"And what am I supposed to take from this? Sherlock, you know what's at stake. You can't stop. We don't stop. This goes on forever."
Or until he gets bored. But really, that goes without saying.
Sherlock remains stubborn.
"It's over."
"Just for the record, what was it? What pushed you finally over the edge?" he asks, sitting down. If anything, he's mildly amused. Sherlock would never risk harming his friends, and he's certain the consulting detective wouldn't kill him. He still can't let go if his friendship for the man he thought he'd return to after his Fall.
Sherlock doesn't answer.
Must be the suspicion in Greg's eyes, giving him hope. So he wasn't deceived about the DI.
Interesting.
"We could of course focus on this petty little argument, or we could go chase after the serial killer who just claimed his twenty-seventh victim in London alone".
Sherlock remains quiet, unimpressed.
"Does the name Culverton Smith ring any bells?"
Sherlock's eyes widen. He's not surprised. Culverton Smith is a well-known philanthropist.
But behind the facade, oh, behind the facade...
He's one of the few who could ever have come up against John, but he never did. Maybe he doesn't even know he exists.
After all, he's very focused on his favourite past time.
Murder. But whereas with John, it is often an afterthought, when he's trying to get into a good mood or blow off some steam, Culverton Smith has turned it into an art form. And he's never been suspected. At least a dozen of his crimes have never even been detected.
"Do you have proof?" Sherlock asks finally with a sigh.
He knew it. The good-god man in front of him could never let this go until he knows his beloved city is safe from such a man.
"I am sure it could be found."
Sherlock shakes his head.
"Come on, do you really think I am lying? What fun would it be to lead you on a goose chase with no answers? You get to work and catch a serial killer! He built his own morgue!"
"His own – ah the hospital, of course. Rather ingenious way to hide bodies."
"I thought you'd like that."
Sherlock ignores him as he mutters to himself in his thinking pose.
How easily he is distracted. Although that was the first open sign of rebellion in months. How intriguing.
"It won't be easy to get to him" Sherlock announces. "He's either surrounded by the press or by security guards".
"Break in?" he suggest, not because he thinks it's practical, but because it has been a while since they broke the law together.
"Too impractical, plus it would give him the advantage" Sherlock says calmly. "No, I think we should deploy... more modern methods".
And that is how Sherlock Holmes ends up getting a twitter account.
Personally, John has never seen the point of social media, but considering he could easily be diagnosed with an anti-social personality disorder, that is not saying much.
The tweet "Culverton Smith is a serial killer" goes viral, as expected. And he reacts just how a showman like him would – inviting them to his hospital.
How the press loves it.
Wow, is John's first thought at meeting Smith, what a reptile.
Say what you want to say about him, at least he doesn't force Sherlock to touch him in public. He certainly would never elicit a hug under these circumstances.
An artist, but not one whose style John particularly admires, you could say.
Sherlock despises him. That much is clear.
He despises him so much that he actually makes an effort to be nice to the children. He's never acted more human. Not that it costs him much; he's always treated them like adults.
It's clear Culverton Smith is surprised. He obviously expected a different Sherlock, a hectic, confused one, like the tweet suggests.
"Just out of interest, how did you do it?" Sherlock inquires eventually, when it is just the two of them and Smith in the morgue. "How did you kill this woman? There are no external injuries".
"I don't kill people. I am a philanthropist, as many could tell you". He looks down at the body.
"Natural causes. No one could tell where she caught the disease."
And that is all they need.
Really, dangling a piece of information just in front of them, how boring.
But it is easy to tempt him, then.
And a package containing a deadly virus soon arrives.
"Should you pretend to be ill or should I do it?" he asks, "I could die for once, you know."
Sherlock doesn't answer. He just straight away tells Mrs. Hudson that he's not feeling well.
Culverton Smith is in custody three days later, because he couldn't resist the urge to gloat.
Alright, John can understand that. And Sherlock's performance as deadly ill was Oscar-worthy, to be honest.
According to Greg, their latest serial killer is giving up all the information they need.
There is something in what Culverton is doing now, something amazing. Confession. He has never believed in God, but there is something about the idea of confession that fascinates him. Purifying your soul by simply mumbling a few words to a priest. He's been tempted, over the years, just to see how a clergy man would react, considering confession is holy and it would be impossible for him to tell others.
But that wouldn't even be half the fun of letting someone else in on the secret he and Sherlock share. Someone who knows both of them.
Mycroft would be an option, but he's too important to just stop and chat. Mrs. Hudson would never believe him; Molly wouldn't either; but Greg has the instincts of a long-serving police man, plus he is already suspecting something is wrong, if his and Sherlock's observations are correct (and when are they not?)
And after all Culverton left him something very useful...
All the benefits of confession with none of the consequences. He truly is a genius. If only his horizon wasn't as limited as it is; murder is not the be-all, end-all of things, but sadly there's nothing he can do about it now. Maybe if they met earlier...
But then he wouldn't be playing the game he is playing now, and he loves it, so it's all turned out well.
Even now, things still go his way. Sherlock is off to St. Bart's, since all Culverton is doing is confessing and it's terribly boring, and he has all the time in the world to put the kettle on and check for any listening devices.
Just three this time. Mycroft is getting predictable. Maybe he should slip him a hint after all to spice things up. But first, he's going to have some fun.
Greg finally stumbles in after eight pm.
"Six hours of confessions. And he says we still have a long way to go". He buries his head in his hands.
"Imagine if Sherlock hadn't found him. He'd still be out there, leaving bodies in his wake."
"Tea?" he asks.
Greg nods.
By the time he brings him the tea with the memory-deleting drug, he has relaxed considerably. Too bad that is about to change.
The DI accepts the cup gratefully.
As he's drinking his first sip, John says casually, "Then again, I think Sherlock cares more about Moriarty still being alive."
Greg spits some of his drink on the carpet. Mrs. Hudson won't like that. But thanfully she cleans their messes anyway, so he doesn't care too much.
"What do you – he's dead. He shot himself in the head. Sherlock saw it – John, are you feeling alright?"
He smiles. Of course. Something must be wrong with the good doctor if he talks of impossible things, never mind that he usually others six of those before breakfast to stay in practice.
"Oh no. I am very aware that Richard Brook shot himself".
"Rich – that was Moriarty's alias – "
"No. He was an actor Moriarty employed."
Greg looks slightly more relaxed, but also rather confused about his reaction to the news.
"Is Sherlock – "
"He's at St. Bart's. Perfectly safe, for the moment. Of course that cannot be said for – someone else. Someone who's currently with Moriarty".
Greg frowns.
"He has a hostage?"
"I wouldn't call it that. He has a friend over for tea."
John waves towards his cup.
Greg blinks and puts it down. He was thirsty, there's only about half of it left. Good.
"John... how about I call Sherlock..."
It says something about how much he trusts the consulting detective if he is ready to call him because John is acting weird.
"No need. He knows. He has known for a long time."
"Known what?" Greg asks, looking a little pale. Hopefully he won't faint too soon. That would ruin all the fun.
"I am James Moriarty" he says simply.
Greg forces out a laugh.
"Don't be ridiculous. I am pretty sure Mycroft would have noticed."
"He would have if I hadn't made sure no one could since long before I came of age".
Greg is studying him now, trying to understand. That's another reason John picked him. The DI has experience in telling when someone's lying. Especially when he's convinced he knows the person he's talking to.
"So, what should I tell you first? About how I kidnapped a few people and put bombs on them? Or how I was the one responsible for Sherlock faking his death? Or what we have been doing... ever since?"
"You... monster". Greg looks like he might be ill. He believes him, then.
"I thought – I was sure that – " His hand clenches around his cup of tea. "You bastard. You utter bastard".
"Get it out of your system now" John explains pleasantly. "I'd say you'll have forgotten all about this conversation on... five minutes or so."
"What?"
"Culverton Smith's memory drugs" he adds.
Greg's eyes dart to the tea.
"Sugar does disguise the taste quite well, I imagine".
"You... Sherlock..."
"Yes, he has been rather... downcast lately".
"How can you..."
"It's easy. Sherlock has never been a sociopath. I, on the other hand... Oh and remember when you were curious about Harry? I killed her years ago".
Greg launches at him, but the drug is already working, making him dizzy and clumsy. It takes John no effort at all to wrestle him back on the sofa.
"Relax. In a second, I'll be the good friend you've always known me to be".
Greg continues to mumble abuse as he uses consciousness.
His language is rather... colourful.
Huh. John never thought Sherlock meant that much to him.
It takes Greg only a few minutes to wake up.
"John... what..." he mumbles, confused.
"You passed out as soon as you sat down. Interrogating Culverton Smith must have taken a lot out of you".
"I – I suppose". He rubs his eyes.
"Is there still..."
"Your tea's grown cold. I'll get you another cup".
Drug-free, this time. While it would probably be funny to watch Greg repeatedly lose his memory, it would also be highly impractical, plus Sherlock should return soon.
He does just as Greg leaves.
In an unprecedented move, he turns and accompanies him outside. When he returns, he's tense, even angry. The old fire is back in his eyes.
He would be lying if he said he hasn't kind of missed it.
"You drugged him" Sherlock spits. "That was not part of the deal".
"Oh, but how was I supposed to resist? I had to try the drug. You thought the same, once."
"I tested drugs on myself. There's a difference." Sherlock pauses.
"Did you tell him?" he asks eventually.
"Yes, but of course it doesn't matter. Think of the wonderful Miss Smith."
Sherlock throws him a contemptuous look and goes to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
For a second, John contemplates following him. There's something about the spark in his eyes...
But no. Sherlock is certainly expecting it. He doesn't want to be predictable.