Happy (late) Easter, everyone!

Best wishes!

...and please don't hate me for how this one starts (and ends)!

"Watch this." Lestrade said, gesturing to the screen.

The security guard pressed a button and all those inside the security office at the National Gallery (Lestrade, the guard, an Interpol agent, Sherlock, John) stared into the screen, watching the black and white image from the night before.

"At eleven o' five pm," Lestrade narrated, "the silent alarm in the landscape section, alerting all the guards and the police. That's when—"

"Quiet." Sherlock snapped, pointing a finger towards Lestrade but not looking away from the screen, "…I'm watching…"

Lestrade, blinked away all offense taken, said nothing and continued to as the footage played.

A man is running, holding a rectangular object under his arm. Three security guards are chasing him.

They run around the halls of the museum, more and more guards joining the pursuit at each corner turned.

Finally the man reaches the exit of the gallery and runs outside, down the steps and into the street, followed by all the security guards.

There, parked in the street with their lights flashing, are several police cars blocking his way.

Since he cannot run forward, the man tries to run back the way he came but ten guards are blocking him. He has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He raises his hands in defeat, after, of course, setting the rectangular object gently on the ground.

The man is apprehended by an officer, put into handcuffs and the back of one of the police cars, and driven away.

A security guard takes the rectangular object and escorts it back into the gallery, placing it onto an empty space on the wall.

The security guard, seated in his rolling chair, inside the office paused the video, the grayscale image freezing.

"Well it looks like you caught the guy and got the painting back." John commented, "What do you need Sherlock for?"

"Watch this." Lestrade repeated and signaled to the guard to resume videoplay.

The guard pressed the button again and everyone continued to watch.

"This," Lestrade added, "is from when they were all chasing that guy around the gallery."

"Shhh." Sherlock reminded.

Three security guards chase the man down the hallway.

Once they are gone, another, taller, man, dressed in a uniquely patterned shirt, his face turned away from the camera, walks up to a painting on the wall.

He takes the painting off of the wall, wraps it in a long black coat and then folds it under his arm.

He then begins to walk away-but not before turning towards the camera, smiling and waving.

"Stop it there." Lestrade commanded, "And zoom in."

The guard did as he was told and there on the screen was a blurry, close up image of a smiling face with dark hair and eyes.

"It was all a distraction." John declared, "He got away with the real painting. Who is that?"

"That," Lestrade began, "Is—"

"That," The Interpol agent interrupted, speaking for the first time in her very sexy (at least in John's (and Lestrade's (and probably the security guard's too) opinion) French accent, "is Antonio Ricoletti…we've been chasing him for years, and he's always gotten away. He steals paintings and then sells them… But recently he's not only been stealing and selling them, but forging exact replicas and selling those as well…"

As she spoke, she walked forward away from the wall she had been leaning against to address the men. Everyone but Sherlock turned to gaze at her in her red skirtsuit, black boots and red lipstick.

"He's an international art thief," Lestrade informed, wanting to remain relevant.

"He's a genius." The agent stated.

That got Sherlock's attention, and so he finally turned away from the screen to face her.

"I'll take the case." He said, "I'll catch him."

The Interpol agent snorted, rolling her eyes and folding her arms.

"You? Catch him?" she laughed, "Nobody's been able to catch Antonio Ricoletti, the world's most notorious art thief…what makes you think you can?"

"He's Sherlock Holmes!" John exclaimed, as if that should be explanation enough.

"You'd be surprised what he can do, ma'am." Lestrade agreed, still wanting to remain relevant, "He's solved cases decades cold in less than ten minutes, he has, he's…he's a genius, himself, and more than your average one at that…if genius could ever be considered average…"

"I don't care who he is." The agent insisted, now very seriously, "Nobody's catching Antonio Ricoletti. Nobody but me. He can help, if he's even really able to do that… but I get to make the arrest."

"Well I guess that's fair…" Lestrade shrugged, turning to John who shrugged as well.

"No." Sherlock countered.

"No?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, turning to him in confusion.

"No." Sherlock repeated.

"Sherlock I don't really think it's your call—" John started but stopped when Sherlock gave him a look.

"She cannot be the one to catch Ricoletti." Sherlock stated, "It doesn't have to be who does, in fact it doesn't even have to be anyone in particular other than someone at least moderately competent…but it cannot be her."

"And why not?!" The Interpol agent demanded, taken aback and offended.

"Yeah, Sherlock, why not?" Lestrade asked, genuinely confused (and still wanting to stay relevant).

Sherlock chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"You really want me to tell you 'why not'?" he inquired.

"…Yes, tell us." The agent challenged, stepping towards Sherlock, eyes looking him up and down as if analyzing him, "Tell me."

"Here we go…" John sighed, rolling his eyes and leaning back against wall (kissing all his chances of successfully asking the pretty Interpol agent out for a drink later that day).

"Because you're in love with him." Sherlock said plainly.

"What?" The agent exclaimed, jerking back.

"You're in love with Antonio Ricoletti." Sherlock affirmed.

"No I am not!" The Interpol agent countered, practically shouting, eyebrows furrowed and red lips pursed.

"Yes you are." Sherlock smiled, "How do I know? The way your voice catches, like your heart is pounding, gets several octaves higher when you say his name. The way your eyes dilate when you look at his picture and your cheeks turn pink indicating increased blood flow. The way you reacted to my statement…Just look at you.

You're a high ranking agent of the International Police, and you didn't get all the way there by relying on your looks. No. It's your case record that got you your top level position. Your intelligence, your skills…and yet, here you are all dressed up in red, wearing high-heels and lipstick. You don't normally dress up. You chase criminals for a living. And you're good at it, too. You catch them. It's always 'function over fashion' for you…except for today, of course.

You, with your authority are able to pick your own cases, right? Right. And once you heard the name Antonio Ricoletti you snatched that case up for yourself, hopped on a plane to London and dressed up…just on the chance you might actually get to see him again. And yes, you've seen him before, many times. You're not just an admirer from afar…no. you go and get the things you want, or at least you try. And Antonio Ricoletti is what you want…You want him because, like you said, he's the 'world's most nutourious art thief'—did I quote that correctly?—You want him because he's a genius. And you admire that. It excites you…

And maybe the first time you chased him he did actually get away, which impressed you…but after that one, first time, all the times he's been escaping…it's because you've been letting him. Letting him go so that you can chase him all over the world, again and again. It's all a game to you, isn't it? And it's all been such fun. Not very good for your record, though, but that doesn't matter because you catch everybody else, don't you? Everybody else except dear Antonio.

And you never will because you don't want the game to end. If it did, what then, would you have to live for? That, ma'am, is why you cannot be the one to catch Antonio Ricoletti. Because you won't."

(A/N: broken up for your (and my) convenience)

As always, all jaws in the room dropped, fell off their hinges and down to the floor.

The Interpol agent spoke first.

Well, tried to, at least.

"What—how did you—no—I'm not—I-"she stammered, stepping backwards away from Sherlock who was staring at her intensely (insanely).

Instantly, John jumped from the wall and went to the woman.

"Ma'am I'm so sorry." he apologized, then turned to his flatmate, "Sherlock, there's no way you could know all that, not for sure."

"You don't really believe that, John." Sherlock disagreed, folding his arms and leaning back contentedly, "You know I'm right…and so does she."

He pointed to the agent, who despite her training, was on the verge of tears at the reveal of her most closely guarded secret.

Lestrade awkwardly tried to pat her on the back, but she jerked away and started out of the room.

"He's lying…." She muttered.

"No I'm not." Sherlock called after her, "And it'll never work, you know. Enemies don't make good lovers. You'll destroy each other because in the end…somebody has to win."

(It was uncharacteristic of him to say, yes. But he was trying to say what he thought Irene might say, had she been here…except, being the logical person that he was, he couldn't think of any fancy metaphors about stars and mirrors to describe it).

The Interpol agent didn't stop to listen to him and continue to hurry out of the security office.

"…should someone…uh…go after her?" The guard asked, watching Sherlock, John and Lestrade who were watching her go. After he received no answer, he decided, "I guess I will then…"

The security guard stood up and ran into the hallway to chase after the agent.

(And he was the one who got to go for drinks with her later, as she wanted to drown her shame and sorrows.)

"…Why's do all the good girls always want the bad boys?" Lestrade complained, after a time of shocked silence, "I see it all the time at the Yard. We'll arrest some lowlife thug and he'll always have this gorgeous girl, so pretty and so nice, too, come bail him out! …It's crazy!"

"I know," John sympathized, groaning, "It just isn't fair!"

John and Lestrade nodded at each other in their mutual aggravation, Sherlock looking on, completely confused and utterly unable to empathize.

"That was rude, you know." John turned and told Sherlock, sternly, "You really should know better than to do that, Sherlock"

"Yeah, Sherlock." Lestrade agreed, with a chuckle, "You can't keep doing that or you'll scare all the good ones away."

"I really don't see the problem here…" Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes and flopping down into the now empty rolling chair, "I just saved Interpol the trouble of a rogue agent and their wanted felon going free once again… and I'm about to save Scotland Yard the trouble of solving this case, so you should actually be thanking me, not scolding me like I'm some child."

"Well…" Lestrade conceded, "He does kind of have a point."

"Good." Sherlock grinned, spinning in the chair so that he was facing the computer screen of the PICA security system, "Shall we get to work, then?"

If Jim were Molly…where would he hide?

What would Molly do if she were trying to hide from the world's only 'consulting criminal'?

What would Molly do?

She wouldn't hide.

She knew Jim too well; she knew he knew her too well.

She knew that he'd know everywhere she'd go to hide herself and so she knew that she couldn't hide.

But she could run, oh she could run.

Once again in Molly, Jim opened the closet in her bedroom.

If he was going to go running around London looking for Molly he was going to have to dress up.

He didn't want to look like a servant carrying around dry-cleaning so he had left his suits in Molly's closet…

….but he also didn't want to look like a pretentious hipster so, as soon as possible, he had substituted his Mona Lisa t-shirt and red skinny jeans for the standard black pants and white shirt he had 'found' in somebody's locker-room locker at a pool before he went for his important and essential meeting with Doyle, Conan and Arthur that 'just happened' to be at the hospital.

But, of course, they were some kind of department-store brand and so Jim had to change out of that cheap fabric into his 'Team Jim' uniform (he was going to play a Game, after all) which was why he was back at Molly's place.

He knew she wouldn't be here.

If she was going to be running from him, she wouldn't be that stupid to come back here.

But as Jim pulled one of his suits out of her closet and the drycleaner's plastic covering…

…out fell another dead flower.

The white camellia.

It meant 'adorable'.

(Now Jim knew that Molly must have looked these flower meanings up…so this was how the game was going to be played.)

As the dried plant floated downwards, Jim bent down and caught it before it hit the carpet.

The was no frightened man, with a bomb strapped to his chest and hidden under his jacket, standing across the street from the lamppost on the sidewalk.

But if there was… then he would have seen a young man in a nice suit approach the streetlight, kneel and pick up a dried flower.

And if there was a man and that man squinted, then he would see that this dried flower was a mock-orange (which is actually white).

And if there was man and that man was well-versed in traditional flower symbolism, then he would know that a mock-orange (which is actually white) symbolized 'deceit'.

Lies.

But there wasn't a man that was attached to a bomb and so nobody saw Jim Moriarty stroll down this particular street in downtown London, stop to pick up a dead flower and then continue on his way.

On his way out of the hospital, Doyle bumped into someone he sincerely didn't think he would see coming back there that evening.

"Mr. Moriarty!" he coughed, worried that his strange associate would take his leaving the wrong way and get mad.

But Jim paid Doyle no attention whatsoever, pushing past him, as if he didn't even recognize him, and striding into St. Bartholomew's.

Confused but relieved, Doyle sighed and continued his exit.

Jim, however, went right down to the morgue (and down the hall past Conan and Arthur who were attempting to get free snacks out of the vending machine by shaking it) and into Molly's section.

It was cold and it was gray and it was empty.

…except for the dried out flower lying on the metal table.

A yellow begonia.

It meant 'beware'.

Jim took it.

Where to next? Jim wondered as he left the hospital.

Following Molly's little 'clues' was fun and all, an adequate distraction…

…but this was a game.

He wanted to win.

Molly could be clever, yes, (when she wasn't afraid to be)…

…but if she honestly thought that she could actually outsmart Jim Moriarty…well, he'd have to remind her just who was the cat and who was the mouse.

He couldn't just chase her, he had to trap her.

Instead of just running around after her, he had to get one step ahead of her.

That's how games were won.

….So where to next…?

So far, the dead flowers had been placed, in chronological order, at locations that Jim and Molly had been together.

The most recent flower obviously represented one of the times he had come visited her at the morgue (either the time he had snuck in, naked inside a bodybag…or the time they had had their little Christmas party with the fake Irene)…so what came after that?

Where?

What had Jim done, where had he gone?

To Irene. In Israel…?

No.

Molly didn't know about that and even if she did, there was no way she'd fly all the way to Israel just to plant a flower (she didn't take games that seriously).

So where?

If Jim were Molly…where would he go?

If Jim were Molly thinking 'if Molly were Jim'…where would she go?

Stumped (No! Not 'stumped'. Just…temporarily suffering from lack of ideas) Jim pulled out his phone with one hand and sent a text to Molly.

'beware'?

Beware of what, exactly?

####

You already need a hint?

####

No, Molly, I need YOU.

And we can do this the' easy way' or the 'hard way'.

####

You left me.

####

You chose Sherlock.

####

I didn't choose anyone.

And I'm not going to.

####

'hard way' it is then.

####

'beware'.

####

Pardon?

####

'beware, mock-orange'.

That's your hint.

####

I already have that clue, dear.

And btw, I didn't ask for a 'hint'.

####

Do I have to spell it out for you?

####

No.

You looked up the meanings of the flowers.

I get it.

…and then, like a spontaneous revelation, he did.

Jim did 'get it'.

Because 'beware' was not the meaning of a mock-orange…

(It was the meaning of a blue violet.)

…and if he 'spelled out' (as in changed the spelling) 'beware' turned into 'be where'.

And be where?

Be where, mock-orange.

Mock-oranges were not orange in color, nor were they actually flowers of an orange tree…

…they just looked like orange tree flowers, they were just pretending…

And what else pretended to be orange?

Who else?

The busboy from the hotel.

The one Molly figured out Jim had caused to overdose on drugs.

The one that had dyed his hair orange (a fact Molly would have noticed during the autopsy) to impress the bartender he had a crush on because she kept a picture of some redheaded actor near her cash register.

'Beware, mock-orange.'

(or)

'Be where, the busboy.'

(or)

'Be where the busboy with the fake orange hair was.'

(or)

'Meet me at the hotel, love Molly.'

(All four were correct. Just like the flowers, one thing symbolized another.)

Jim couldn't help but grin.

His little mouse really was quite the player (when she wasn't afraid to be).

Putting his phone back into his suit pocket he started towards the hotel.

And at primary school, when it was recess and the more outgoing (popular) kids would decide that, instead of hide and seek, they were going to organize a class-wide game of tag…

…Molly would just sit out, alone on one of the swings, rocking slowly back and forth.

She hated those days.

She hated tag.

Whenever she was 'it' (those rare times) she could never run fast enough to catch anybody…

…and when she wasn't 'it' (which was almost all the time), no matter how slowly she ran, no matter how easy a prey she made herself…nobody would ever catch her.

They didn't even try.

(And it was sad, really, because Molly so wanted to be caught.)

It was dark outside and inside the hotel, by the bar, it was dimly lit.

There was a new bartender (the old one had been fired for giving alcohol not only to minors but for free) who every so often would refill Molly's drink as she waited patiently for the boyfriend she assured him would arrive (so that he stopped hitting on her).

(There also was a new receptionist and new security guard, as the old receptionist and security guard had both been fired for allowing somebody to impersonate a police officer (or just a drunk chick) and gain access to the security office.)

It was funny, Molly thought to herself, how before when she had been so desperately searching for a boyfriend no man seemed to want her and now that she had someone (a boyfriend?) suddenly every guy (the new bartender for example) started flirting with her.

It was around nine-thirty PM, and the hotel restaurant that adjoined with the bar was winding down its dinner hour.

Molly sipped her drink slowly, facing away from the bar and watching the revolving door to the hotel.

Where was Jim?

He was supposed to be a genius; he should have figured out where she was by now…

(Molly wasn't impatient because she wanted to see Jim or anything. No. No way. That wasn't it at all. It was because she was running up a tab on this overpriced bar and this expensive hotel waiting for him…

…which she was only doing because it would distract him from killing Sherlock (and himself (no. she didn't care about that. She didn't care about him. No. No way..)) and probably lots of other innocent people as well.)

(Excuses, excuses.)

Finally, after so long, Molly saw Jim push his way through the spinning doors and head towards her, that grin of his on his face and that intense (insane) look in his eyes.

It was like something out of a movie, really.

Boy meets girl.

Mysterious man come in from the night meets mysterious woman at the end of the bar.

…how were they going to play this?

Pretend like they didn't know each other? Like they were just strangers who happened to make acquaintance at a hotel bar…?

No.

Molly had already told the bartender that she was waiting for her boyfriend (and if Jim came up and talked to her, then he would presumably be the 'boyfriend').

So what?

Were they gonna play 'normal couple'? Pretend to be 'boyfriend and girlfriend'?

('Kiss and make up'?)

…or were they just going to 'be themselves'?

(And still 'kiss and make up'?...no!)

Jim stopped in front of her, taking a moment to look her up and down.

Molly had obviously dressed-up for the occasion.

She was wearing her lipstick and a matching dress (Jim didn't recognize it from her closet, which he had become quite acquainted with) that she must have bought for the occasion.

Molly looked Jim up and down, too, noting that he had been back to her flat to retrieve something nice to wear.

"This is so romantic…so sentimental…" Jim commented.

And when he said the word 'sentimental' (the insult he had accused her of being during their 'lover's quarrel') she knew how he was going to play.

('When Jim Met Molly'

The Movie.

Staring:

Jim Moriarty….as himself.)

"Jim," she greeted, trying her best 'distantly polite', and setting down her drink.

"Molly." Jim matched…but then couldn't hold himself back from breaking into a laugh, "Really? The hotel where some punk kid who ended up on your morgue table died? That's where you choose to meet?...and they say I have 'problems'."

(Whoever 'they' were. And they were always right.)

Molly glanced away from Jim over at the bartender, who she was praying hadn't heard what Jim had just said.

Luckily, once the bartender had seen Jim (and kissed his last chance of wooing Molly with free drinks goodbye), he had decided to ignore the pair and tend to his other customers (three middle-aged women on a 'business' trip who were giggling quite loudly and had been for the past twenty minutes, trying to get his undivided attention).

"…it's all just part of the game," Molly mused, in a whisper, "I just thought to myself 'what would Jim do?' and here we are."

She smiled at Jim.

"…don't tell me you got a room…" He smirked, "…Because I know that's what I'd do."

Molly had gotten a room.

She knew that was what Jim would do. In fact, it was what he had done.

(The price was ridiculous, far more than what reasonably fit into Molly's budget- but it was for a 'good cause'…that 'good cause' being distracting Jim not for the 'game'. Definitely not.)

"I did." Molly said, standing up. And then she leaned up to whisper in his ear, "Room two-hundred, twenty-one…"

Jim woke up, slowly, the next morning, his head pounding.

The blurry world around him gradually came into focus and he realized he was lying in a bed of some hotel room.

The hotel room.

At first he couldn't even remember what had happened.

(So it was going to be one of those 'morning-afters', again.)

Some of it came back to him though, in bits and pieces, one by one.

First, the flowers…

…Hyacinth, camellia, violet, mock-orange…

Mock-orange!

'Beware, mock-orange'.

Jim remembered meeting Molly down at a hotel bar (this hotel's bar) and then going upstairs to the room (this room).

Room 221.

…but what next?

There was something in here that happened with a teenage boy…the busboy…but that was a while ago…

…what had happened last night?

Jim had given the eager busboy the drugs…which he had promptly overdosed on.

No.

That was before.

...or was it?

And then Jim remembered what occurred.

While he had been distracted (by the television? Or what?)…

…Molly had injected Jim with some kind of drug that had knocked him out.

Whoa.

That sneaky little bitch had drugged him!

Drugged him, Jim Moriarty, genius 'consulting criminal'!

Just who did she think she was?

He would have to put the little lady back in her place.

…although Jim had to admit that god, Molly really knew how to play a game!

(When she wasn't too afraid to, of course.)

But that didn't mean that she would win.

No.

Jim was going to be the one to win.

He always won.

And this game would be no different.

Jim tried to remember what Molly had said that night, just as she had used the cardkey to open the door to the room.

"Why?" he had asked her, his question needing no elaboration.

"Because," she had answered, "If I don't play 'hard to get' with you…you'll get bored of me…"

Jim shook his head, chuckling, as he rose from the bed, still groggy and tried to locate his clothing.

There was a dull ache in his arm where Molly had injected him with whatever sedative she had stolen from the hospital to drug him with.

The clock stationed on top of the television read: 11:26.

Below, on the screen, an episode of 'Glee' was playing on pay-per-view.

'You are the only exception' a nerdy-looking girl sang, 'and I'm on my way to believing…'

Jim grinned.

Oh, Molly.

He knew where to go next.

Conveniently enough, Sherlock and John were out on a case and so not home to peek out their window and see Molly Hooper and then, fifteen minutes later, Jim Moriarty 'just happen' to walk by.

Finding nothing there when he arrived, Jim continued past 221b Baker Street, not even checking to see if his favorite (were they his favorite anymore?) distractions were there.

He hurried down the pavement until he reached a certain bench he and Molly had once sat on together, staring into the sun so long that their eyes burned (watching the app—now broken—on Jim's phone that show the inside of Sherlock's flat).

Now what sat on it was the fifth faded flower that Jim quickly grabbed and added to his dead but growing bouquet.

A blue violet.

'Watchful'.

Now that it was March and things were warming up, more people came to one of London's signature tourist attractions; The Eye.

The line for the slowly turning observation wheel was even longer than it was on Valentine's Day night, being that it was a Friday afternoon.

Jim, luckily, wasn't going to be standing in this line and bypassed the crowd of people as he walked through the park.

First, he checked the bench Molly had made them retreat to upon seeing both Sally Donovan and Anderson (and Anderson's wife)…but there was no flower.

It had been cold that night, Jim recalled.

He looked over to the tall tree where the group of teenagers had been smoking something before Sally had come and chased them off.

Under the tree, right where the still lit rolled-paper had lain (smoke rising from it up into the sky) had been left behind, was the flower.

Another camellia, this time red.

It meant 'flame'.

Jim walked over, reached down and picked it up.

The waiter…

(who had been paid a large sum of money anonymously to flirt aggressively with the male half a couple that had come into the restaurant late last Valentine's Day, so that the male would be distracted from the female and the female would leave)

…was not at all pleased to see the female and then, fifteen minutes later, the male half of that same couple return to where he had previously 'dined and dashed'.

(His only, small solace was that they had come separately.)

"Come back to pay your tab?" he asked when Jim arrived, stopping him at the door before he could even walk in.

"Not this time." Jim grinned, trying to step around the waiter.

"You're not allowed back in here, then." He said, blocking him.

"But my girlfriend's waiting for me inside." Jim whined.

"No she's not!" The waiter sneered triumphantly, "You're late! She already left. Hopefully for good."

"Which way did she go?" Jim asked, looking up and down the sidewalk in both directions.

"I'm not telling you that." The waiter replied, folding his arms, "Go find her yourself….then you two can take your low-class asses to McDonalds. Maybe you can afford that so you won't have to 'dine and dash'."

"Oh that's 'rich'," Jim snorted, "coming from a man who's worked in this posh place for twenty years and still can't afford to eat in it. Maybe you should come along to McDonalds with us. All you can eat, my treat. What do you say, sir?"

"Go to hell." The waiter grumbled and then reached into his waist apron pocket, "..and take your girlfriend and her disgust dead flower with you."

He pulled out the dead flower in question and shoved into Jim's hands.

(It was a white chrysanthemum('truth')).

"Hell?" Jim repeated, smirking, "That would be a step up from here."

He gestured, dried flower in hand, to the fancy restaurant.

It took all of the waiter's self control not to flick Jim off…to his face.

He waited until Jim had walked little ways down the street before sticking up his middle finger.

But, of course, Jim spun around and blew him a kiss before continuing away.

Jim practically ran back up the stairs to Molly's floor and towards the door to her apartment.

He knew where the last flower would be, he knew how Molly was playing this.

This game had been so much fun he was almost sad that it was about to come to end (because 'all good things must come to an end', they say and 'they' are always right).

Almost.

(His drive to win (prove himself) overpowered his desire to just enjoy being distracted.)

Who knew Molly could be so brilliant?

(He did.)

(Sherlock didn't. But he did.)

Jim couldn't wait to give her a pat on the head and say 'good girl' for all the effort (careful, clever thought) she had put into this.

(His little mouse was growing up…

…he was so proud of her…)

And he knew where he and Molly had gone after the restaurant.

Back to her flat.

So the last flower would be there.

And it was.

Lying in on the floor front of the door was a pink peony.

…what did that one mean again…?

Jim kneeled and gathered it up with the others, gently so their dry stems break and their faded petals didn't fall off.

…oh yeah…

Shame.

(What? Was she ashamed of him or something?...well, then again, it's not like she chose these flowers- or their meanings.)

Holding his (her) bouquet in on hand, Jim stood and knocked on the door with the other.

No answer.

…no problem…

It's not like Jim didn't have a key.

Jim unlocked the door and, for the third time, strolled into Molly's home as if it was his as well.

"Honey, I'm home!" He called out, closing it behind him.

(The joke would be funny, now that she was here to laugh at it.)

No answer.

Just Toby, trotting up to him and meowing.

Where was Molly?

Where was she?

This didn't make any sense.

That was the last flower, Molly should be here.

Wasn't that the game they were playing?

Follow the flowers, like a trail of breadcrumbs, until he finds the most fragile one of all…the one that had yet to bloom, but the only one that was alive.

Molly Hooper.

So… where was she?

Had she stood him up again?

Didn't she understand…?

Didn't she finally understand what he had been trying to explain to her the day they had had the fight?

That even the best (especially the best) games had to end?

….That there needed to be a winner?

Jim couldn't believe that Molly, for all her genius (yes, he'd said it; genius) in orchestrating this 'game of cat and mouse', still didn't understand.

This is what they'd been arguing about!

Jim remembered, now, what he had said to Molly the night before when she had told him that she had to 'play hard to get' in order to keep his attention.

"Games like these aren't any fun, love, if you don't let me win…"

Why couldn't she understand?

…Why couldn't she just give up and let him win?

Who did she think she was, anyway?

Sherlock Holmes?

No.

Hell no.

Jim scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Little Molly Hopper, the nobody, thought she could replace Sherlock Holmes.

She was stupider (and much more overconfident) than he had given her credit for.

Jim started to snicker, shaking his head.

(And Toby bristled, hissed and scurried away.)

Jim wasn't stupid.

He knew what Molly was trying to do.

She was trying to distract him.

She was trying to 'replace' Sherlock in his focus, therefore protecting Sherlock.

Once again, it was all about Sherlock Holmes for Molly Hooper.

But Sherlock was his.

Molly couldn't have him.

(But Molly was his.

Sherlock couldn't have her.)

And if Molly was going to try to play this game with him, then Jim just simply wasn't going to participate.

Besides, he had better things to do.

(And Jim had loads of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.)

"What are you doing here?" Rose demanded, aiming the gun towards Jim as soon as he entered the warehouse.

Ricoletti raised a hand to lower her armed arm.

"I see you managed to steal the painting without my help, Signor Ricoletti." Jim stated, gesturing to where ten canvases stood, propped up by wooden easels.

Nine of them were exact replicas, beautiful art in their own right…

…and one of them was the original 'Reichenbach Falls' painting.

"Mr. Moriarty…" Ricoletti greeted (both nervously and suspiciously), approaching Jim, "…I wasn't expecting you..."

"We don't need his help!" Rose snapped, bringing back up her gun, "We don't need him!"

"Rose, hush." Ricoletti silenced her with his already outstretched arm, and then turned back to Jim, "…How may I help you, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes took your case, didn't he?" Jim asked.

"…So I've heard." Ricoletti confirmed, nodding, "…he's some kind of detective?"

"Consulting detective." Jim corrected, "The world's only."

Ricoletti smiled.

" 'Consulting detective'?" he repeated, "Oh I see…He's the world's only 'consulting detective'…and you're the world's only 'consulting criminal'."

"Finally!" Jim exclaimed, "Somebody 'gets it'!"

"So you two have your own… specialties." Ricoletti continued.

In his overdone Italian accent he pronounced 'specialties' as 'speh-shi-ul-al-lit-tees'.

"Yes." Jim affirmed, "And my most special 'specialty'… " (he mimicked Ricoletti's pronunciation) "is Sherlock Holmes… I can help you escape him…and the police and Interpol, too."

"We don't need your help!" Rose spoke up in a shout, "We don't need anyone."

"Rose!" Ricoletti warned, immediately, "Please!"

"But it's true!" Rose insisted, "You know it is, Antonio. We need no one. Tell him, Antonio! Tell Signor Moriarty we don't need him. Tell Signor Moriarty to leave."

"I am sorry about this, Mr. Moriarty." Ricoletti apologized, looking at Jim, then at Rose, then back at Jim and then back at Rose once more, "Women….You know how they get."

"Tell me about it." Jim sighed exaggeratedly.

Ricoletti turned back to his wife.

"Just go finish the paintings, Rose" he told her, "and he and I will work out a deal."

"…fine." Rose conceded, with a groan, "Whatever you want."

"I love you." Ricoletti stated, leaning foreword and kissing her on the cheek.

"I love you." Rose replied, nodding, then turning and walking back over to the row of paintings in various states of completion (nine fakes, one real…all art).

Ricoletti watched Rose go, pick up her paintbrush and return to her work (magic), before addressing Moriarty once her back was turned.

"…isn't that sweet." Jim snorted.

He pulled out a gun from his suit pocket, aimed and shot Ricoletti in the foot.

The world's most notorious art thief fell to the floor instantly, crying out in pain, the thundering gunshot still echoing off the warehouse walls.

"Che diavolvo!" Rose screamed in shock, whirling around to see her husband on the ground and Jim holding a gun, "Bastardo!"

She pointed her gun at him.

"Go ahead, Signora." Jim challenged with a grin, arms opened wide, "Shoot me."

"I'll kill you!" Rose threatened.

She clicked the trigger about a hundred times but no bullets fired.

Jim just laughed.

Of course, it wasn't a real gun (Jim knew a fake when he saw one). What would art thieves have a gun for?

In frustration, tears forming in her eyes, Rose threw the gun aside sharply and rushed to kneel beside Ricoletti who was just now sitting up.

"Why?" he asked Jim, as he clutched his bleeding foot.

"Sherlock Holmes." Jim answered, simply, as if it needed no other explanation.

Ricoletti's wincing reddened gaze just stared at Jim in confusion.

Jim groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Do you really need me to spell it out for you? Idiots…" he complained, "Fine, then. I'll explain. And I'll try to keep it simple-for those who don't understand English…Like I said, my 'specialty' is Sherlock Holmes…Sherlock Holmes is on your case… I need Sherlock Holmes to solve your case…I need him to solve your case because you are the world's most notorious art thief. If he solves your case, he will get famous… I need Sherlock Holmes to be famous."

There was silence, then.

In that silence they could hear the pattering of helicopters quickly growing closer.

The police, or Interpol, or Sherlock Holmes, or whoever was after Ricoletti were on their way.

How they had found the warehouse so soon, Mr. and Mrs. Ricoletti did not know.

(But, Jim, of course did. It was because Sherlock Holmes was a bloody genius. That's how.)

"Why would you do this?" Rose sobbed.

"I. just. told. you!" Jim yelled, slapping his high forehead and then slicking back his dark brown hair, "…Weren't you listening?!"

"I mean—"Rose struggled to find the correct phrasing in English, "How could you do this?"

Jim shook his head again, continuing to laugh.

"You're crazy!" Ricoletti accused.

"You're right." Jim affirmed.

"Get out!" Rose commanded, standing up and pointing towards the door, "Leave right now!"

"As you wish, Signora." Jim agreed, feigning a bow as he backed away, "…and you know, Signora…you could leave too. Before the police get here. You could escape."

"No we can't!" Rose disagreed, "He's injured, he can't walk, he—"

"I never said him." Jim interrupted, "I said you…You're right about him. He's injured. And there's no way he'll be able to get out before the authorities arrive. In fact, he'll probably walk with a limp the rest of his life…you, on the other hand, can go free. You can escape before they catch you. Before they catch you and lock you back in that 'art school'… all alone…"

Rose's breath caught upon Jim's mention of the 'school'.

So did Ricoletti's.

"You have run." He told her, pulling on her arm so that she would look him in the eyes, "They only want me. They don't want you…they don't even know about you. You have to escape. I don't want you in a prison!"

"But I can't—" Rose cried, "I can't just leave you—"

"Sure you can!" Jim shrugged, "…you can even come with me, if you want. You know…so you don't get lonely…

Rose ignored him.

She bent to sit beside her husband, holding his hand tightly.

"I'll never leave you." She declared.

"Rosetta…" Ricoletti coughed, looking up at her, "If you stay…you know you'll be taken to jail…we'll be separated—"

"If I ran we'd be separated." Rosa reminded, seriously, "I will not run. I will not leave you."

"Suit yourself, then." Jim grumbled, taken aback.

Why would anyone forfeit their own freedom, just to stay behind with someone who was too weak to escape?

It was like a healthy gazelle staying behind with a sick, slow gazelle and allowing itself to be eaten by the lions along with it.

It just wasn't natural.

Jim decided, then, that all women were just stupid.

And on that note, he exited the warehouse.

But that wasn't the last flower.

The peony, the shame…

…it wasn't the final flower.

Sitting by herself, on the bench in King's Cross train station, like she had been for the last three hours, was Molly.

(She was waiting (like she always was) for someone that wasn't going to come.)

And twisting in between her restless, impatient fingers was a dead, dried and faded purple flower.

The last flower.

A spider-flower.

'Elope with me'.

Sorry!

But it's too keep everything in canon, I swear!

They'll get back together eventually!

(And the flower meanings are from www. 800florals care / meaning. asp (spaces removed).)

'The Reichenbach Fall' events begin next chapter!

Review?

*Puppy dog eyes or something like that*