started.

Morarity stopped at the photograph of one of Sherlock's popular cases, the Lady in Pink. He tilts his head at the photograph, studying it, before he turned away from it to look at Sherlock. He then continued his horrendous speech.

"Society looks at you, it studies you, and it does not know what to do with you. You make it intrigued with the cases you solve so it keeps you around. Eventually, society gets tired and tries to push you away. Only, you will not go away. You want to stay here, in 221B Baker Street with your skulls and books and rubbish like that. Therefore, society decides the only way it can get rid of you is by ignoring you. You do not like that, so you start making noise and eventually society comes up with us to shut you up for good. Then when that does not work, society decides slowly erode its ties around you. Poisoning them with whatever society knows you will not see or smell, by the time you notice, it will be too late and society will do what society does best: screwing over people, like you. Your, uh, "friends", they are only your friends until an opportunity opens up and they leave you. You think they like you, your intellect, your dashing blue eyes, they do not, genius. You are just their entertainment. You know those actors that turn up once a while, playing expies of you; you think they do it because they like you, your little cases, and the people in your life. They do not; they only play as you for money. They do not care about you. In fact, right now, there is an actor with blue eyes, just like yours, currently earmarked as an expy of you. He says he likes to play as you, but we both know even actors are terrible liars and poor showman. I mean, good god, sit him in a room full of oil drums rigged to blow and he'll tell you everything under the sun including what he eats in the morning and what he drinks in the noon. Poor, unreliable, liar, and it are only getting worse by the day's light."

Frank slowly nodded. "And we come around a full circle, you see Sherlock, we aren't crazy because our minds weren't threaded properly, we were made crazy by society rejecting us. You can argue that society hasn't done anything wrong, but we all know that society is as, well, fluid as time itself, when you push against it, it pushes back, hard," he summed for Sherlock.

Sherlock only stared at him, still frozen in his plump chair while cradling his violin. His eyes were wide open and that was the only thing he could do as he watched Frank lean in his right ear. Frank said in a cold voice that sent shivers down Sherlock's back. "You're afraid to admit that in the end; the Great Detective is forever alone, driven to madness by those around him. The one thing you have to your name that you know you can rely on is your precious cases, because they do not judge you, they do not pick apart your flaws or imperfections. In truth Sherlock, me and o' Jim were like you at that age, unbelievably. We thought what we were doing was for the good of humanity, but then society reminded us that no matter how much good we are doing, society makes the rules, and it only lets you think you win. We were cast aside, told to hit the road, never to come around anymore, all the while they praise the ones who break the laws and do much more harm than a lowly journalist and a doctor. So no surprise when we came back the way we are. You can say that, it's not people who are monsters, it's the society they were raised in that made them that way."

Morarity nodded as he stood near Sherlock has left side. He bent down to lean in to say to Sherlock, "Afraid of being alone, afraid of being forgotten, that's all there is to it. You intentionally get yourself into dangerous situations simply because you know in your little heart that is the only way you are not going to be lost to the ages of time. You self-destruct to get people to stay close to you, your narcotics binge was not for the addiction, and it was mere attention. Just admit it, o' bean, you only wanted attention and praise but society burnt you."

Sherlock heard them both say, "The actual truth behind our little tangent is quite simple. You did not think we would say all that for fun did you; no all this had a purpose. Whether you get it or not does not concern us one bit. You are afraid of being alone. Your friends abandoning you and your family disowning you, you are afraid of them, aren't you. You put on a good show, keeping them around, but you worry that it is not enough. You are climbing dangerous heights just so you can hide your misery. But that's not the whole truth either, is it?"

Suddenly, the flat morphed into a cold dark room. Sherlock was strapped down to a table and leering down on him were Morarity and Frank, both looking down on him with their cold dead eyes.

"Join us, Sherlock," they said in unison as their skins paled and became rotted, their eyes sunken into their heads and their faces wrinkling. "Join us and you won't have to be alone. Why would we judge you, if we're alike?"

Sherlock tried as he could, but he just could not escape the restraints and forced to watch Morarity ready an electronic saw. No words were coming out of Sherlock's mouth as he tried to scream for help. They knew it too as their rotted smiles gave any indication. "Let's make that brain of yours smile," Morarity's corpse smiled as it shuffled toward Sherlock's head with the electronic saw in his skeletons hands. Frank nodded, his unhinged jaw bobbling up and down. "Make it sing!" it hissed at Morarity. Morarity tisked with his nonexistence tongue, "Patience, we still have some work to do before we can make this worthless sack of flesh dance!"

Sherlock only watched as the saw turned on and brought near his head, tearing apart his curly hair and neared his cranium. In the background, he heard faintly in their horrid voices, "Who's the real Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sir, sir we're here!" Sherlock stirred from his sleep by the cabby. He groggily pushed himself up from the seat to find that he had reached 221B Baker Street. He turned his head to the concerned cabby as he rubbed his eyes. "Sir, are you alright? You've been muttering under your breath and sweating like a Cornish hen since I drove into London."

"I'm fine," Sherlock huffed. "How much is the fare?"

"Are you sure you're alright, you look pale, like you seen a ghost," the cabby worried. "I was this close to pulling into the nearest hospital."

"Did I say anything, anything at all?" Sherlock looked at him. The cabby shrugged as he replied. "You said, "You were dead, I watched you die!" and that was it."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes again before he pushed himself toward the back of the passenger's side to look at the dial. He studied the numbers before reaching into his pocket and giving the cabby his fare. The cabby still had a worried look on his face. "Are you positive that you don't want me to take you to a hospital?" he sheepishly asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm fine," he responded sternly before he pushed himself out of the cabby and stretched. Bones and joints popped as he yawned groggily. While physically he was all right, mentally however, he felt like he did in fact swim in the Thames. His mind played the events of his nightmares as if they were real and it took his breath out. It felt so real he smelt the carcass stench as the two men were rotting before his very eyes. He even felt the electronic saw tear out his hair by the roots and blood pooling. Worse, he even felt the saw touch his cranium. "I'm not crazy," Sherlock muttered to himself. "I'm not… crazy."

He brushed off his coat, walked up the steps, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to him and smiled warmly. "We were worried. When John and they couldn't get through we thought the worse," she said to him worryingly. Sherlock waved his hand. He said in response, "I'm dreadfully sorry for my absence. Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson, I was told there had been a robbery."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she nodded. "Aye, I was out doing my errands and gotten back to find your door open. I thought it was you or John so I gone up to see if something was wrong. It looked like someone took a sledgehammer and thrashed it around your flat. I had to call John," she explained to Sherlock as he stepped up onto the stairs. "They even made a noose with one of your scarfs and stuck that ugly skull in it!"

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned to her. "My blue one?" he asks. Mrs. Hudson tilted her head. "Sherlock, they're black, gray, or blue, with you," she reminded him.

"The one that was stained from being shot at while on a case at the Louvre," Sherlock detailed the scarf. Mrs. Hudson's eye widened and she nodded, pointing her boney finger at him. "Yes, that's the one," she affirmed. "But I thought you said you lost it."

"I did lose it, someone's returned it," Sherlock turned back to the stairs. Behind him, he heard Mrs. Hudson say, "Can't people return things like normal people?"

Sherlock walked up the steps toward his flat. It felt like every step was heavier than the last. By the time, he reached his door it felt like his feet tied with weights. Opening the door, Sherlock's light blue eyes gazed upon his flat. Everything changed. It appeared that after the robbery, John and Mrs. Hudson worked to fix up the flat for Sherlock. The navy rug that sat snug near the fireplace, replaced. There were new tables here and there. Moreover, everything shuffled around. There at his usual spot on his laptop was John.

John's dark eyes moved toward Sherlock and they narrowed as he turned his head. "First you disappear without so much as telling anyone where you were going. Second, you disappear with Alice. Third, you end up in Sherwood, what the hell were you two doing up there?" he scorned him. "Where's Alice?"

Sherlock chewed on his lip as he said to John, "Alice's dead."

"What?" John blinked as he stood up from his seat. "What do you mean?"

"We went to Sherwood to find Frank's body," Sherlock began to explain as he looked around his flat. "It was a trap. He knew we were coming."

"Do we know anything about him, anything at all?" John asked him. Sherlock slumped in his plump chair and shook his head.

John chewed on his lip as he paced around the flat. "Then it ought to stop now, right? He got what he wanted, yeah?" John reasoned, or tried to, as he walked around. "He's not going to kill anyone else, right?"

"He's going to come after me, John," Sherlock told him. "My scarf ensures it."

"Why take the scarf only to return it later?" John asked him. "What's the purpose?"

"A calling card, John," Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

John stopped near his laptop before he turned around to face Sherlock. "Why come after you, what links to this?" he wondered. Sherlock answered, "I'm the Great Detective and I've begun to be a thorn in his side."

"Aren't you always a thorn in someone's side," John retorted. He stopped before taking a deep breath and rubbing his brow. "What are we going to do, Sherlock?"

"John, I need you to do something for me," Sherlock began. "Go get my black bag. Not the cheap polyester knock off, the leather one, the doctor one."

He shooed John away as cogs in his head turned. He purposed that the Sherwood Hospital did not find anything because they went through the textbook list of known drugs and narcotics. They never accounted for a lunatic with access to medical knowledge. John brought the black leather doctor bag before Sherlock. Sherlock thanked him and pried open the bag by unhitching the claps. He pulled out the equipment one would have needed to take blood samples. As for why a man like Sherlock would want or need such equipment, one must remember that Sherlock always accounts for the littlest things.

"I need you to run my blood," Sherlock instructed John. "They missed something."

"What do you mean?" John eyed him. "Sherlock, are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"John, I think I was drugged," Sherlock uncharacteristically said to him. He coughed as he corrected himself. "John, I need you to do this. Test your blood as well; I need to cover my bases."

John agreed and helped Sherlock draw a vial of blood. As he helped, Sherlock told him about the American bills and how they been drugged that way.

"So, you're saying that I wasn't going mad, I was just drugged," John summed. Sherlock shrugged. John carefully tucked the vial away and looked at Sherlock. "I'll go run tests with Molly. As a doctor and a friend, I advise you to settle down for a while. You witnessed a shooting and from what little you decided to text me, you witnessed a lot."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock coughed. He stopped before quickly saying, "And see if you can get anything from my scarf."

John shook his head as he walked toward the table, "It's my oath."

He gathered his belongings and headed down the steps. When the door closed, Sherlock try to do just that. He settled in his seat as he tried to understand what was happening. The nightmare he had, the absurdity of this case, everything about it was driving him mad. He could not understand it and it infuriated him. Everything about this case, all the deaths that occurred, all on Sherlock's watch, and he had nothing to show for it. His evidence stolen, his star witness was dead, and now from what fevered madness he witnessed, the lunatic responsible was going to come for him next. The scarf was one way to draw attention to an impending doom.

Sherlock rubbed his throbbing eyes. He muttered under his breath, "I've gone mad."

He swore he heard a voice beside him. "He finally admits it," he heard. Sherlock lowered his hand quick and jolted up. His light blue eyes moving around to the flat, only to find that he was alone, and burrowed his head in his hands as he tried to calm down and settle.

Sherlock heard humming coming from the doorway as Mrs. Hudson came into the flat with a tray. "You're about to run yourself mad if you keep it up," she scorned him as she sat down the tray on the table in front of the sofa. "John told me. You're almost forty years old, is this how you want to live your life?"

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock lowered his hands to find that on the tray was a plump minced pie in the center with two plates and a cutter. Near it was a teapot and cups.

Sherlock might be abrasive, rude, and downright horrible to work with on his worst days, but even he could not deny that he needed a break and some pie and tea courtesy of Mrs. Hudson was an acceptable way.

He pushed himself up to look at Mrs. Hudson. "I know, I know, I've told you that I'm not your maid. But this was out of my own volition," she exhaled as she cut two slices of the minced pie. She brought one plate toward a slice and sat it on it before doing the same with the other. Handed the plate of pie and a fork, Sherlock mustered a very genuine, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You really need to pace yourself, dear. You'll get sick if you keep it up," Mrs. Hudson warned him. "Your brain needs a beak."

"It's not simple as that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock told her. "I have to be at the ready."

"And end up like Mr. Lestrade?" Mrs. Hudson scorned. "He was fortunate to have backup, but you; you're always running off without John. You're going to get yourself hurt."

"I know what I'm doing Mrs. Hudson, thank you for your concern," Sherlock chewed on a piece from his pie. The usual ingredients with the exception being the addition of cinnamon, it was subtle, not enough to taste off the bat. However, Sherlock was not going to comment on free pie.

"I sure hope you do," Mrs. Hudson sighed as she poured them tea.

Sherlock's mind began to settle and slowly and surely, his mind was at normal capacity. Not a threat to cause neither it dire nor a clue to drive it utterly mad, just cogging along. The slice of pie was the only normal thing Sherlock ever had since he started this case a few days ago. It felt like he had been running around nonstop without as much as a breather. Sleeping soundly, nightmares withstanding, in the cabby in the trip back to London, was the only rest Sherlock ever had.

All of it would come undone in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock received a second piece of pie by Mrs. Hudson. He thanked her as he was about to cut a piece off when he heard noises coming from the kitchen. His light blue eyes darted to see a familiar sight.

Sherlock stared as he saw standing there with food in his mouth as he wiped his food tipped fingers on the dishrag, Morarity. Morarity rolled his eyes as he said to Sherlock, "I'll admit, Mrs. Hudson's pie could've tasted better. She should have added more cinnamon. Cannot blame her though, you know how it goes with old people. How's your parents by the way, they still in and about?"

"I should've added more cinnamon though," Mrs. Hudson commented as she poured herself another cup of tea. "It's hard measuring cinnamon, though."

"Personally, I'd go for nutmeg, earthier flavor, but hey, you can't complain," Morarity swallowed the remnants of the pie as he walked over and plopped down beside Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson then mentions, "I should try nutmeg next time. I'm told it's earthier."

Sherlock sat there with a plate of pie in one hand and a fork in another. His eyes had trouble comprehending what they were seeing as his ears and mind try to understand the situation. There he was, Morarity, having himself a slice of pie, sitting beside Mrs. Hudson, commenting. Then, Mrs. Hudson not noticing his presence or anything, really. It was to say, an unusual experience for Sherlock.

Morarity was having a bit of fun as he sat there beside Mrs. Hudson. He grabbed for Sherlock's cup of tea and sat back. "Oh come now, you expect me to wash down minced pie with milk?" Morarity sneered at Sherlock as he brought the cup to his lips. "I'm told that's not very kosher in some parts."

He proceeded to drink the tea and winced. He sat the cup back on its plate and placed back on the table. He looked disgusted by the look of it. "She's good at pie making but rubbish at tea making. How is this possible?" he wondered as he wiped his mouth with a tissue. "She ought to seep the tea longer. I'm drinking green water!"

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock peculiarly. "Are you alright, you look pale. Well, paler than usual. You should really get out more," she noticed. Sherlock blinked rapidly before nodding. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, but you should've seeped the tea more," he quickly said in response. Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, "I should've, but I got so worried about leaving you up here alone."

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock coughed.

Morarity rolled his eyes. "Kiss up," he snorted.

Sherlock swallowed everything he ever had to finish his second and third slice of pie, his third and fourth cup of tea. All while, he listened to Morarity who sat there bored, waiting for acknowledgement.

Mrs. Hudson collected everything and Sherlock held the door open for her as she headed down the stairs. Once Sherlock confirmed she was gone and out of earshot, he turned his attention to his unusual guest.

"How is this possible," Sherlock scorned at him. "I'm not dreaming!"

"Oh, how idiotic can you get," Morarity waved his hand at Sherlock. "You didn't think we'd leave you alone here, did you?"

"Why, why are you doing this?" Sherlock hissed. "What purpose does this serve?"

"Sherlock, my nemesis, we both know the purpose of my visitation," Morarity wagged his finger.

Sherlock winced, "Where's Frank?"

"Frank's busy," Morarity, sighed. "Busy, busy, busy, reminds me of a certain someone. You know, it gets lonely where I am. It will not kill you to visit me once a while. My god, bring me liquor from Queen Lizzie's cabinet, she won't notice a tall dark and handsome fellow rummaging her belongings, won't she?"

"Where are you, then?" Sherlock stared at him. Morarity sighed as he clasped his hands together and said to Sherlock slowly, "We both know the answer, you're just dodging it."

"I don't," Sherlock objected only to scorn for it by Morarity. "You don't really understand what I'm trying to do, do you? No, of course you do not. You are the lowly detective who can solve anything by himself. Damn his lovely nemesis trying to help him beat Frank's game. However, it is for my own benefit, as we both know. You do not get it, do you? Sherlock, my sweet annoying Sherlock, you knew from the get-go the ugly truth. You just ignored it and kept on. You liked the challenge and you did not want it to end. Now, it is coming back to bite you on the arse. Frank knows it just as I do. That's why this complicated matter is happening."

"You're not dead," Sherlock shook his head. "I know it."

"Maybe, maybe not, come on Sherlock, you're the brains to my brawns, enlighten me. Don't you think I'd have a plan in case of my untimely demise, of course I would, it's natural for me. You say I am alive but you watched me die. You tossed me off a waterfall last I remember," Morarity picked at his teeth, digging out stuck meat and herbs. "Not many people survive a drop from a waterfall."

"You always have a plan," Sherlock reasoned. Morarity rolled his eyes.

He wiped his fingers on the sofa. Afterward he said to Sherlock, "I always do, Sherlock."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded Morarity. "What do you want from me?"

Morarity rolled his eyes and threw his legs up, resting them on the scuffed up table. He wiggled them as he crossed his right over his left. "What do I want?" he wondered. He put his index finger up to his chin as he tilts his head. "Oh, what does a well-dressed psychopath want from his "highly sophisticated sociopath" nemesis?"

He lowered his finger as he grinned at Sherlock. "His nemesis already knows what he wants," he points at Sherlock. "What do I want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood there flabbergasted. In his mind, the cogs turned and then some. He knew what Morarity wanted and it couldn't be done. "You can't beat me," he answered Morarity. "You won't beat me."

"I already beaten you, o' chap, that's why I'm here," Morarity pointed at himself. "I'm bloody bored, you half-wit!"

"You couldn't've beaten me," Sherlock shook his head. "I beat you!"

"Oh please, since when have you ever taken failure with grace? That was always your problem, Sherlock. You never once took a loss with grace. You always had to have it your way," Morarity sneered at him. "Of course, I should've known my dear nemesis would never owe up to it."

"You want to beat me," Sherlock stared at him. Morarity slowly nodded. Sherlock shook his head in response, "Is that why you're here?"

"Beside the point, Sherlock, it saddens me I have to explain this to the supposed Great Detective. It pains me that this day and age the formalities of enemies are gone. They don't even converse anymore, can you believe it? At least when I was tormenting you we got some conversations out of it. Even if I did have to take John hostage, at least I discussed business with you. Often now, it's all shoot and paperwork later, it drives me mad, well more than usual," Morarity shook his head in disappointment. "I miss a good conversation."

"Between Frank and you, I'm having none of it," Sherlock snapped at him. "I have six men dead and an open case!"

"Spare me the semantics, Sherlock. Actually, now that I think of it, you were never the type for semantics," Morarity spread his arms on the headrest. "Wonder what changed, the introduction of the Hobbit or her."

Sherlock grew frustrated with Morarity, real or not. He swung around and faced the fireplace, rubbing his throbbing head. "Remember that case, the first case you ever did with John?" Morarity suddenly brought up. Sherlock knew Morarity just wanted him to turn around and face him again. He didn't and Morarity and kept talking as he always done. "That man, the cabby, had an aneurysm didn't him? I always wondered what having one was like. I would imagine it'd be like having a ticking time bomb in your head. You don't know when you're going to die until that wee bubble bursts. Makes me wonder about you, like if you're one-step away from having your bubble burst. I wonder what'll happen when your bubble bursts, what would the little Hobbit and your so called acquaintances say about it when they see their dear o' charming chap bloomin' mad."

Morarity attempted to coarse Sherlock turn his head a little with him adding, "Though, I wonder if it hadn't already burst and this is the outcome. Come on, Sherlock, you can hardly ignore the rubbish on the Telly or your dear older brother. Just admit it; o' bean I'm striking nerves aren't I?"

"You hardly touched them," Sherlock said vehemently. Yet, it did not stop Morarity from trying something else to gain attention from Sherlock.

Morarity shifted in place as he then said to Sherlock, "So, what's it like, you know, having her beat you at your favorite game. Hurts doesn't it, come now, it's alright, I've lost plenty of games before and look at me. You must've been furious when she beat you. Did it cross your mind to strike her pride or stoop to her level?"

His mouth furrowed to a smile as he continued. "Or did it cross your mind to just rip her dainty little self apart and strew the pieces all around. What would it be like to see London's finest detectives fishing in the Thames or even the sewers for what remains. I dare say you are the type to keep reminders. Therefore, what is it then, her skull or that bosom of hers? No, not her bosom, you never cared for those did you. My, what plots twist if a discovery made that dear Sherlock Holmes was inclined to the company of men instead of the usual. It would certainly explain the Hobbit. I never pictured you for the type to like short men with fine lines, but c'est la vie. It's not my place to judge."

Sherlock certainly had enough, as he swung around, unusually red in the face. "Shut up, just shut up," he growled at Morarity. Morarity was merely amused as he comfortably crossed his leg. A crooked smile appeared on his face as he watched Sherlock's light blue eyes fixate on him. "Hit a nerve did I, Shirley?" Morarity tilted his head.

Sherlock only occasionally had a reason to pull out a gun, but for this case, it was more than personal at this point. In response to Morarity, Sherlock stomped toward where he kept his gun. With it in hand, Sherlock turned around to find Morarity there with his arms crossed.

Morarity wagged his finger at Sherlock, "You know what they say about using guns improperly, you might shoot your eyes out."

Sherlock held it to his head with intent known in his eyes. Morarity didn't flinch. He didn't even fluster. Chillingly, Morarity grabbed the gun and forced it against between his eyes. "So, the Great Detective resorts to murder. How far we've come," he smiled.

Sherlock hissed at him in response, "Shut up, just shut up!"

"Such lust for violence, how painfully boring, even for you," Morarity mocked. "You don't have the balls to do it."

"I'll do it," Sherlock growled.

Morarity released the gun and held out his hands outward. He then said, "Well, then just do it. I'm dead anyway, so what's a bullet to the membrane these days?"

Sherlock cocked the gun and Morarity waited. He waited with that grin on his face. That childish grin that sent chills up Sherlock's spine as he looked at Morarity dead in the eye. Morarity slowly mouthed out the words, "Do it."

Sherlock's finger went near the trigger and slightly touched it as he continued to stare at Morarity. Dead set in killing Morarity. Morarity knew it, too. His eyes lit up, like a child on Christmas morn as he stared at Sherlock.

"You know you want to," Morarity teased. "It's hardly a question anymore. You wanted me dead from the start. I kidnapping the Hobbit was just the starting point. You couldn't handle the thought of losing your dear friend. If I could make a point, you don't have to worry about losing the Hobbit. The internet folk surely kept up with their horrible retellings of cases with sprinkles of fiction with you two's endeavors in the bedroom if there was ever a bedroom mentioned in those stories. You don't even have to look, it's all there. Just type on the good o' search bar and you'll find that no matter what, people love what they don't know anything about. Just like you. The man with the plan who took the world by storm, only to be killed because he couldn't handle a single thought of losing his "wee buddy"."

Sherlock's mind struggled. If he did shoot Morarity, he'd win. If he didn't, Morarity would never leave him alone. It was a matter of politics in the Palace. To kill a man who claims he's dead and prove his point or allow him to roam the world freely to torment anyone he ever so pleased. Sherlock then decided.

He pointed and fired.