Chapter 2: Crime of the Century

"No, Mom, he's busy."

"Too busy to speak with his mother-in-law?"

"Definitely too bust to do that."

My mother huffs a sigh of annoyance on the receiving end of the phone. She called about an hour ago while I was comfortably reading my book on the couch. John, who had arisen from his shower after being grumpily awoken by the violin, was reading his paper and Sherlock was deep in his work in the kitchen behind his microscope, so I only thought it polite to take the call in the bedroom. Besides, I need to do laundry; as much I love him in it, Sherlock can't wear that purple shirt all the time.

Good Lord, I've become such a housewife.

"What do you need to talk to Sherlock about anyway?" I ask, setting the laundry hamper down on the bed and pressing the phone to my ear with my shoulder.

"I need his help, believe it or not." My mother replies, "It's about an employee of mine. They seem…off."

"Mom, I've told you before: Sherlock can't be your personal screening service," I say, picking up a pair of trousers from the floor, "He has a lot of other things to do then make sure your business stays afloat. If you have a problem with an employee, investigate it yourself."

"You make it seem like I'm abusing my son-in-laws skills," she says, "Anyway, I also wanted to congratulate him on his success. He's getting quiet a name for himself, honey. You must be proud."

"Yes, he has caught the attention of the press." I reply, "How do you know about it? You barely even read the local paper, let alone world news."

"I may not keep completely up to date with the press, Elfie Marie, but I pay enough attention to recognize my son-in-law's name on the news, especially with a name like his; There aren't that many Sherlock roaming about the world, honey. You're married to a celebrity."

I roll my eyes and chuckle at the thought: Sherlock? A celebrity? Hardly. I mean, sure, people know his name because of John's blog and he's solved some high profile cases, he's even got a sort of public image now with that silly deerstalker, but I'd hardly consider him to be a celebrity. He's just well known.

"Any way, I've been meaning to ask you," my mother goes on, "when should I be expecting grandchildren?"

"Whoa, whoa, Mom!" I exclaim, nearly dropping the phone, "where did that come from?"

"It's a reasonable question," she says, sounding very annoyed at my surprise, "You and Sherlock do want to have kids don't you?"

"Um, well, I don't know." I stammer, "I mean, we haven't talked about it. Well, we did for a bit today, but-Its not really important."

"Not important? Oh, sweet heart, of course it is." She goes on, "You two are married now, that should be a top priority."

"Well, it's not in our relationship." I say, getting defensive, "Sherlock has his work to consider and I have my job as well."

"I managed to build a business and raise you all on my own. Surely you two can juggle your careers with a baby."

"Mom. You're pushing it."

"I'm sorry, Elfie Marie," she says, sounding actually apologetic. My mother and I don't have the best of relationships, but after recent events we've sort of come together. It's not easy to make amends with someone who, for so long, neglected my life choices, but she's actually making an effort. At the wedding, in fact, she didn't make one motion to make the day about her. She was beyond loving and supportive; it was sort of weird to see her that way, but it made me happy.

"It's alright," I say, tossing Sherlock's pajamas into the hamper, "Anyways, we've only been married for a month. Doesn't starting a family seem like rushing it a bit?"

"Not at your ages, sweet heart." She says

"Oh yes, thank you for the age reminder." I say with a hint of sass.

"Don't give me your attitude, Elfie Marie. I am your mother."

"I'm aware of that fact, thanks."

"Elfie…"

"…Sorry, Mom."

Just then, the bedroom door flies open and Sherlock is standing in the archway; his face is cold and emotionless, but I can see in his eyes that he's extremely distraught. We lock eyes and I immediately recognize that look. It's a look he only shows when one thing happens, when one twisted, unwanted, thing enters our lives to cause mayhem and turmoil.

It's him.

It's Moriarty.

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand through his curls: "Living room. Now. Please." He says then quickly turns on heel and leaves.

"Mom," I say, a bit nervous as to what Moriarty may have done now, "I'm going to have to call you back."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm sure they are. I'm-I've just got to go. Bye, Mom. Love you." I click the phone to hang up and quickly head to the living room. What does the consulting criminal want now?

It's been almost 4 months since I had my first encounter with him, but the memories are still too fresh in my mind. I wish he had never entered my life, but it was inevitable since I am Sherlock's girl. When accepting the whole package of Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty is included no matter how badly you want to get rid of him. They are engaged in a never-ending tango of wits and all I can do is stay on the sidelines. I've tried getting involved for Sherlock's sake, but I just couldn't handle it emotionally. I almost lost Sherlock during that madness and I don't ever want to go through that fear ever again: It was too close to home, too close to reality.

When I enter the living room, John is slipping on his shoes and Sherlock is tying his scarf around his neck. Both look stressed and unwilling to do the task at hand. John will follow Sherlock to the ends of the Earth, but even this Moriarty business takes a toll on him.

"Is there a case?" I ask, but I already know that it's more than just that.

"Should I tell her or do you want too?" John asks, looking toward Sherlock, who chooses to not acknowledge him; He just pulls his phone out from his coat pocket and holds it out to me. Cautiously, I take it and unlock the screen to reveal a haunting text:

'Come and Play.

Tower Hill.

Jim Moriarty x.'

I take in a sharp breath and look at Sherlock: "What does that mean?" I ask, trying my best to sound calm.

"At this moment, I don't know." He replies, taking the phone back, "Hence why I'm leaving right now."

"You're going to meet with him?" I ask, "But…but what if he tries to-what if it's a trap or something?"
"Don't be so foolish, Elfie." Sherlock replies with an icy sting, "I highly doubt that even Jim Moriarty would be stupid enough to-"

"Sherlock, don't." John warns, giving his best friend a stern look. Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion and gives John a 'what-did-I-do-wrong' gesture with his hands. John nudges his head to me and Sherlock quickly realizes his mistake. He looks at my worried face and sighs heavily.

"I'm sorry," he says, taking my hands into his, "It's just…"

"I know," I reply, understanding his coldness, "it's just how you get when…he's involved." Sherlock just nods and gently squeezes my hands. With my concern taking over, I quickly wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for an embrace. Sherlock holds me in return, pressing his lips to my cheek in a kiss. "Be careful." I whisper into his ear. Sherlock chuckles slightly and cups my face in his hands; those sea foam eyes stare lovingly into my emerald ones and I feel so immensely in love with this man.

"Don't worry about me," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "I can handle him." All I can do is sigh heavily and nod. As much as I want to, I can't stop Sherlock from answering this text. It's in his nature to accept a challenge, especially if it's from Moriarty.

I set my hands on Sherlock's chest and lean in to kiss him. He returns the gesture then steps away from me. We give each other an understanding nod and Sherlock quickly descends the steps to the front door. With a heavy sigh, John rises from his chair and starts to follow the consulting detective.

I quickly grab him by the elbow: "John, keep an eye on him." I whisper, "Something doesn't seem right about all this."

"I'll watch out for him, Elfie." John says, patting my hand, "I promise you. That's my job." I give him a small smile and watch as he too descends the stairs.

My stomach is churning, but I don't really know why. Moriarty always posses some sort of threat to Sherlock, but why is this text making me so uneasy? Is it because it was so direct? Why would he tell Sherlock where he was going to be?

Not wanting to spend another thought on this, I shake my head and go to kitchen to see if I can occupy myself with something to cook.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The news was everywhere and spread like wild fire through the presses.

It was being called 'the most audacious crime in recent history'.

The whole of London was a buzz about one man: Jim Moriarty.

He had broken into three places at once: Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and Bank of England. Three of the most heavily guarded places in all of London and James Moriarty had managed to destroy all their security systems, like it was nothing, in matter of mere seconds. He was found, waiting patiently for the police, at Tower Hill. It was apparent that he hadn't been to either of the other locations at the times of their security failures. Everything was conducted from a single location. It was confusing, mind blowing and yet…genius. The perfect crime: committing the act without ever being present.

I, of course, heard the details before the press, thanks to John. When he and Sherlock came home from the scene, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and immediately locked himself in the bedroom. Being his wife, I went to follow him, but John gently held me back. "Don't," he had said, "Not now. I'll explain." We sat down on the couch and he told me the whole ordeal.

From what John told me, when the police had reached Tower Hill, Moriarty went without a fuss. He didn't even utter a word as they drove him down to the Yard. He did however leave a message on the broken glass:

'Get Sherlock.'

Shivers ran down my spine when he told me this: "What does that mean?" I asked, but John just shakes his head in dismay.

"I don't know," he sighed, "and to be perfectly honest…I don't think Sherlock does either."

Every news station was covering the story, trying to piece together the odd puzzle. Every paper had Moriarty's smug, devilish grin on the front page, staring straight ahead like maniac he is. The world was finally getting a glimpse of whom Moriarty is and I it makes me sick. Someone like him doesn't deserve attention, he deserves to be locked away forever and doomed to never see the light of day again. It's cold, but I don't care. I've never hated someone more then I hate him.

The trail begins and, of course, it is the only topic in 221b. Why wouldn't it be? I've tried to get Sherlock to talk to me about it, but he either ignores me or just brushes the topic aside. He can be so stubborn and cold sometimes, especially when it comes to Moriarty. He thinks he has to deal with him alone, but he doesn't; He has John and me. Sometimes, I think, Sherlock forgets that he's not alone in this world.

It's been about a week into the "trial of the century" and I'm sitting on the couch, reading the paper. John went out to grab dinner and Sherlock is quietly working on his new experiment: something to do with honey, I think. Everything is calm and peaceful, but then I notice a particular headline:

'"Sherlock Holmes Called as Expert Witness: Scotland Yard calls upon 'nation's most famous detective' in Moriarty trial.'"

I immediately fold the paper down into my lap and give my husband a shocked glare. Expert Witness? Why the hell didn't he tell me this? I had no idea he was even going to get directly involved in this madness. I thought, for once, Sherlock was just going to let the system run its course. What am I saying? This is Sherlock; He hates the system.

"Sherlock, honey," I say, trying to sound like I'm not about to blow my lid, "when were you going to tell me you were being called in as a witness?"

"Witness for what, darling?" he asks, not even looking up from his honeycomb samples.

"Witness for the trial of Jim Moriarty." I reply, "Where you going to tell me about it or just wait and see if I'd catch it on TV?"

"Don't be stupid, Elfie. They don't let television cameras into the court room."

"Sherlock…"

"Wonder if I've got enough jars to preserve this in. Elfie, could you go look in the kitchen and see if we have any containers left? Mrs. Hudson through most of them out after she found my stash of eyes. Honestly, they were perfectly well preserved and I kept them out of the way of food. There was no need for her to over react and throw out my entire supply. Which reminds me, I need to get my replacements from Molly."

"Sherlock! Shut up for two seconds and look at me." He quickly lifts his head up and looks at me in surprise. "Sorry," I say, taking in a deep breath, "I didn't mean to shout just now. But Sherlock, tell me what's going on? You've been keeping me in the dark with this Moriarty thing and, frankly, I'm worried."

Sherlock sighs heavily and sets a hand on his hip; "It's hard to explain." He says, running his other hand through his mop of curls, "Moriarty has a plot, obviously, or else he wouldn't have willingly been caught."

"He…he wanted to be arrested?" I ask,

"He wanted all this attention," he corrects, joining me on the couch, "It was the only way he was going to get me to see his message: 'Get Sherlock' He wanted me to see his cunning work because-"

"It's the frailty of genius; it needs an audience." I finish for him. Sherlock gives me a questioning look and I just smirk right back. He chuckles slightly and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"I think you've been around me for far too long," he teases, pulling me in to kiss the top of my head, "you always know what I'm going to say next."

"Of course I do, I'm your wife." I say, situating myself on his lap, "But you're not entirely right; I don't always know what you're going to say because I don't always know what's happening in that beautiful brain of yours. Like this whole Moriarty business; what did he mean by 'Get Sherlock'? What's going to happen? What has he got planed?"

"Shh, no need to panic, love. I have this under control. Just relax." Sherlock soothes, pulling me in close so that I'm comfortably being cradled in his arms. He lies down on the couch and I situate my body to fit perfectly along his. I nuzzle my head under his chin and he gently starts to stroke my back; "I'm going to be truthful with you," he goes on in a soft comforting tone, "I don't know what Moriarty has planed. I honestly don't know what his next move will be. That's the reason I accepted to this 'expert witness' title; the court will rely on my knowledge of Moriarty and I will get a first hand look into what he may be doing during the trail."

"Do you think he's rigged the jury?" I ask,

"If he hasn't' already, I'm sure he'll plan on doing so." He says, "that would be the clever thing to do, but that may be too obvious of a move for him."

"It's always a game with to the two of you isn't it," I say, sitting up slightly.

"Yes and I don't plan on loosing, not ever." Sherlock states rather mater of factly, "It's like an intense, psychological game of cat and mouse."

"So which are you, pray tell?" I say, situating myself so that I'm lying on top of my husband, my arms folded atop his chest with my chin resting comfortably on them, "The cat or the mouse?"

"The cat, obviously." He replies with that arrogant tone of his, "Did you honestly think I'd compare myself to a mouse?" I chuckle and lean forward to meet his lips in a kiss. To my surprise, Sherlock deeps the kiss and slowly moves his hands to my hips. My heart starts to race as I feel his legs hook with mine and trap me in this position. I look into his eyes and see the desire burning behind those orbs: "Take me. Right now." He whispers, pecking at my earlobe, "I need you."

"Sherlock." I sigh, playfully slapping his chest, "Don't change the subject. I'm not done with this topic, yet."

He rolls his eyes and relaxes a bit: "What's left to talk about?" he groans in annoyance, "I'm going to testify on Thursday and I'll let you know what I think after that. Trust me, will you?"

"Wait," I say, putting my hand up to stop his oncoming lips, "don't you want me to come with you? I mean, for moral support and what not."

"I don't want you anywhere near Jim Moriarty." Sherlock declares, suddenly become very serious and stern, "John will be coming with me only because he has dealt with Moriarty before."

"So have I, remember?" I say, sitting up in his lap, "I'm not afraid of him, Sherlock. Besides, I want to be there for you."

"No." he says, sitting up right, "The last thing I want is for Moriarty or the press to see you and make a scene. Please, Elfie, will you do this for me: Stay here, go to work, call your mother, I really don't care what you do. Just stay away from Moriarty." His eyes then soften as he strokes a stray hair out of my eyes, "I can't loose you." He says in a whisper, "I'm not going to put you in harms way."

A small smile grows across my face and I gently cup Sherlock's face in my hands. "I love you," I say, nuzzling my forehead against his, "and if you want me to stay out of this-as much as I don't want to-I will."

"Thank you." Sherlock says, kissing my cheek, "and I love you too." I wrap my arms around him in an embrace and he does the same. Maybe he's right; maybe I should just stay out of it. When I last encountered Moriarty, my whole life was turned around and not necessarily for the better. If there is some plot afoot, then it's just better if I let Sherlock do his thing and stay out of it.

"You know, I'm kind of jealous," I say when we finally part, "the history nerd in me really wants to experience the law and order system of England." Sherlock raises an eyebrow of surprise at me then smiles.

"You never cease to surprise me, Elfie." He says, with a chuckle, "And I hate to burst your fantasy, but the English court system is quiet dull."

"Oh, really? You sound like an expert." I tease, resting my hands on his chest.

"This isn't my first time testifying," he says with an annoyed hint to his voice, "There's too much sitting down and listening to egotistical people blabbering on about how much they know about the case."

"Hmm, sounds like someone I know." I tease. Sherlock lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much and quickly grabs my middle.

"Alright, enough chatter," he says, pulling my hips as close to his pelvis as possible, "Say nothing and let me just have you." I let out an excited squeal as Sherlock flips me down on the couch and onto my back. He pins me there with his body and places a trail of kisses down my neck, running his hands under his shirt. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his neck, allowing my whole body to go numb.

"Sherlock," I whisper, nipping at his ear, "bedroom."
"No time," he breathes out in reply, "Here." Before I can even get in another word, Sherlock crashes his lips against mine and we are lost in each other's love. Time flies by and just for now, there is no Jim Moriarty or anybody whose planning to 'Get Sherlock.'

Just as I am about to undress and Sherlock is undoing his trousers, we both freeze and stare at one another. There was a creak from the staircase.

"You heard it too?" my husband asks in a breathy voice and I nod. Slowly, he gets off of me and adjusts his belt to its proper place. "Well, John, are you going to just stand there looking like a fish out of water or are you perhaps going to give us our dinner?" he says, without even turning around to face our befuddled flat mate in the archway.

"Wha…I…I," John attempts to speak, "I was, um, just going to go to the…Sorry I interrupted."

"It's fine, John." I say, getting up and grabbing one of the plastic, take-away bags he's carrying. He gives me a sort of 'are you sure' look and I just laugh. "Don't worry about it," I say, patting his shoulder, "let's just eat."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." He says, shaking his head, "I'm going to get my food ready in, uh, kitchen." And he quickly dashes off.

"Why I do believe we've startled the good doctor." I tease; setting the bag I have down on the coffee table. As I dig out Sherlock's food and mine, my husband wraps his arms around my waist and places a soft kiss on the back of my head.

"I love you," he whispers into my hair. I turn my head so that my lips are inches away from his and we share a deep kiss.

"Good God, I need to move." We hear John teasingly groan from the kitchen, but we choose to ignore it. When our lips part, Sherlock picks up the food and nudges his head down the hall.

"Bedroom?" he asks, "I feel we should give John some privacy, don't you?" I blush and quickly follow my consulting detective.

Well, there you guys go!

I was surprised with the amount of interest already in this story so I wanted to post this chapter earlier than I had planed as sort of a 'thank you' gift to all you lovelies!

I will be getting more into the Reichenbach story in the next chapter and I do plan on sticking to the episode as close as I possibly can without messing up the original storyline. Plus, I've got a couple plot twists of my own to throw in there (hehehehe)

Once again, thanks to those who have commented, all you followers and all of those who have added this to their favorites.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.