A/N: Edited because ff dot net ate my formatting.

Artemis was taking an evening stroll along the streets of London, enjoying the coolness of the oncoming night. Of course, he wasn't strictly Artemis Fowl anymore. For reasons that had as much to do with new friends as old ones, he'd parted ways with that identity.

He glanced down as his mobile buzzed. It was a sleek black latest-generation Phonetix model. New identity or not, no Fowl heir ever lost his taste for luxury. The rest of himself he had already shed. In theory.

Jim, read the message. Gregson back in town. Please advise.

As though Scotland Yard idiots were anything to worry about. Artemis heaved a sigh as he typed back a brief reply, signing the message JM. The name was an extravagance, though it certainly wasn't meant to be; Artemis had decided before he got to London to take the surname of the fifteenth stranger he came across. He'd assign himself a generic first name to go with it. In theory, it would be impossible to trace back to him.

When he caught a glance of his new identity on the briefcase of a passing businessman, Artemis laughed aloud for the first time in a month.

Moriarty. The name held death and memories. It was too perfect.

Eight months later it was still a name known to only a chosen few. Artemis had built himself a new life, of sorts. Minus the battles with possessed magical zombies, it was every bit as exciting as the old one.

Eight fruitless months later, John would recall their conversation about the Fairy Thief with something approaching nostalgia. Sure, Sherlock's fixation had rapidly waxed into obsession, despite the failure of the Fairy Thief to show any interest at all in his lost masterpiece. Sure, he had had them both scouring the Internet for nonexistent information about the philanthropist for days on end. And sure, the wall in the living room had been practically repapered in maps and notes depicting the locations and details of each of the Fairy Thief's heists. But at least no one had been throttled, poisoned, or covered in Semtex.

Moriarty was a different sort of quarry entirely.

In the end, they had run into a blank wall. The Fairy Thief refused to be drawn out, and the painting had been duly returned to France. Mycroft had made sure of that.

"Three days, Sherlock. You've got three days to figure out whatever you need to know from that painting. If it's not in my hands by then, in pristine condition, the government of Great Britain is going to take an immediate and enduring interest in 221B Baker Street."

The unharmonious twang of violin strings followed him out the door.

When Mycroft had gone, John turned his head toward Sherlock.

"Are you going to tell me why you apparently broke into Scotland Yard to take that? It wouldn't have taken Mycroft Holmes to figure out it was you, even if he was the first. Since when are you an art lover?"

"I'm not an art lover, I'm a crime lover," said Sherlock under his breath. "And that painting, believe it or not, is evidence of more crimes than a lousy double murder."

"We know the motive, the identities of the victims, the museum they originally took it from, and it's only a matter of time until you track down the buyer, so why on earth would you steal a Herve masterpiece worth more than all of Baker Street combined?"

"Bait."

John opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and sighed.

"The Fairy Thief. You want to go after the bloody Fairy Thief."

"In a manner of speaking," said Sherlock, busying himself on his laptop. "Not to bring him to justice, or anything like that. The man's more philanthropist than criminal - if, indeed, he is a man. But to know, John…"

"Go on, then," said John resignedly. What did you learn?"

Sherlock smiled.

Connoisseurs of Impressionist art who made pilgrimages to see the Fairy Thief on display at the Louvre museum exclaimed over Herve's vibrant and masterful style. But what intrigued Sherlock most about the painting were not the bold brushstrokes of the original artist, but the marks left by those who had possessed it since.

"Bottom right hand corner, see? The tiniest fragment of paint has been chipped off. Cleanly, so it was done on purpose, with extreme care, almost certainly for chemical analysis. The painting has been missing for decades, long before that sort of analysis blossomed into the art it is today, if you'll excuse the pun—" Sherlock glanced at John, who was almost too startled by the attempt at humor to laugh.

"—so it was very likely made by our Fairy Thief. The missing paint chip was taken around the same time these other cracks appeared, see?"

John bent and examined the canvas.

"That's odd," he said aloud. "It's as though someone…"

"…Stuffed the painting in his jacket. Or under a cushion. Highly out of character for an art connoisseur with such a delicate touch, is it not? Our thief was interrupted."

"Interrupted by who?"

"By whom—" Sherlock caught the murderous glimpse in John's eye and cut himself off. "We don't know yet. Evidently someone he either could not or would not overcome by violence. Remember, John, our thief loves this painting; he would never damage it voluntarily. That he did not take the time to roll it up into the canvas tube he almost certainly had prepared suggests he was in immediate danger and had to flee. Another possibility is that someone with a rougher touch and less taste for art succeeded in taking it from him, at least briefly, but then, why not sell the painting? There have been a half dozen other lost masterpieces returned, all signed 'The Fairy Thief'. This sort of philanthropy suggests an art lover, whether he or she be a genuine criminal or simply a private collector."

"So we're left with…"

Sherlock smiled. John could never understand how such aristocratic features could form so predatory an expression.

"Someone knows who the Fairy Thief is."

James Moriarty would have described himself as an independent labor contractor, if anyone asked and he were prone to honesty. The London constabulary would perhaps use slightly different phrasing. In any case, Artemis enjoyed his new profession but not his associates, and never intended to make a lifelong career out of it. It was more a way of passing the time. The London underworld needed a guiding hand.

That was the frustrating part, how badly they needed him. Crime was an unorganized, chaotic mess when Artemis arrived in London, characterized by neither elegance nor subtlety. He hadn't been in London longer than a week when someone pickpocketed him—in broad daylight, for heaven's sake. Artemis gazed after the retreating figure before calmly hailing a cab. When the thief returned to his hideout several hours later, there was a surprise waiting in the shadowed doorway.

The surprise had dark hair, pale skin, and a predatory smile, visible only via the glow of a screen in its hand. That unbearable smirk was also evident in its voice.

"Sebastian Moran," Artemis read, scrolling down on his phone. "Thirty-six years old, six foot one, ex-military. Wanted for, let's see…petty theft, defacing of public property, multiple charges of assault and battery…all in the past year? My, Sebastian, but you've been busy."

Moran lunged forward but was checked by the silky hiss of the young man's voice.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"No doubt you've noticed, Sebastian, that I hold in my hand the means to enact one of the miracles of the modern age—instant messaging. The slightest move from you, and every law enforcement official in London will receive a message containing your name, photograph, and—" Inwardly, Artemis heaved a sigh as his gaze swept the abandoned factory building. "—clear directions to your rather melodramatic place of abode."

He offered an ironic smile. "How long do you think it will take them to recognize you?"

Moran surprised Artemis by staying put. Clearly the man wasn't as stupid as he appeared.

He grunted. "And I'm supposed to assume you have a tender loving relationship with the law yourself."

Artemis gave him his best vampiric smile. "There's a difference, Sebastian. I don't get caught."

"What do you want?"

"Information."

"You're threatening me and you don't even have a gun?"

His finger was hovering over the phone screen again. "Do I need one?"

Moran couldn't believe what was happening. Weird enough that he was being held up by an apparently unarmed teenager. Weirder still that the kid didn't care about getting his money back.

Of course.

He'd been set up. Played like a rich boy at a casino.

But if all the kid wanted was…

"Information about what?"

"London. You're going to show me around. And, unfortunately, this rather compromising email is set to send automatically at times known only to myself, in the event that it isn't shut off with the correct password."

Cornered.

The big man heaved a sigh and glanced out at the darkening streets. "All right, kid. One bedtime story. Just don't expect a good night kiss."

To Mulch's credit, it was a fully thirty seconds before he cracked the first Dickens joke. Butler was already snapping orders.

"Foaly, continue scanning the web. Time to pull out the stops. I want facial recognition, police reports, everything. Holly, what's the fastest fairy transportation to London?"

Holly was pulling on a flight suit as she spoke. "Wings, of course."

Butler feigned surprise. "You have them in troll size? I didn't know."

Foaly and Mulch were already backing away, but Holly's gaze was sympathetic. "Sorry, big man. You're not coming."

Butler snorted. "You want me to take the train? Do you really believe Artemis won't have an eye on all human transportation into the city?"

"I mean you're not coming at all. The Fowls need you."

"She's right," interrupted Foaly. "Besides, you wouldn't be in London a week before Artemis found out. You're a bit…recognizable."

Holly was one of the unfortunate few fairies who had experienced hand-to-hand combat with a full-grown male troll. Multiple times. It's hard to forget the sensation of watching your life flash before your eyes, and at this moment Holly found herself experiencing extreme déjà vu. She resisted the urge to draw her Neutrino as Butler's glare drew nearer.

Foaly and Mulch were pinned to the wall by the door, unable to tear their eyes from the seven foot man-mountain bearing down on their tiny friend. Holly didn't back down.

"You know I'm right, Butler," she said quietly. "I know how impossible this is for you. But if Artemis gets the slightest hint that you're in town before we're ready, he'll vanish again. For good this time."

Butler's body stiffened slowly. Obviously he was reigning himself in, battling the urge to…what? Holly didn't dare guess, but she wasn't staying on the floor to be smashed like a bug under a boot. She activated the wings on her suit and slowly fluttered up to Butler's face level, carefully out of arms' reach. Gazing into his burning eyes, she understood.

He wasn't threatening her at all. He was battling himself. The man's mind and heart, both far too big for a professional bodyguard, were at war.

"Butler," said Holly softly. "I do it too, you know."

Butler didn't ask, but she continued anyway. "I do it too. Lie awake every night blaming myself. Spend every minute of every day hating the fact that I've failed him."

She spoke steadily, without looking away.

"But it's not my fault. And it's not yours. It was Artemis, it was all Artemis; he's confused and we might be the last thing he wants right now, but we're what he needs. We're going to find and bring him back, and he'll need you, but right now you need to do the impossible thing and stay here."

Next to the door, Foaly tapped his back hoof nervously. Holly's voice had deepened, suddenly persuasive and smooth. She was treading on dangerous ground. But in a moment her voice softened again.

"For Frond's sake, Butler, the Fowls don't know what you know. They're barely holding together as it is, and they need you here."

It was a long, tense moment before Butler finally nodded.

"Keep in touch," was all he said, and he exited the room abruptly.

When Holly finally left the shuttleport, she was met outside by someone. Her heart briefly leapt at the sight of a pale, familiar face and feathery black hair, and then contracted again painfully as her brain cottoned on to the fact that he was barely taller than herself.

Not Artemis. Myles.

What in Frond's name was Artemis' six-year-old brother doing here?

He couldn't see her, of course. Thank the gods she'd shielded before leaving. He couldn't even see the shuttleport. But he'd heard the portal creak closed as she left, and he turned immediately toward the sound.

"Butler?" his voice was uncertain. He turned around slowly, three hundred and sixty degrees.

"Fairy?"

Holly held her breath. How…?

Myles scanned the sky, waving something aloft in a tiny hand. Holly rose and hovered a cautious distance away, overcome with curiosity in spite of herself, increasing her helmet's audio sensitivity to pick up Myles' whisper. Sound drummed against her ears as suddenly he was shouting, and the shout built into a scream.

"I have the right to know, fairy! I deserve to know who Artemis was! I have to know if he was right, or…" There were tears streaming down his cheeks, and his breath caught in a strangely adult sob. "Or if none of it's true, if he was mad and so am I, and I didn't have my brother for real, not even before…"

Holly was caught off guard by how young and in pain he was. How helpless. Was it possible for a Fowl to be helpless?

Not for long, apparently.

"All right." Myles straightened. "Somebody's there. I heard you. If somebody's there, then you're an invisible fairy, and you'll show yourself to me. If you're not there, and invisible fairies don't exist, then I'm sure they won't mind my posting this…"—he waved a sheaf of papers—"all over the Internet."

Holly caught a glimpse of a page and bit back a gasp, her pity extinguished in a rush of rage. That was the Book—the fairy Bible. The ancient, sacred text translated by Artemis into a human tongue, and now subjected to the carelessness and vile threats of a six-year-old Mud Boy. A wave of fury went racing through her veins, twisting through every particle in her body down to her DNA, screaming at her to put a stop to this. Holly was barely conscious of the air heating up around her as familiar and yet alien magic danced in her on the tip of her tongue and along her arms, aching to loose itself on the world, to give them all hell, destroy the utter wrongness of the pages fluttering callously beneath her. Let's see how well you can publicize that information once it's blown into its constituent molecules. Along with you, Mud Boy.

But this Mud Boy was Artemis' brother. He'd have copies. Heck, he'd probably memorized the thing. For all she knew he had already posted the information.

This was Artemis' brother, Holly realized. What in Frond's name was she doing?

Almost too late, she noticed the buildup of violet light around her, felt the sizzle of raw heat on her suit. With a gasp, she pushed it away, frantically stoppering the pounding in her veins. As the magic slowly dissipated, Holly felt a long shiver run up her spine.

What am I doing? That Book belongs to Artemis. I knew he had it. I've known it for years. And yet I nearly struck down a child to destroy it. Without even thinking.

What's wrong with me?

I've been hanging around Mud Men for too long, she thought wearily.

And he'd seen the glow of her magic. Of course Myles had seen. So Holly settled herself onto the grass and let her shield lift. She pulled her helmet off reluctantly and turned a tired gaze on Myles Fowl.

Myles' face drained even more, eyes taking in every detail, from the auburn hair and hazel eyes to the silver wings folding smoothly into her suit, but he didn't step back. If anything, he seemed to melt in relief.

He rubbed his eyes and smiled in an overwhelmingly childish way.

"Fairy. You are real."

Holly nodded mutely, but her mind was racing. The mind wipe…on a six year old, how could it not take?

"Then this is real too." He held out the stack of papers.

Holly took the pages and shuffled through. I am thy link to power arcane…Carry me always, carry me well…it was all here.

Myles was still gazing at her. At one meter tall, she just barely topped his height. It was as though her best friend had suddenly shrunk to fairy-size, becoming a sweet little kid instead of an arrogant, gold-hungry coward who ran from his friends…

Get a grip, girl.

A sweet little manipulative, power-hungry child who had threatened to reveal her entire world to the Mud Men on a whim. Stiffly she made to hand the papers back to Myles but he shook his head.

"Keep them. I've read them. They belong to you anyway. I just want to know what Artemis knew. What's your name?"

Holly could have used the mesmer, then. Could have walked away, leaving Myles Fowl in happy ignorance and no longer haunted. After all, that's what you do when you encounter a human. That was what any fairy with the brains to tell a troll from a pixie would do. What the LEP handbook said. What Julius Root had roared, face beet red and inches from hers, every time she put a toe out of line.

If she started obeying orders now, Commander Root would be rolling in his grave.

And this was Myles too-smart-for-his-own-good, already-in-high-school-at-age-six Fowl. This was a little boy who lived day in and day out with his big brother's legacy, with his silent mother's pain, and with not a thing he could do to make it up to her. This was all she had left of Artemis Fowl.

Holly was already dug in deeper than Mulch Diggums in the black market. So she shifted the stacked papers to her left hand and held the other out to her best friend's little brother.

"Captain Short of the LEP. Call me Holly."