*Recap of previous chapter* - Moriarty divulges final plan to Moran (breaking into the Tower of London/ Paradise Lost). Sherlock, John and Audrey solve case of kidnapped banker. Audrey is unhappy with how the tabloids portray her, so Sherlock cheers her up. ;)

Also, I didn't have enough time to proof-read so apologies for any spelling/grammatical errors.

'Twelve across; six words – "A thieving bird; member of the crow family"'.

I sit cross-legged at the foot of John's armchair, cradling a sleeping Catsby in my lap and poring over the crossword puzzle in the Independent. John scratches the top of his head absentmindedly with the plastic end of his pen.

'A cuckoo?' He suggests. Sherlock emits a loud snigger from the other side of the room.

'Member of the crow family, John.'

John scowls. I twist around to frown at Sherlock. 'Well, he got the thieving part correct – Cuckoos steal other bird's nests, right?' Sherlock bows his head in agreement. 'And then they lay their own eggs in it', I continue, 'so when the other birds return, they find an ugly-ass, dodo looking baby instead of their own. Dirty bastards…" I grumble underneath my breath.

'That's some top-class David Attenborough stuff right there, Aud.' John teases, grinning widely as I give him a playful smack across his shin. Catsby lets out a chirp of annoyance at the sudden movement. 'At least I knew a cuckoo isn't a member of the crow family!'

Sherlock snickers behind his newspaper, and peers out over the top half. 'The answer is a magpie, by the way.'

John and I both let out a loud 'Oh my gaahhhd!', and shake our heads in disbelief. 'Right, I'm embarrassed now.' I make a cringing face. 'And here I was thinking I was pretty adept with crosswords.'

A noisy 'ding!' fills the room as Sherlock's phone receives a message. Not appearing to be making any moves to retrieve it from the kitchen table, I sigh and scoop Catsby up into my arms as I stand. 'No, no it's no problem, I'll get it.'

Grabbing the mobile and taking a quick glance to see who it is (I was never one for confidentiality), my stomach just about plummets to my feet when I read the screen.

'Come and play. Tower hill. Jim Moriarty x.'

Heart thumping widely, I wet my lips and clear my throat. 'Sh-Sherlock…'

Sherlock once again peers lazily over the newspaper, then snaps it shut and jumps from his chair when he sees my expression. 'What is it Audrey? What's wrong?'

'It's Moriarty.' I whisper. John's face pales.

'He's back.'

Sebastian Moran sits in the surveillance room of Moriarty's estate. Five large screens occupy the wall in front of him, and spread across each screen is an identical image – Jim Moriarty, in handcuffs, (and is that a snap-back?), being escorted from the Tower of London by armed police.

'That mad bastard.' He whispers to himself, leaning forward in the swivel seat in anticipation.

Not that Moran has anything to worry about, of course, knowing that the entire break-in was orchestrated by Moriarty himself and a few accomplices. Moran had insisted on taking part in the elaborate, staged robbery, as he had done in every single project Jim pursued since they first started working together. But the consulting criminal had other plans for his head honcho.

No, Sebastian was to stay at the house and keep surveillance over Miss Dubois and her Baker Street buddies. So far, he could detect no movement from outside the door of 221b. (Unfortunately, Sherlock had destroyed the camera placed on the mantelpiece inside the flat, having sensed the room was bugged the minute he stepped through the door. How he detected the camera in the first place, Moran has no idea.) He switches channels so that the screens all show footage corresponding to the camera set up at the top of a lamppost on the street opposite the front door of 221b. Still nothing.

Moran sighs, boredom setting in. He still doesn't understand why Moriarty has to go to such lengths just to acquire one girl. Then again, Moran rarely understands the motives behind Moriarty's madness. If it had been his decision, he'd have just swiped the girl from her bed in the dead of night. Easy peasy.

If it's so easy peasy, why did you let her get away the last time? A cold, condescending voice echoes in his mind. Moran scowls darkly and rubs the top of his head, his fingers ghosting over the small bump she left after administering the surprisingly forceful head-butt.

He is pulled from his thoughts when a sudden flurry of commotion outside 221B appears across screen five. The tall detective and his side-kick hail a taxi, hopping inside before the car has completely stopped. Moran leans forward excitedly.

Where is the little witch? If she's left at the apartment on her own, then surely I could just nab her and bring her –

His stream of thoughts are cut short, however, when the small, dark-haired girl comes stumbling out the door, red scarf trailing behind her. Moran slumps back into his chair, his expression souring.

I didn't train in the Academy for fifteen years just to sit on my arse all day and stare at computer screens.

'Ready?' Sherlock asks softly as he opens the bedroom door. I look at him through the dressing mirror, worry etched across my eyes.

'Can you zip me up, please?' I had opted for a simple black sheath dress, forgoing the more elaborate garments I had acquired through mostly Jane Austen novels. I had stopped reading out party dresses and ball gowns after Moriarty discovered my ability. It all seemed a bit silly and childish now, in light of things.

Sherlock gently pushes my hair to one side, and pulls the zip into place. I shiver slightly, both from nerves and the feeling of his fingers brushing across my skin. He bends down slightly, and puts his mouth to my ear.

'Relax. Everything will go to plan.' He places a soft kiss on my neck, just below my ear, and steps back.

I sigh unevenly, too anxious to enjoy the rare moment of intimacy. Turning around, I place my hands on his chest and straighten out his lapel, my gaze meeting his unblinking one. 'Sherlock… I have a bad feeling about this.'

Of course I have a bad feeling. This very moment is the catalyst for Moriarty's grand finale; his swan song. And I have no other option but to keep the two people it's going to affect most in the dark.

'Don't…don't say anything to aggravate him today, please?'

Sherlock keeps his gaze locked on mine, but his eyes soften. He prises my hands off his lapel and holds them tight between his. 'You don't need to worry about me, Audrey. I've got everything under control.' He grins, and then adds, 'I'll just be myself.'

I roll my eyes and tsk loudly. 'Well that's what I'm worried about.'

'I promise, no… how did you phrase it… smartarse comments.' I smile reluctantly with him. His expression then becomes slightly sterner, and he strikes a bargain of his own. 'And you have to promise me you'll not leave John and Graham's-'

'It's Greg, Sherlock.'

'Whatever. You're not to go anywhere without them.'

'I don't need a chaperone.' I huff exasperatedly.

'When the world's most dangerous consulting criminal is after you, a chaperone is a necessity, I'm afraid.' He retorts in a low voice. 'You will be sitting in the upstairs gallery with John, and when the trial is over, wait for me by the entrance and I'll come find you.' His eyes sear into mine, as though he's trying to ingrain the instructions into my brain.

I open my mouth to reply that I have zero intention of being within a five mile radius of Moriarty, but words seem to fail under the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. So I just nod my head, and smile meekly.

'Good girl.' He bends down, places a swift kiss on my parted lips, and briskly strides from the room.

I wonder if I'll ever get over that, I think to myself amusedly, brushing my tingling lips. You're going to have to learn sooner or later, a sad voice replies in the back of my mind.

I hadn't given much thought to what would happen if (or when) I have to leave him. It gave me that odd, sickly swooping feeling I sometimes got in my stomach when I would think about a presentation, or a particularly difficult exam I would have to sit in university. I know it's going to happen, and the sooner I own up to it the better, yet I push it further to the back of my mind. I have an annoying knack for avoiding reality; choosing instead to embrace and immerse myself in the world of fantasy and make-believe.

Adjusting the Alice-band keeping the stray hairs back from my face, I study my appearance. Do I look different? My hair had certainly grown – an alarming sign of just how long I'd been in this world for. When I had first arrived, it barely brushed my shoulders. Now it hangs in long waves, the ends curling down the centre of my back.

My face looks thinner; no doubt thanks to Sherlock's irregular eating habits rubbing off on me. Living alone definitely had its downsides – one of which was the tendency to overload the shopping trolley with biscuits and sweet treats, in the event I had 'visitors' calling around.

I slip on a pair of black heels, deciding that the little bit of extra height would improve my wavering self-confidence. Grabbing my coat and scarf, I pet a snoozing Catsby on the head before leaving the room.

John glances up from his mobile phone as I enter the kitchen, a smile softening his frown. 'You look lovely, Aud.' He turns to face Sherlock. 'Doesn't she, Sherlock?'

My eyes narrow suspiciously. I know what you're up to.

Sherlock throws John a scathing look, but nods in agreement. 'Like she always does.'

If my heart could talk, it would probably make a pathetic little wheezing sound at his sincerity.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the slightly awkward atmosphere in the kitchen. He answers within the first second.

'Hello? Yes. Yes. Good.'

He ends the call abruptly and looks at John and I. 'Lestrade's outside. Let's go.'

John leads first, hurrying down the stairs to make sure the coast is clear. 'There's quite a lot of press outside!' He calls up from the bottom floor. A dark look crosses Sherlock's eyes, before he closes them, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'Right.' He quips. 'Let's get this over and done with.' Holding the door open, he motions for me to walk ahead of him.

'Stay behind me, Audrey.' John mumbles as he braces himself, and then opens the front door.

It's sheer mayhem on the street – police officers struggle to keep the large crowd of photographers and journalists at bay, who immediately begin shouting out questions left, right and centre.

'Over here, Mr Holmes! To your right, Mr Holmes!'

There are a few comments aimed at me. A tall man with broad, hulking shoulders leers in my direction. 'Nice big smile for me, darlin'.'

I feel Sherlock's hand press firmly into my lower back, closing the distance between us. The police officers manage to clear a pathway to the squad car, where we are met by an anxious and irritated Lestrade.

'Bloody media rats.' He curses them under his breath, and holds the car door open for us. I clamber inside after John, desperate to be rid of the jeers and bright flashes.

'Out of the frying pan…' Sherlock mumbles beside me.

And into the fire.

A/n: I know it's a bit shorter than usual, but I wanted to split the trial chapter into two because SO MUCH happens.

Thank you so, so much for all the love and support! I know, I know, I am the world's WORST writer when it comes to updates. This year has been incredibly busy, and it doesn't seem like it's slowing down any time soon.

I read every single one of your kind, positive comments and I think how lucky I am to have such a gorgeous, genuinely nice bunch of readers following my story. Please know that, while I don't have the time to reply to every single review, they are SO appreciated. This story would be nothing without you guys, you are the best kind of motivation.

From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU.

I hope you enjoy part one of the Trial, any thoughts, questions or feedback are welcome!

P.s In case you are wondering what 'The Academy' is, it's a fabricated school for assassins.

Peachy, isn't it?