The morning rays of sun came through the window, but they would be gone soon. Dylan was eating her toast and looking at John on the other side of the table. He was having trouble chewing, what with all his face looking like a mashed potato. He grinned as he sipped his tea. While Sherlock and Lestrade left with the fake Sebastian Wilkes to Scotland Yard, Dylan had gone to the hospital with John again. He was in a miserable state, had been beaten pretty had. At the hospital they had re-stitched his forehead and disinfected all other wounds. Luckily, apart from the pain he had to kill by taking regular doses of paracetamol, he would be fine. He seemed quite haggard, though. Sherlock had come home the night before to check on John and to rest for a while, though that turned out to be impossible. He had left early in the morning, as soon as inspector Lestrade had gotten to his office. Molly had called the night before as well, after John and Dylan left the hospital to 221B Baker Street. She had news for Sherlock on the poison result. It was positive for Clostridium Botulinum. With that prove Sherlock could present his suspicions to inspector Lestrade. The inspector was also going to interrogate the woman that had been seen with Mark Spencer again that morning.

John ate the last toast on the plate and ran a finger though the table, right where a big scratch was. Dylan spoke for the first time that day.

"Big scratch."

"Yeah, Sherlock and his experiments." John said, smiling at her.

"Oh, you don't know?"

"I don't know what?"

Dylan laughed.

"The scratch. How is there a scratch on the table." John shook his head and frowned. He had never given too much thought to it. Dylan explained. "He had a row once, with a Sikh warrior. That scratch was made with the warrior's sword. The guy almost decapitated him. From what he told me it was quite a fight."

John shook his head.

"Why doesn't he ever tell me these things?"

"I guess he does not want to make you worried." And she asked, pointing at his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. The pain killers help. I am just glad you got there in time yesterday."

He sighed. Somehow, John always ended up with guns pointed to his head.

The door downstairs opened and they heard hurried footsteps. Sherlock got in the apartment, his coat flapping behind him. Dylan got up as he walked in.

"So, anything new?"

"He refuses to say a word."

Sherlock had left to hear the interrogation of Sebastian Wilkes. Well, in this case, the man who was pretending to be him and who Dylan had punched in the face the night before.

"So, he did not confess."

"Nothing. He became mute. He doesn't want a lawyer and refuses to tell anything. They tried to make him speak with no success." And he picked up a few papers, read them and asked. "They are going to interrogate the woman now. Mark Spencer's mistress. You two want to come with me?"

Dylan nodded and looked at John. He nodded as well.

"Of course, there's no use in staying here."

Sherlock looked at him.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

"Yes, I am fine." John assured. He did seem a bit more cheered up. The wounds wold need time to heal.

"Let us go, then."

Dylan and John put on their coats and followed Sherlock in to the street. They took a taxi and got to Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade and Agent Donovan were talking outside Lestrade's office. They stopped talking when they saw Sherlock.

"We are going to interrogate her now."

"The man still refuses to say anything?"

"Yes. We really don't know what else to do. We have to make some more investigation, find out who he really is and try to trace that organization you told us about. For now all we can do is keep him in custody."

Sherlock nodded. The inspector was doing the best he could. The man would talk, sooner or later.

"Okay, let's go."

"Can we go as well?" It was John who asked. Inspector Lestrade took a good look at his face. Poor man; first ran over by a taxi, now beaten up.

"Yes, you both can stay as well." He authorised, pointing at Dylan too.

They entered inspector's Lestrade office. There stood Steve Mason, who had identified Mark's lover to be at the scene of the crime before he entered and killed him. He had been called to her first testimony and was now in the room again. His trial would also start soon.

The woman, Jean Simmons, was seated with her hands on her lap. The first story she had told had been quite plausible. She and Mark knew each other due to his relation with her husband. She had hated him for doing what he had done to them and when her husband committed suicide she had confronted him. Mark had said it was not his fault and volunteered to ease her life up by providing a small fee every month. She had refused but he had visited her often, making sure she was okay. They became close. She hated herself but couldn't resist falling in love with such a clever and extraordinary men. They got involved. Yes, she had been with him that day. They had met and kissed. No, she hadn't seen Mr. Steve Mason as she had left the room, so she could not provide any testimonial against him in court.

She had been very calm when she did the first testimonial. She was nervous now. The leg she had crossed was balancing and she kept her hands clasped together. She barely looked up as they walked in and she had been crying, make up all over her face.

Inspector Lestrade sat in front of her and Sherlock, John and Dylan stood by the door, close to Agent Donovan.

"Mrs. Jean Simmons, you were here yesterday evening to testify on the death of Mr. Mark Spencer. Mr. Steve Mason here had told us you were with the deceased just moments before he was killed with a knife. You confirmed that. Is there anything you would like to tell us?"

The woman did not say a word. She kept looking at her lap. Lestrade decided that he was going to look for the right questions so she could answer. She would not tell the story on her own.

"Mr. Mark was killed with a knife. But we found out, with our toxicological reports, that before Mr. Steve stabbed him, he had been poisoned."

Steve Mason frowned. Well, that was new for him. Lestrade proceeded.

"The poison that has been administered on Mr. Mark - presumably in his drink – was of a kind that would attack the victim slowly. It paralyses, from head to toe. So, in conclusion, Mr. Mark was poisoned but the poison was still taking effect when Mr. Steve Mason walked in to the room and stabbed him with the knife. The wound would still bleed; the cause of death seemed the stabbing. Now, there was only one person who could have poisoned Mr. Spencer's drink, and that was you. You were the only person who had been with him before Mr. Mason stabbed him. Just minutes before, the exact amount of time for the poison needed to take effect, but make Mr. Mason here think Mark was still alive. So, I am guessing you were lucky enough Mr. Mason saw you together and stabbed Mr. Spencer. No one ever thought about looking for another cause of death. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes there," He pointed out the consulting detective and the woman raised her eyes for the first time. "Thought otherwise and the lab ran a poison test. You are accused of murdering Mr. Mark Spencer. It would be better for you if you cooperate."

Inspector Lestrade gave her a tissue and Jean Simmons composed herself. She looked at the inspector and sighed, unsure where to begin. Dylan saw in her expression that she had decided. She was going to confess.

She began to speak, a tremulous voice, trying to fight back the tears.

"A couple years ago Mark Spencer and my husband – Stewart – decided to open a company. Never for a moment did I or my husband thought that Mark would turn out to be a selfish bastard." Her voice was filled with sorrow. "But Mark found a better job – or else, his father did. And, as if getting a high, better position, wasn't enough, that greedy… man decided to steal all from my husband. He used lawyers; he figured out things, he made him sign papers. Stewart trusted him, he had no reason not to. If you ask me, if anyone asked me, I would swear that my husband would be first in line to cheat Mark than the other way around. My man was a good man, but he was ambitious. And Mark was so rich. We would never have guessed. But it happened, he did steal from us and we were left with an empty house and a floor to sleep. They were tough times. Eventually my husband and I recovered what we had. Well, some of it. I never tried to know in which kind of business Stewart was. We had money and I didn't want to make any difficult questions. A few months later, after we were settled again, my husband started to act strange. And I didn't know why, he wouldn't tell me precisely and I wouldn't try to go further. I sensed he was… afraid. He was working at a company – small job. And I started to wonder once again where the money came from. His job could not provide him such benefits, you see. But I shut up all at once. Then, a few months later, after he began to act strange… He killed himself." She stopped, blowing her nose. She then clenched her hands in a fist. "I then decided to make some research of my own. And I figured out what had been troubling my husband. He was part of this secret society. That's how he was getting all the money. His minor position in that specific company allowed him to get important information. When he died he left papers and I found them out. I don't think anyone else knew about it. From what I understood he wanted out. He wanted to stop working for the society but that's not how things work, is it?" She asked for the room, not really expecting an answer, and proceeded. "These kinds of things, once you get in you can't get out. I guess he was too naïve or just too desperate. Desperate because of me, of the struggle I had to go through as well because he had trusted Mark Spencer." She paused again, breathing deeply. "He killed himself because he saw no way out. He was not okay with what he was doing. And I knew, deep down, it was all Mark's fault. If he hadn't stolen from us Stewart wouldn't have gotten in these kind of things and wouldn't have…" She shocked on the words, sobbing. Tears ran down her face and she cleaned them. "I wanted to kill him. I did. More than anything in my life. But I just didn't know how. I tried to contact the society my husband worked for. I knew they could provide something like that – to kill a man. They never contacted me and I knew I had no choice. So I got a job and one day I pretended to find Mark by accident. He said how sorry he was about Stewart's suicide and I pretended to accept it and to be inclined to be comforted by him. He fell for it. We began a relationship. Mark had always been an adulterous, so I knew there was a big chance my plan would succeed. It did. I had what I needed to kill him, I was close to him. But I didn't have my weapon. How to kill him without leaving trace? Then, a few months ago, someone from the society contacted me. I had forgotten about them by now. They were not an option anymore."

Lestrade interrupted.

"This society, do you know their name?"

"I do now." The woman said. "They call themselves Inferus." And she continued. "That's all I know about them, the name. A man came to talk to me. He said he had a way for me to kill Mark without bringing suspicions. An undetectable poison, not easy to get. I wasn't sure of what to do, if I should do it. But I still hated Mark and to have to pretend to love him and give it all up now didn't seem fair. Especially when Stewart had done so much for me. So I accepted it. I accepted the poison and I did it. At his engagement party. It was so easy."

She looked down at her hands again, silent tears falling down her face.

"What did they ask you in return?" Lestrade asked. "That society, Inferus, they provided you a way to kill a man. What did you had to do in return?"

"Nothing." She said. "The man that met me said I was doing him a favour." She focused, trying to remember the man's exact words. "He said it was the first move in a chess game. I had no idea what he meant; I was just relieved he wanted nothing in return."

Sherlock moved for the first time in the whole testimony. He paced closer to the woman, his hands in his pockets. Lestrade looked at him but did not stop him. Sherlock asked.

"What was the name of that man? Did he tell you?"

The woman looked at him and then at inspector Lestrade that nodded, allowing her to answer.

"Yes, he did. When he met me. I didn't get to see his face; it was at an old theatre. It was dark. It was probably an alias, I don't think he would have given me his real name, and it was a strange one anyway…"

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, impatient.

The woman looked at him.

"James." She answered. "James Moriarty."

All eyes in the room set on Sherlock. Despite his worry, he tried to supress a smirk, turning the microscope slide in his pocket, between his cold fingers, with the paper holding those three letters.

That bastard was a psychopath but, in truth, he was the only one able to stand on his level. The game was on again.

The end