Hello! So this chapter is a little longer than usual to make up for the long wait. I hope you enjoy it.

Warning - something disturbing is done to a photograph of a child. Nothing to an actual child, just a photograph, but I wanted to warn you. Also, a miscarriage is referenced. (Don't worry, it's not Mary!)

I quote Robert Frost towards the end. I don't own his poetry.I also don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 14, In Which Love Lies

"Ms. Brooks," a young man, dressed in a well-kept, if slightly worn, suit and business coat strode onto the patio of the little cottage in Sussex. He gently placed a briefcase, filled with his work from the past month in front of the petite, pretty woman sitting at the table.

"Thank you, Mr. Sims. Everything is here, yeah?" She smiled at him, and he couldn't help but smile back. She was a pretty little thing, with her dark hair and eyes and fancy pea coat and designer scarf.

"Yes, ma'am. Everything on the subjects you asked me to research – their lives, virtues, vices – everything."

"Very good. You've been most helpful. Join me for tea?" She gestured to the tea things on the table. It was a little odd, to have tea out of doors on such a cold January day, but he figured he shouldn't question her. She had a connection with a man who had a bit of a…reputation.

"Sure."

"Lovely. Tell me – in your own opinion – who do you think is…closest, to Mr. Holmes?" She poured him tea, and her hand hovered over the creamer. She looked at him expectantly. He shook his head.

"Sugar, or honey? This honey was made nearby, from local bees. It's delicious." She asked.

"Er…honey, I suppose."

She smiled and began stirring it into the tea, then handed it to him. He took a tentative sip. She inclined her head encouragingly.

"Well, Ms. Brooks, you were right when you said that he doesn't keep much company. He's a loner, for sure. But out of everyone, I'd say he's closest to that doctor fellow. Seems to spend the most time with him. Pesters him, almost, like a…a brother, I guess."

"Ah," she said, and her smile fell just a bit. Jason Sims took another sip of tea. His throat felt…scratchy. He cleared his throat and took another large sip.

"Well," she said, recovering brightly. "Then it's true what they say, isn't it?"

"What?" He asked, and his voice was hoarse now. His heart began to beat unusually fast, and he noticed it was getting harder to breathe.

"That if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Consider this your…termination of employment, Mr. Sims." Her voice was cheerful.

The last thing he saw was the smiling face of Janine Brooks.

Janine sifted through the contents of Mr. Sim's briefcase at her leisure, indoors, nursing a mug of cocoa before a roaring fire. What a stupid man, Mr. Sims was, to join her for tea on the patio of her little cottage in mid-January. He should have known something was amiss.

No matter now. He was the last of the investigators hired to look into the lives of Sherlock Holmes and his associates. They were all relatively stupid – of course it was impossible to find good help these days – but they were very good at remaining invisible.

Except for Forthright – he was an imbecile, and was captured by one of Mycroft's men. Serves him right, getting a knife in the gut. Janine had no patience for stupidity.

Jason Sims, along with eighteen other investigators, had been watching Sherlock, Greg Lestrade, John and Mary Watson, Martha Hudson, and Molly Hooper since the Watson's wedding.

They'd found out quite a lot, actually. The investigators had been too stupid to see it – they just collected the data. It was up to Janine and Jim to analyze it. And oh – analyze it they did!

They had a fairly solid ranking of the people in Sherlock's life, from least to most important – in other words, least to most likely to garner an intense reaction from Sherlock should misfortune become them. There was just a little matter of finding out who came first. That was when Jim had called in an old friend. Well…that was when he'd taken the liberty of bringing her to London.

They'd been slowly working their way up that list. Janine smiled as she came across yet another photo of Sherlock pausing in the hallway of St. Bart's. You had to watch, with Sherlock. It weren't his actions that gave him away – he was always so used to acting, action, working, all the time - it was his hesitation. The way he hesitated, just a bit, before entering the door of the lab that housed one Molly Hooper. It was as though he was unsure of why he was there, or how to behave around her.

She continued flipping through the files and smiled as she thought of the appetizing little post Jim had sent on its way to dear Mrs. Hudson.

Janine was going to help Jim burn the heart out of Sherlock. She just needed Sherlock to realize to whom it belonged, first.

She had her reasons.

Forty years ago, Martha Hudson had a husband. She was a beautiful woman, and tried to be a good one, but she had fallen in love with the wrong man too early in life. She'd married him, and had become a member of his drug cartel in Florida, and had also performed as an exotic dancer at several of his clubs. Her life was difficult for a long time.

Then, when she was thirty-two years old, she'd met a man named Dennis. Silly name. But he was a good man – an undercover cop, trying to get enough evidence to send her husband to prison for life for his part in the deaths of so many underage children, caught up in the drug business. He had dirty blonde hair, and crooked teeth, and was just a little overweight. He was also gruff and charming when he wanted to be and he had a family – two sisters and a brother, all of who were married with children. Dennis was married to his work, but he loved children. He was an excellent uncle. Martha never witnessed this, but she could tell. She could always tell things about people, without really knowing how. And people usually liked her, so they opened up to her a lot.

Dennis opened up to her, and she opened up to Dennis. He was a good man, and her husband was not. Her husband was cruel and nasty and an absolute, complete bugger. They became friends, and then – even though he was always professional and nothing happened between them – Martha found herself falling for Dennis. He wasn't attractive to look at – not like her current husband – but he had a beautiful soul, and she realized that he was a more attractive human being than her husband could ever be.

One night, many months later, something did happen between them, and Martha became pregnant. She was scared and surrounded by her husband's henchman every day, and when she could no longer hide her pregnancy, she went to Dennis. He was supportive and protective and vowed that she and the child would be safe.

He almost succeeded. He had nearly everything he needed to prosecute, and he had backup the night he went to search Louis's home and business. It was pure luck that Louis's wild shooting met a mark. It met Dennis's head. He died instantly.

When Martha received the news, she was inconsolable. When she miscarried two weeks later – a boy, a son she named Benjamin - she left the country, never to return. In London, a few years later, she'd made friends with a young man named Sherlock Holmes. He had dark curls and eyes that reminded her of Dennis's – they were Dennis's one redeeming physical feature – and he – Sherlock Holmes - was addicted to drugs. Drugs that were very similar to the kind manufactured by her husband. She saw him through his addiction – sort of – she'd talked to him from time to time, and when he got clean, she offered him a place to stay, on one condition – she'd heard from an old friend that her husband was going to get off of the charges Dennis had worked so hard to pile against him. She knew the young man was brilliant, and he ensured her that her husband would receive the death penalty. He kept his word, and she kept hers. She was thrilled when another young man moved in with Sherlock. She never told anyone about the pregnancy or the miscarriage, but she always imagined that with Sherlock's eyes and John's hair – well – the two of them really were her boys. She loved them, and they kept her from wondering what could have been, with Dennis and Benjamin. And now – with Mary pregnant – it was almost like she was going to be a grandmother. Almost.

Until one day, barely a week after Sherlock's return from exile, she received a piece of mail.

A tisket, a tasket –

A green and yellow casket.

Your son has died, your tears are dried

But more will come, bet on it.

The note was water stained in one corner. Attached was a picture of the scan of John and Mary's baby, with pen marks scratching out the eyes, and holes poked through its little body.

Martha Hudson dropped it, as though it scalded her, and she had called Sherlock, who had immediately called John and Mary as well.

Mrs. Hudson had not stopped crying since revealing the truth about her son to Sherlock, John, and Mary. Tea was made, and Mary told Mrs. Hudson a bit about her past as a 'sharpshooter' – I'm a crack shot, Mrs. Hudson – really!, to try and calm her down. It did serve to cheer her, but the older woman was still hiccupping and wringing her hands with nervous grief. Mary was obviously distressed at the note as well, although she did a fair job of masking it in front of Martha. Sherlock had quickly and quietly removed the note and picture from the room, and sent it to Molly to analyze. The paper from the previous notes had been common, although pollen spores and certain dust mites had confirmed that the notes had been written from somewhere within London's city limits. Other than the pollen and dust and smoke particles that could have come from any diesel lorry in London, there were no identifying substances on them. Perhaps this paper and photocopy would offer up more information.

He and John and Mary did their best to console Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock did all he could to hunt down the origins of the note - then Sherlock made a call to his brother - nothing new on the Robert Conners angle, and dead ends all around in the hunt for Janine and Jim's whereabouts – and then went to the lab to discuss the results of the analysis with Molly.

When he came in, Molly had her hair French-braided in a long strand down her back. Her lab coat swayed as she moved silently between microscope and chemicals and paperwork. She was all innocence and business – with her clothes and hair and goggles she looked like a student in her first year at uni – and Sherlock swallowed, nerves tingling in his stomach and fingers. Here was the woman who mattered most, who meant as much as John, and he feared that she was next. The Conners. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Mary and the baby. Only Molly and John were left to threaten. If Lestrade's pain had made him uncomfortable, and Mrs. Hudson's had distressed him – what would their pain do to him? He shuddered to think at the affect it would have on his mental capabilities.

Molly gave him a grim sort of smile when she noticed him. "Hello, Sherlock. Same sort of pollen and dust spores and smoke particles on this…but something new, too." She moved so he could look through the microscope himself.

"It's algae."

"Yup. Specific sort, too. Looked it up. That particular type only lives in the area on the Thames where the smelting factory dumps its runoff. There were only a few small samples on the paper, and none on the scan. I don't think the scan was made in the same place as the note."

He stared into the microscope, mind whirring as he did his best to narrow the prospective hiding places of James Moriarty and Janine Brooks down in his head, and what on earth they both cared for the most in the world. He could bet it wouldn't be something boring, like money or power or a person.

He suspected that Jim cared most for destroying him. Even as a high-functioning sociopath with a sneering disregard for most soft sciences, he had to admit that psychology did occasionally uncover certain truths. And everything that he'd analyzed so far – every message and clue pointed to the fact that Jim did, indeed, want to burn the heart out of Sherlock.

Before, Jim had thought that Sherlock's work mattered most to him – that his work, and intelligence, were Sherlock's heart. In all honesty, that's what Sherlock used to believe, too. Now – though – now, there was a smart, cheeky, pregnant ex-assassin nurse and her adrenaline-junkie-of-a-husband doctor and a hopelessly awkward, endearing, intelligent pathologist – and they all weighed equally on his heart.

At least, that's what he told himself. Because to admit one meant more than another would mean admitting something akin to his own ruin.

Caring is not an advantage.

"Yes." He confirmed belatedly, joining her in analyzing the paper and photocopy. He said nothing for a long time, until he noticed Molly was looking at him – studying him in her own way, and making her own amazingly accurate deductions.

He knew she was going to say something devastatingly awkward and beautiful again (beautiful? Really, Sherlock? Sentimental tripe!), about how he was scared or brave or lonely or sad, and he couldn't have that, because he was trying very hard not to have any emotions at the moment. Identifying them would only lead to feeling them, and that would be disastrous.

"What do you think they care about most?" He said, focusing his gaze on the microscope.

"Hmm? Who?" Good. The question distracted her.

"Moriarty. Janine. What do you think they care about most in the world?"

"Um…blowing things up? Ruining people's lives?"

His eyes narrowed at her. "I'm being serious, Molly. What do they want from all of this?"

His tone was so serious, Molly squirmed. "Er…psychology's really…not my area, Sherlock."

"Think, Molly. Why would they do this? What do they want, in the end? Power? He already has power – and so does Janine. They're famous – well, notorious might be more appropriate vernacular, and they have power. He could not reasonably expect to be pitied or adored, now that his Richard Brooks scheme has failed. He has power, and he has fame, and he obviously has money…what matters most to them?"

Molly stared quietly at the petri dish in front of her, swishing a glass rod around it again and again. "It seems to me…" she said slowly, not taking her eyes off of the glass, "that the thing that matters most to them, is bringing you down. Destroying you. By destroying the people you care about."

She sounded just a bit sad at that – sadness covered over with false relief - and he realized, once again, she was underestimating her importance to himself. She hadn't been targeted yet, but that was just because she was…well, she counted. Immensely.

"Mmm." He muttered, re-focusing on the slide beneath the microscope. In his head, though, his mind was spinning. Molly was always good at reading people – she saw him, she saw things about everyone – and her answer confirmed what he already suspected.

He would not send the guess yet, though. He wanted to be sure, and he wanted time to track one or both of them down. He wanted time to get ahead.

"Ah!" He cried suddenly, noticing that Molly's petri dish was beginning to collect precipitate.

Molly started. "What?"

He took the dish from her, and carefully placed some of it on a slide. "Yes, yes! There's always something – he always makes a mistake-"

"What's his mistake?"

He grinned at her. "A boat engine – diesel - that leaks power steering fluid."

The lead was good.

After discovering traces of power steering fluid on the note, Sherlock was able to deduce that Jim – or Janine – or both – had been hiding in a boat on the river. Most likely an old houseboat or tugboat, judging from the fluid.

That explained why certain elements – such as the pollen and dust – were always similar, and why other elements changed regularly. They (or he or she) were always moving from port to port, up and down the river. Using the trace elements, he was able to plot out the rudimentary course they'd taken the past week.

A short call to Lestrade and Mycroft alerted the authorities, and the search could begin.

He smirked. He still had five days before the deadline, and he was ahead of the game.

Then came the curveball – the Chance card – the unanticipated occurrence.

Sherlock had not heard from or seen the Woman since he'd helped her fake her death nearly four years ago. He'd tried – once – during his own 'death' – to track her down, see if she was still as intriguing. He hadn't been able to. The crafty, blackmailing dominatrix had disappeared as surely as though she really had died.

How had Jim found her?

Because later that evening, feeling confident and gloating over the new direction Moriarty's game had gone – he'd received a text from her.

Hello, Sherlock. Still the Virgin? –xo

I'm back in town, dear. Come visit. Hotel Denouement, 2 p.m. tomorrow. We can have lunch. –xo

Jim's got something of mine, and I need your help getting it back. –xo

He stared at the screen, jaw clenching and unclenching as he sat, deep in thought. He was balancing the probability that Jim had truly targeted her in an effort to get to him with the probability that she was in on whatever Jim was planning. It was fairly even. He had spurned her on several occasions, but he had saved her life, in the end. It was a difficult decision. He hadn't yet responded, several hours later, when another text arrived.

Please.

It was that plain word, with no cattiness or flirtation, that tilted the probability in her favor. It brought back the memory of her tear-filled, desperate eyes, when he'd solved the password on her phone. She was in trouble then, and she was in trouble now.

All bets were off, in this game.

No – not a game. This was war.

After arrangements were made (Mary was to stay with Molly at the hospital, then they were to have a nice evening in, visiting and chatting – it was both to keep Molly protected and to keep Mary out of trouble.) – John and Sherlock both caught a cab for the hotel.

On the way, Sherlock divulged to John that – surprise! Irene Adler was not dead, either!

John took it rather well. He stared straight ahead, perfectly still, for thirty-three seconds, working it out in his head.

Then he started laughing. "I don't believe it. I mean- yeah, I believe it, but-" and more incredulous, snorting laughter, at the impossibility of the situation they were in. "You're just - mmm. So, I'm going to tea in the company of a dead man, to speak with a dead woman, about another dead man – none of who are actually dead. Any other secrets you've been keeping from me, then?" His voice was stern, but his eyes were still laughing.

Sherlock's shoulders loosened in relief. John hadn't punched him over this fake death.

After all, John hadn't been all that fond of Irene.

"No," Sherlock replied gravely, though the cheeky smile forming on his face gave away his mirth.

They arrived precisely at two. Sherlock scanned the lobby impatiently, and his eyes returned to a woman – 32-24-34 – shorter hair – a bob? – something stylish, just below her chin – she inclined her head slightly – pointedly - and walked into the tea room adjoining the lobby. He nodded at John, who followed.

They found her at table a near a window, wearing a classy pants suit, her eyes watching them from over a menu.

"Ms. Adler," Sherlock nodded his greeting, clasping his gloves and standing awkwardly, eyes moving around the room. Nothing seemed amiss, yet.

John broke the silence quickly. "Right – you look – well, for being dead. Really well." He sighed and gripped the chair in front of him, giving a sideways glance to Sherlock. "Course, so does he."

Irene smirked at him. "I'm flattered, Doctor. I see congratulations are in order." She nodded to the ring on his finger.

He stared down at it. "Yeah. Thanks. Very nice. Lovely woman. I think you'd get on well."

Sherlock snorted.

She smiled at him, but the smug cattiness was gone from her eyes. "Sit." She motioned to the two unoccupied chairs at the table.

"And why are we here, then?" John asked, frowning at the fancy cutlery laid out before him. "Jim's got something of yours? He's targeting you, now?"

Irene raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. His eyes narrowed at her, deducing her. "You're married."

"Yes. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, darling. You'll have to do better than that."

"This is your third husband since your 'death'. You've dyed your hair twice since 'dying', and wore contacts for quite a while, but they bothered your eyes. You've since returned to your natural hair and eye color, though you've cut it. Long hair suited you better, Mrs.-?"

"Norton, now."

"Mrs. Norton. You look like a…" he racked his brain for a suitable American epitaph – "posh 'soccer mom' with that haircut. Ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the fact that you love him, now? Went in to scam him, and fell for him? You take excellent care of this particular wedding ring, Mrs. Norton. Don't suppose it's him that Jim has?"

She smirked. "Hmm. No, not him. Love knows no reason, darling. And – you can call me Irene, Sherlock. Or Abigail. Either suits me quite well."

"I prefer to use a more formal address when dealing with clients."

"So I'm a client now?" She pouted prettily.

"That is why you asked me here. For my help."

"True." She sat forward, tracing her index finger around the rim of her teacup. "Jim has something very valuable to me, and I need it back. He's supposed to meet me here at 3 p.m. I'd very much like to give him what he wants with as little trouble to all of us as possible. I do still owe you, darling, for saving my life."

Sherlock made a non-committal grunt, and began to take off his scarf and coat. John joined him, and the two men sat across from Mrs. Abigail Norton. There was a moment of awkward silence as Irene ordered for them (Nilgirl, please, with fresh fruit and sandwiches – no? Well then, just the tea, then. You do remember Nilgirl, don't you, Sherlock? Very pleasant fruity flavor – excellent with honey – theirs is made from bees in Sussex, isn't that charming?), and then she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"Why did you save my life, Sherlock?"

His brows furrowed and he glanced up, sharply, at her. John glanced between the two of them, curious himself.

Irene pressed on. "I mean, surely you didn't love me." Light laughter, but still hearty, like the sound of clinking silverware – "I certainly saw that the night with your brother when you unlocked my phone. Left me to the dogs, didn't you?" She tsked. "Naughty boy. Played with me and then tossed me away." The corner of her mouth lifted up in a pleasant smirk. She leaned forward, slightly, and her voice lowered. "So why did you return? Why save me?"

"Why do you want to know now? You certainly didn't care why the night I saved you."

"Well it would have been rude to ask then, wouldn't it? 'Oh, Sherlock, thank you for saving my life – why did you bother?' Rather rude, darling."

"Yes, but why now?" His voice was terse and his eyes were suddenly very intense. Irene returned his fiery gaze with a cool one. There was moment of tension, and then –

Irene chuckled. "Well, no matter. I can see that you didn't love me then, and you still don't. I was probably a puzzle to you, then? A game? You do enjoy playing games, I've been told."

Sherlock's glare confirmed her hypothesis. "You beat me once, Mrs. Norton. You provided me with a challenge, and one that provided my mind with excellent exercise. I felt I should repay you for that. You were an…admirable adversary." And quite stunning, once...I considered you a...friend.

"Thank you. I consider it a very high compliment." Irene eyed the table where the tea things were now laid out carefully. She poured, and silence commenced while the tea was fixed and the three sat sipping it.

"So," she said, "if you're not here because you care for me, who are you here for?"

Sherlock glanced up at her, coolly, this time. "You requested my assistance with James Moriarty. As you've obviously heard, apparently he's faked his death as well."

Irene smiled. "Yes, I've heard. You sound a bit miffed at that, dear."

"Yeah – took some of the shock and awe out of his fake suicide. Never likes to be one-upped." John muttered into his tea.

Sherlock smirked. "And he's got Janine Brooks, this time. Master blackmailer. Knows people's pressure points - even better than you, I think."

Irene returned his gaze. "So it seems. I did wonder how he found me. Only a woman would have been clever enough to do so. Which begs the question – is there a woman in your life, now, Sherlock?" She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye as she carefully returned her teacup to its saucer.

"Don't be ridiculous. I told you, I don't do dinner."

"Of course not. It seems the good doctor and I have moved on, and you, dear Sherlock, have remained the same as ever."

He flashed a cheeky grin at her. "Still a machine, yes. Very efficient."

"Yes. Very. What about that darling pathologist? The one who embarrassed herself dressing up for you on Christmas Eve? Has she moved on as well?" She glanced slyly up at him from beneath long lashes.

The twitch – the slightest movement of Sherlock's countenance – gave him away. It was quickly recovered, and not even John noticed it, as he was frowning at his teacup. Too sweet for his tastes. He pushed it away. Irene did notice Sherlock's reaction, however.

"I'd hardly know."

"Wha – you're the one who noticed she'd broken things off with her fiancée." John stared at him incredulously.

"Really?" Irene purred.

"Well, I mean, she was slapping him – bit of a tight spot on a case, did something stupid, and I'd have liked to punch him in the face as well. Anyways, he noticed she didn't have her ring on – of course he'd notice something like that." John snorted. "Probably studied the affects of jewelry in hand-to-hand combat or something."

"So you do notice her, Sherlock. Fascinating. Perhaps there's hope for you yet." Her smile was genuine, but the tense look returned to her eyes as she glanced at the clock in on the wall on the far side of the room.

Sherlock cleared his throat, irritated. "Yes, it is nearly two-thirty, and we still haven't discussed anything about your case. What does he have? What does he want in exchange?"

Irene smiled sadly at him, and she swallowed, staring at the dregs of her tea. She sighed, and when she looked back up at the two men, there were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm really, truly sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted to hurt you. I did love you, once."

Sherlock looked sharply at her, then around the room, as though the thing she was sorry for was about to leap out at them with guns blazing or knives whizzing through the air. "Sorry for what? What does he want?" His voice was as sharp as his gaze.

John looked around as well.

Irene hesitated. "You've already given him what he wants, Sherlock. I'm – sorry. He has – he has-"

"Mama!" a cry came from across the room, and Irene leapt up, upsetting the decorative jar of honey by her hand, and looking around the room, beautiful and fierce as a tiger.

"William?"

"Mama!" A little boy, no more than two years old, with straight dark hair and dark eyes and a pale, sticky face, rushed to her from across the room. He flung himself into her arms, and she wrapped them around him with all the ferocity he could handle.

"William, I'm sorry. Are you all right?" She sat him in her lap, and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. She smiled at him, and tears slid out from her eyes, one by one.

"Okay, Mama. Where Dada?"

"He's home, Will. Home with Didi. We're going home, too. Do you want to go home?"

"Yes Mama. Home."

Sherlock and John had rushed across the room in the direction the little boy had come from, only to be met with dozens of waiters and waitresses and customers and thin air. Sherlock growled in frustration and sent a text to his brother.

Moriarty or his men. Hotel Denouement, now. Need surveillance footage. – SH

He and John then returned to the table, where Irene was still holding her child in her arms. He stared up at the two men with wide eyes. "Mama?"

"It's okay, Will. They…they're Mama's friends," she said sadly.

"No, we're not," Sherlock corrected angrily. "What did you mean, we've already given him what he wants? And you have a son?"

"You say that like it's some sort of betrayal, darling."

"No, just a disappointment."

"Ah. Well." Irene stood to go.

"You're not leaving," Sherlock said simply. Dangerously.

"Yes, we are. You'll find that if we are not on the next flight to Washington D.C., Big Ben will…malfunction. Not my idea. Jim has stayed crafty, darling. He's a slippery man. And Janine…Janine has created a rather sticky situation for all of us. She learned a lot from Charles Magnusson."

"You think I care at all for Big Ben? What I care about-"

"Careful, darling." There was a pleading warning in Irene's eyes, though her voice was still light. She opened her mouth once again, and closed it, battling with herself. She closed her eyes, and then Will was tugging on her hand.

"Mama?" He asked, and then pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.

"What's this, Will?" She looked at it curiously, then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "For you. I believe it's your next clue, darling." She placed it on the table, where a sticky stream honey began to run onto its crumpled edges.

Sherlock snatched it up and unfolded it, wiping the tiniest bit of residue on his trousers. He frowned as he read the message:

Love is a decision, not an emotion. – Anonymous

Decisions, Decisions:

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

Good old Robbie.

How will your world end, Sherlock?

It's up to you.

Two if by land, one if by sea.

See you soon. Maybe.

-JM

Bwahahaha! Ooh, I'm so excited for the next chapter - I've already started on it and it's title is In Which Love is War. We will get to see a confrontation between Janine and Sherlock, and a lot of exciting action. Yay!

Hmmm...can you tell anything about Jim's plan from the clues? Should be interesting. :)