A/N: And in this chapter, you find out who the girl is! Well, it doesn't say her name, but as soon as you read the description of her physical appearance I'm sure you'll figure out who she is.

2

The Return of Moriarty

The taxi sped down the streets of London as John's hand nervously twitched over his gun. Things like this had been bad enough- frightening enough- with Sherlock by his side, but now he was over his head alone. He watched anxiously as the taxi passed block after block, John's trepidation growing all the while. Finally, he pulled up in front of the theater he needed, posters of The Phantom of the Opera lining the outside. John quickly paid the cabbie, hopped out as fast as his limp would allow him (his psychosomatic injury had returned days after Sherlock had died) and scanned the area. No sign of a girl in distress anywhere.

He calmly approached the ticket stand and asked to have a look around, to which he received the reply, "We've got maintenance today. Four pounds, please."

John nodded and passed four one-pound notes to the ticket holder, then went inside, pretending to admire the beautiful architecture so as not to appear suspicious. Quietly, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. After a few rings, he heard a "Hello?"

"Inspector Lestrade, thank goodness," he breathed. "Moriarty's at it again."

"Moriarty killed himself, John," Lestrade replied, puzzled. "You know that. You saw it in the police reports. Are you sure you aren't-"

"I know, Greg," John hissed, frustrated. "But there is a girl's life at stake. Come to Her Majesty's Theater ASAP." He promptly hung up the phone, uncaring of how rude he had been.

Entering the main auditorium, John scanned the stage and surrounding area. No sign of the girl. He sighed. If she wasn't here, he was going to have to do some serious breaking and entering.

"Could really use your help right about now, Sherlock," he whispered sadly before glancing around and then rushing towards the stage and then hopping on, running through the wings.

Finally, he reached the set room and poked his head in. Small whimpering came from behind the stairs for the masquerade scene, and John breathed a sigh of relief. "Where are you?" he said gently. "Tell me where you are, I'm here to help you."

"You really thought… it would be that easy," he heard her say, and John grew furious.

"Okay, look. I played your game, now let her go!" Rounding the set piece, he found a girl with pink hair in two neat pigtails, looking like she was naturally tan but now quite pale slumped up against the wall, clearly holding back tears as a laser pointer from a gun was aimed at the explosives strapped to her.

Suddenly, an unknown voice boomed out from somewhere in the room- John couldn't tell where, it seemed to echo and bounce off of every wall. "See, John, we've grown bored. Very bored. And we wanted to make things a little more interesting." He chuckled. "We were hoping that this girl's… friends would come and rescue her, but they didn't."

"They're not my friends!" the girl bellowed. "They're a bunch of idiots and I'm glad they're gone!"

"I highly doubt that," the voice said. "You thought fondly of them. Especially that… red one."

"STOP IT!" the girl screamed. "Okay, I admit it! I miss them! They left and I miss them! But that's none of your business. I'm not even sure how you know about them!"

By now they had lost John, but he was fairly used to the feeling. Pulling out his gun, he placed his finger on the trigger. "I don't know who you are, but you definitely aren't Moriarty. He's dead."

Another cold chuckle. "Ah, yes and no. The James Moriarty you knew is dead, but Moriarty is still very much alive."

John sucked in a deep breath of frustration. "Let her go, okay?"

"And why should I? James Moriarty said he liked to watch Sherlock Holmes 'dance'. Perhaps we enjoy seeing you struggle as well." Now a tall man rushed out, wrapped an arm around the girl's neck, and held another gun to her head.

The girl's eyes narrowed, and without warning she brought her elbow behind and slammed it into the man's face, kicking him in the groin at the same time. The man let out a groan of pain and released his hold on her as she ripped the sweatshirt she was wearing off, sending the explosives with it. She curled both her hands around each other to form a fist and slammed it down on the man's head. He collapsed, and she instantly got into a fighting stance. "I might not have been able to take you alone, but with a second person I've got an advantage," she snarled.

John blinked rapidly. This girl was probably still in her late teens and yet she was taking down grown men like she did it daily. "A gun," she said frantically to John.

"What?!"

"Pass me a gun!"

John faltered. "Are you sure you know how to-"

"Here."

A revolver came sailing through the air and the girl caught it with ease. John whirled around to find the source. He knew that voice, but it was simply impossible that-

But the proof was right in front of him.

"Hello, Sherlock," John whispered.