It was a name nobody spoke, a name Sherlock was not meant to know in this lifetime.
But Sherlock had spoken that name. Casually. Thoughtfully. Restlessly.
The third morning at Baker Street was tinted the colour of ashes. John blundered down the narrow, dark stairs in his pyjamas, seeking out coffee, and found the kitchen in dim, silent repose. Sherlock had scrawled four words onto an envelope and tacked it on the fridge.
Moriarty.
Mori art ti.
In a rush, John understood. Moriarty was more than a man. He was a creed.
Mori art ti.
To die is an art.