Rated M for swearing, violence. Yeah, that pretty much covers it.

Spoiler Alert. I make references to events from The Great Game so don't read if you haven't watched it yet. (Of course, I doubt that there are Sherlock fanfic readers who haven't watched TGG but still plan to watch it later. But let us follow convention, by all means.)

Speaking of which, it is now time for the obligatory safety notice:

Please do not read fanfic while drinking the beverage of your choice. Also do not read fanfic while driving motorbikes, heavy machinery or spacecraft (this includes both Terran and extra-Terrestrial space vehicles.) (This obviously includes TARDIS and TARDIS-like vehicles. Just saying…)

Also, do keep your inhalers handy, just in case, and always follow your doctor's instructions when taking medication. (Doctor Watson agrees with this.)

Once again, for quotes and timelines, I borrowed from the fantastic transcript of The Great Game provided by Ariane Devere

All errors are John Watson's.

I hope you enjoy Chapter 46, and feel obligated to review when you have finished reading. No really. You are obligated to review.

Really.

CHAPTER 46

Sherlock had examined the body of Connie Prince noting the cat scratches on her arm, the tiny puncture sites on her face and her postmortem hand wound, which was so obviously NOT the cause of her death. Why couldn't people just see?

Actually, Sherlock Holmes had already solved this rather pedestrian case. The television celebrity had been killed by Botulinum toxin, which was administered by the houseboy.

Moriarty, of course, had orchestrated the murder. In fact, Moriarty had repeated himself by using the same poison which he'd used to kill Carl Powers. DULL.

Sherlock took his time gathering the corroborating evidence. He sent a spare minion out to interview Connie's brother (which would also keep the houseboy busy until Sherlock was ready to expose him). The consulting detective troubled himself to put in a call to the home office. And now paced in front of the Wall of Evidence back at Baker Street.

It looked like Sherlock was busily solving the puzzle and playing the criminal mastermind's game, but in fact, Sherlock was using this extra time to review all available information concerning one James Moriarty.

Specifically, Sherlock was trying to determine his best way to deal with Moriarty during their inevitable meeting and afterwards.

Obviously, Sherlock could actually carry out Mycroft's plan to meet with the Moriarty and then let the madman go. They would watch the Irishman for several months, find all of his criminal enterprises and identify his principal henchmen, and then take them all down in one fell swoop. (Fell swoop being Lestrade's rather lurid description of such an operation.)

Lestrade did not really approve of this plan, which was unimportant. John was not fully informed about this plan, because he would not approve of it either. In fact, John Watson would undoubtedly become ballistic. (Another Lestrade-ism.) John's reaction would undoubtedly be a problem.

The next option was in fact, an elegant embellishment of the first plan, and Sherlock's favorite option. The consulting detective would allow Moriarty to win him over. Sherlock would ostensibly work for the criminal genius, and then the consulting detective would be in position destroy Moriarty's criminal organization from the inside.

Of course, it was potentially dangerous. After all, a slightly similar plan using John hadn't worked out so well.

But then John was not a genius like Sherlock. But still, Mycroft might not approve of this brilliant idea. Lestrade certainly would not approve. John would be…Sherlock tried to think of a term that exceeded ballistic. Perhaps it was best to move on.

Both plans presumed that John would agree to remain in hiding. This was unlikely. Indeed, the detective was surprised that John hadn't snuck out of the bunker already. And even if John could be persuaded to stay in the bunker, his mental and physical health were clearly both at risk. Sherlock shook his head and sighed. Caring was clearly not an advantage

Well there was always John's solution, to wit kill Moriarty. (Otherwise known as Plan K- for kill shot. Blunt-but to the point.)

Mycroft, who would benefit from Plan K, opposed it, because he felt it would delay uncovering all of Moriarty's schemes. However…

"She'lock, wat does this streeng mean," interrupted Lestrade, around a mouthful of food. His blunt finger pointed to a red thread leading to a clipping about Carl Powers.

Sherlock's eyes went storm-grey, and he slapped the detective inspector's hand away from his evidence links.

"Don't touch anything on the wall," snapped Sherlock. "Stay away from the wall. And leave me alone; I was thinking…"

"You been thinkin' for more'n hour," said Lestrade swallowing his food and glaring up at the taller man. "You do remember that somewhere there's a poor old lady with bombs strapped to her? D'you have any ideas on how to find her or how to solve the Connie Prince murder"?

"Yes. No and yes," snapped Sherlock again. "Now if you'll allow me to finish my review of the facts…"

PJ interrupted by handing the genius a mug of tea.

Sherlock sighed loudly and took the mug without thanking the minion. He drank the substandard tea, only because this would please his doctor and not because Sherlock was thirsty.

Naturally, the blond doctor would know whether Sherlock drank this disgusting tea or not. Indeed, that PJ person was muttering into his modified Blue Tooth right now.

"I suppose you're reporting back to the doctor on whether or not I'm drinking my tea," said Sherlock, who loudly slurped more of his tea. That way, everyone knew that the tea was being consumed; probably, John would be able to hear the slurping over the Blue Tooth.

"Frankly," added the wily sleuth, "you should all be more concerned with whether the good doctor has had his tea. He's the one losing weight," Hah! Let John hear that over the Blue Tooth.

PJ assumed the standard minion-at-rest position and smiled blandly, neither confirming nor denying Sherlock's assertion. Dear God, they all minions smiled stupidly now; it was as if all of Sherlock's minders had been indoctrinated on how to smile idiotically, force tea onto unwary geniuses and then offer stupid sandwiches to them. Thank God, PG had not offered any wretched food to Sherlock this afternoon.

Sherlock turned back to wall and reconsidered his dilemma. What if John were temporarily sent to Antarctica, without the ox of course. John would probably be safe buried under the snow and ice until…

"Sandwich, Mister Holmstead?" asked BG. His hard, glinting eyes belied his insipid grin.

"The name is Holmes," said Sherlock sternly. "You know this. I've heard you use my name before."

"Yeah. And I'm usually called BJ or Agent Nichols. But who's keeping track of all that, hmm?"

Again, with that tiresome insistence on names? Who cared? Certainly not the World's Only Consulting Detective

Sherlock's flattened his lips and turned irritably back to the wall of maps, photos and newspaper clippings. He willed the minion to disappear. With any luck, the minion would be struck down by lightning or a meteor, or perhaps VG would spontaneously combust.

While the consulting detective considered burning minions and freezing army doctors, the, the pink phone rang. Sherlock glanced briefly at Lestrade and VJ; then he put the mobile on speaker and held the phone up.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" said the wavering voice of the hostage. "You enjoy…joining the…dots."

The woman sobbed once and added, "Three hours: boom…boom."

The frightened woman sobbed once more, and then the phone went dead. Sherlock's face remained impassive after the brief, taunting message; he was not concerned. Sherlock did not do concern for others. Besides, he knew that he could save the old woman when the time came. The call was a minor irritation, nothing more.

The harried DI exchanged a glance with BJ. Lestrade shook his head, worried sick about the poor hostage. He turned away from the Mycroft's agent and away from Sherlock, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. What kind of sick bastard took an elderly, blind woman and strapped bombs onto her, wondered Greg Lestrade?

"It's a bloody 'orrible fix for tha poor old woman, ain't it," said BJ. "Still, you best 'ave your sand'ich Mr. "Omestead. Gotta keep up your strength, and anyhow, he's countin' on you eatin' it. 'Course Oscar already told 'im you weren't eatin' it."

The DG's exaggerated accent was a sad attempt to irritate the consulting detective. The reference to the ox was a blatant attempt at manipulation. Both were pathetic. Sherlock sniffed and turned away from the proffered food.

"It's a shame, 'bout Connie Prince too," said PJ, looking at the video replay of The Connie Prince Show playing on a laptop. They all turned to the screen as Connie playfully struck a chubby man, insulting his clothing sense, and with good reason, Sherlock considered. The older man, obviously Connie's sibling, had terrible taste in clothing. It was even worse than John's.

"That's her brother, Kenny," offered BJ. "No love lost there, if you can believe the papers."

"Hmm," said Sherlock.

VG turned to engage Lestrade in more pointless small talk, and Sherlock was once more left to his own devices. He gazed at the wall waiting to see the connections that would lead to the solution of his problem.

Sherlock was not in his mind palace. He couldn't really concentrate enough, not with Lestrade and VJ rambling about. He could still overhear their mindless chatter: Lestrade murmuring to DJ about the poor hostage (as if worrying would save her) and DJ muttering about Connie Prince (who was really not all that entertaining).

Now Lestrade was on his phone giving orders to someone…presumably Donovan. Boring.

And now, it was finally quiet. Thank God.

The respite was short-lived, because PG was complaining about Sherlock into his Blue Tooth. Good, thought Sherlock, maybe the minion would become so frustrated that he would take his bland smile and leave the premises.

"No. I offered 'im a perfectly good sand'ich...No, I won't," said PJ. The minion continued in a whisper, as he turned towards the boarded-up window. "Why don'cha go cry on Oscar's shoulder 'stead 'o mine. E's up for it. And I gotta tell ya, doc; Oscar'd make you a better boyfriend than…"

"BJ!" yelled Sherlock, startling both Greg and BJ. Lestrade actually fumbled his phone at the sudden shout, losing his call with Donovan.

Sherlock continued without pause, "You must be a bigger idiot than even I thought! There's a case to solve, and yet you stand there gossiping to your friends. And how am I supposed to think without food!"

"I gave you a sand…"

"BJ Nelson, you offered me stupid sandwiches full of vegetable matter, without any honey mustard to improve the palatability," complained the consulting detective. "Obviously, if the sandwiches had honey mustard on them; I could consume them. And then, having had fuel, I could think. By the way, I have a task for Oscar Morrison. I wish him to…

"Lookit here, Mr…Holmes," said BJ wearily. "I can get the bloody mustard for your sand'iches but Oscar's got duties already. If you got a job, I can get Paula or…"

"What task? Where does Morrison have a task?" demanded the consulting detective.

"I b'lieve 'e was going out to interview someone about that Mister West."

Ah, considered Sherlock with great satisfaction, that meant the ox would have to leave the bunker and thus leaving John Watson alone. It was quite acceptable.

"Forget Oscar then," snapped Sherlock irritably. "Just give me a damned sandwich, with honey mustard."

"Fine," said BJ, stomping into the kitchen.

"Fine," said Sherlock, busily texting his army doctor, so that the army doctor wouldn't worry.

A/N Another short chapter. On the plus side, the rough drafts of the final chapters have been written. (There are a fair few still to go.) Unfortunately, the drafts are very, very rough. But we shall soldier on!

That is, John and I will soldier on to the very end. Sherlock is still busily experimenting away. He's almost finished experimenting on my footwear. I fear my un-indexed socks will be next.

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Thank you all for following the safety guidelines.

A special thank you to the reviewers who keep me motivated and help me with my writing everyday. Thank you for the recent reviews from: dana-san, Quiet Time, 107602, HelenaHermione and Kinkylittlewolf.

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock. I have tried to imagine that I own the rights-but no luck. I still do not own any rights to Sherlock.

NOTICE: this is when you should feel obligated to review.