John and I are seated upstairs, in the public gallery, waiting for Sherlock to make his statement. He had come from the bathroom only minutes before hand, and wore a distinctly irritated look on his face. I nervously fumble with the hem of my dress, pulling it over my knees. Try as I might, I can't seem to stop my gaze from flickering towards the black-haired man standing directly below the gallery. He looks from left to right, lazily chewing on gum as though he's watching a game of tennis, not standing trial in court. I clutch my phone between sweaty hands, unable to keep them idle for longer than ten seconds. Glancing down at it, I have a sudden, brilliant idea. Shuffling closer to John, I lean in and murmur a question.

'D'you reckon I'd do much damage to his skull if I was to hurl my phone at the back of his head?' I nod towards Moriarty.

John chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. 'I'm afraid that would only result in a night in the cell for you, and a large bump on the head for him.' I huff at his response, but feel my mood lighten slightly.

'Thanks for giving me a giggle, I needed that.' John whispers, as though reading my mind. 'It makes for a very uneasy atmosphere with James Moriarty is in the same room.'

I nod silently, gazing around the courtroom. My eyes come to rest on the jury box. Each member looks on edge – no doubt having been bribed or blackmailed in some way to declare Moriarty innocent.

*Bang* I jump in my seat as the judge hits his gavel against the block. 'The prosecution may call its first witness', he calls Sherlock to the stand. 'Please state your first and last name.'

'You know perfectly well who I am, this is wasting time!' Sherlock calls exasperatedly.

'Your first and last name, Mr Holmes.' The judge repeats sternly.

'Oh for the love of God.' Sherlock snaps. 'Sherlock. Holmes.'

'Thank you.' The judge nods briskly. 'Now, on to business.' He motions for the prosecuting barrister to begin.

'In your own words, Mr Holmes, how would you describe the criminal, Mr James Moriarty?'

'Consulting criminal.' Sherlock corrects her.

'A "consulting criminal?"'

I cringe inwardly, noting that the prosecutor is already off to a bad start. Don't repeat his words, he hates that.

'Yes.' Sherlock glares at the woman.

'Your words. Can you expand on that answer?'

'James Moriarty is for hire.'

'A tradesman?' The prosecutor raises her eyebrows incredulously.

'Yes.'

'But not the sort who'd fix your heating.'

'No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler.' Sherlock quips, earning laughter from some people in the court.

'Would you describe him as –'

'Leading.' Sherlock interrupts the woman.

'What?'

'Can't do that. You're leading the witness.' He looks towards the defending barrister. 'He'll object and the judge will uphold.'

The judge sighs, and wears that face John and I know too well – the "here we go again" face. Apparently, this isn't the first time Sherlock has tried to lead his own evidence in court. "Mr Holmes...' He warns.

'Fine,' the prosecutor re-phrases. 'How would you describe this man – his character?'

'First mistake.' Sherlock raises his eyes and locks his gaze onto Moriarty's. 'James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.' Moriarty subtly nods his head, as if approving of the description. He then turns around and stares directly in my and John's direction, smirking, before winking and facing back around again. I feel John stiffen beside me.

The prosecutor clears her throat awkwardly. 'And how long –'

'No, no, don't do that.' Sherlock briefly shuts his eyes in irritation. 'That's really not a good question.'

'Mr Holmes!' The judge intervenes angrily.

'How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something.' Sherlock adds sarcastically.

I can practically see Moriarty's smug face as he turns and gives a little shrug in Sherlock's direction.

'Miss Sorrel,' The Judge looks at the prosecutor incredulously. 'Are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?'

Sherlock scoffs. 'Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.'

'Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury.'

'Oh, really?' His eyes turn towards the jury box. John and I share panicked glances. Smartarse mode has been well and truly activated.

Sherlock turns the full force of his penetrating gaze onto the twelve people sitting in the jury box and proceeds to deduce them all in a matter of seconds. 'One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City.' He focuses on the short-haired woman at the far left of the front row. She has a notebook resting on the ledge in front of her, and is scribbling away in it. 'The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand.' Her head snaps up in response to Sherlock's deduction, both eyes and mouth disbelievingly wide.

'Mr Holmes!'

Ignoring the Judge, he ploughs on with the spectacle. 'Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits.' He turns to the judge innocently, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 'Would you like to know who ate the wafer?'

The Judge looks fit to explode. 'Mr Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess.' He barks out the last part. Evidently, Sherlock chooses to overlook the threat behind the Judge's words, focussing instead on the acknowledgement of his "intellectual prowess" with a little smile.

I glance at John, who has his head facing skyward and has already begun reciting the Hail Mary's under his breath.

'Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?' The Judge snaps.

Sherlock pauses while he gives the question some thought, then opens his mouth and draws a breath.

Jumping to my feet as I hear the sound the footsteps and rattling keys, I don't know whether to snigger or swoon at the sight of Sherlock in handcuffs. John, having a firmer hold on his emotional stability, just shakes his head wearily.

Sherlock throws the guard a filthy look, who unlocks the cuffs and backs away slowly. He strides towards us, wincing as he rubs away the red cuff marks circling his wrists. Taking his hand, I hold his red, scratched wrist between both of my cold hands – one of the perks of poor circulation; I'm like a walking, talking ice pack. Sherlock smiles gratefully at me, before turning to look at a highly irritated John.

'What did I say? I said, "Don't get clever."'

'I can't just turn it on and off like a tap.' Sherlock sighs, gently tugging his hand from mine. He takes the bag of items from the custody officer, containing his phone and wallet, and begins to walk away, signalling for us to follow.

'Well?' He glances at John.

'Well what?'

'You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish.'

Recognition crosses John's eyes. 'Like you said it would be.' He picks up his pace, trying to match Sherlock's swift strides. 'Moriarty's defendant sat on his backside, never even stirred.'

Sherlock's expression darkens. 'Moriarty's not mounting any defence.'

Much later that evening, back in the flat, I sit perched on the edge of the kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot tea in my hands. I glance at Sherlock, who is lying across the sofa, eyes closed, and his fingers interlaced with one another.

He's been like that for almost five hours now.

John had left just after four o' clock, needing to finish some paperwork at the clinic. In my vain attempt to cheer everyone up and distract myself from having a full-blown meltdown, I had decided to bake some cupcakes.

A commendable feat from the get-go, owing to the impossibly limited selection of ingredients in the fridge and cupboards. Despite that minor drawback, I had actually managed quite well for the first fifteen minutes.

Until I accidentally added sodium sulphate to the mixture instead of flour.

No doubt Sherlock had seen nothing wrong with storing his leftover science powder in a jar clearly labelled FLOUR.

He must really be lost the deep recesses of his mind palace, because he didn't so much as flinch through the hour of (intense) screaming, (intense) swearing, fire alarms, and soapy-smelling smoke.

As promised, I had hurried straight to Sherlock's bedroom once he had received John's call about Moriarty's verdict. It should be any minute now, if my memory served me correctly. I shimmy into the centre of the bed, hugging my legs to my body, and press my forehead into my knees. Not even the deep thrum of Catsby's purring can keep my heart from thumping wildly. I hear Sherlock slam a tray down onto the coffee table, tea pot and cups rattling, as the kettle starts to sing.

'Any minute now… any minute…any –'

'Most people knock.'

My breath hitches in my throat when I hear Sherlock deep voice announcing our visitor's arrival.

'But then again, you're not most people.'

A man responds, and I recognise Moriarty's higher pitch but am unable to make out what he's saying, on account of his annoyingly soft voice. He probably thinks it makes him sound "dangerous".

I mean it does, but that's beside the point.

I slide off the bed and tiptoe to the door, desperate to hear their voices more clearly. As far as I can remember, not much happens at this part of the book, apart from Sherlock and Moriarty roasting each other for a solid fifteen minutes. A thought comes to me, making my heart rate speed up. I glance back at the book shelf in Sherlock's room. What if…

I skim the contents of the shelf, my eyes resting on one book. "The Wizard of Oz".

I smirk. That could be interesting.

No, no. I shake my head sternly. No more messing about without telling Sherlock. I shut my eyes, in hopes of reaching some sort of epiphany or divine inspiration. Come one Aud, think. You can't do anything to him, technically… I open my eyes slowly, an idea forming.

But that doesn't mean I can't scare him.

I rush over to the book case, scouring the shelves. My heart begins to sink as I search. It's not here…

My phone! I grab my handbag and upturn it, snatching my phone as it spills out with all the other crap I keep in there. Unlocking it, I click into the Kindle app. Scrolling through the library, my eyes widen triumphantly.

Gotcha.

I quickly locate the correct chapter, heart thumping wildly. I stop scrolling and glance at the door, thinking. The idea is dangerous, for sure, but it seems like our only hope right now. Yes, there is a fifty per cent chance of it fucking up everything but what's a gamble without risk? I nod my head determinedly. It will work, he will help us. I try to ignore the feeling of unease growing in the pit of my stomach. He has to help us.

Clearing my throat, I hold the phone screen up in front of me and read.

"You know, when he was first captured we thought he might provide us with a singular opportunity to study a pure sociopath," Chilton said. "It's so rare to get one alive. Lecter is so lucid, so perceptive; he's trained in psychiatry... and he's a mass murderer."

The room shifts in front of me, the floral wallpaper flickering to a sort of clinical, white colour. The bed disappears and in its place stands a desk and two chairs. I shake my head, trying to stop the spinning. The room reverts back to its normal state, however this time a tall, well-dressed gentleman stands in centre of it. His eyes widen with recognition, and then narrow irritably.

'Really, Miss Dubois, this couldn't have waited until the morning?' He straightens his suit jacket. 'I was entertaining guests.'

I press my finger to my lips, glancing at the door. I wring my hands together and slowly approach him.

'Please, Dr Lecter,' my voice shakes as I verge on panic. 'You have to help me.'

'...nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three.' Sherlock sits at the edge of his armchair, staring intently at James Moriarty, who is lazily throwing an apple from one hand into the other. Hannibal Lecter and I are waiting outside the door to the living room, listening.

'I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy.' Moriarty's expression darkens. 'Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world with locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey,' He smiles leeringly, 'you should see me in a crown.'

Sherlock's face remains expressionless. 'You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do.'

'And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me.' Moriarty cuts off a piece of apple, skewers it with the penknife and pops it into his mouth. 'Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex.'

I roll my eyes and scoff loudly, before slapping my hand over my mouth. I stare up at Hannibal Lecter, who looks as though someone has just told him Masterchef had been cancelled… or as though he wants to chop me up and sauté me with fava beans.

'Aha!' Moriarty exclaims loudly. 'I was wondering when you'd make an appearance, Audrey.'

'Stay here.' I mouth at Dr Lecter before turning the door handle and shuffling inside the room. Sherlock looks livid.

'I thought I told you to stay inside the bedroom, Audrey.' Sherlock says through gritted teeth. Moriarty grins delightedly.

'Just the person I wanted to see today!' He pats the arm of his chair, motioning for me to sit down. Sherlock rises swiftly from his seat and grabs my hand, pulling me towards the door.

'No, no, no…' I yank my hand out of his. He glares at me. 'I want to stay.' My voice wavers, my newfound determination fading fast. Sherlock's gaze softens, and he nods after a few moments of silence. He leads me to his armchair, and gently pushes me back into it while he stands beside me. I raise my eyes and meet Moriarty's black, soulless gaze. I feel a rush of anger course through me, and I dig my nails into the velvet armchair. Moriarty notices this, smirking.

'Feisty little thing, aren't you?'

I feel Sherlock stiffen beside me, and my anger increases. 'I'm not afraid of you.' I hiss, my voice steady now. 'You don't know what I'm capable of.'

Moriarty leans forwards excitedly. 'Oh, but I do.' He grins threateningly, and settles back into the cushioned chair. 'I did some research, you know. On your… gift.' He examines his nails nonchalantly, as though he was discussing the weather. 'I came across this old Irish legend, about the Tuatha Dé Danann*.' He glances at Sherlock, 'That's Irish for "The Fair Folk", Sherly. Take note.'

'Anyway, it reminded me of a story my own grandmother used to tell me when I was a boy.' He catches my look of disbelief and flashes a shark-like grin. 'Hard to imagine, I know.'

'This particular tale told of the legend of the fierce warrior Cearul*, who fell in love with the beautiful Danú*, goddess of knowledge and power. They had two children – a boy and a girl. The boy took after his father, becoming a brave and powerful fighter. The girl, however, inherited her mother's magic and knowledge.' Moriarty pauses for dramatic effect and watches me closely. 'She had the ability to make words come to life.' He tilts his head to the left. 'Remind you of anyone?'

'That's just folklore!' I spit out, though my heart rate speeds up. 'It's make-believe.' I glance up at Sherlock, for support mostly but also for assurance that Moriarty's story bears no truth in the real world. He keeps his gaze firmly on the Consulting Criminal.

'I'll admit,' Moriarty holds his hands up, 'I too was sceptical at first. But then I found an old newspaper article from the forties, about the disappearance of a Niall Connolly in Meath…' He trails off as the name sparks recognition in my head. I frown at him in disbelief.

'One moment, he was reading a copy of "Animal Farm" in the garden, the next, he had vanished into thin air. Poof.' He clicks his fingers sharply. 'Only to reappear three months later, in the exact same spot, wearing the exact same clothes, and spouting nonsense about talking animals.'

'Now, tell me, Audrey.' Moriarty laces his fingers and leans forward. 'Does that story ring a bell?'

I stare at him, not knowing what to say or think. Licking my lips, I glance up at Sherlock who meets my gaze with the same look of confusion.

'Gr-Grandad Niall…' I whisper, earning a smug sneer from Moriarty.

'It seems as though these magical reading-abilities are hereditary.'

'No… no it can't be. Dad told me Grandad suffered from early dementia, that we couldn't believe anything he said…it's all just nonsense!' My voice rises to a shout, and Sherlock gently places a hand on my shoulder. He shifts so that his body is half-hiding mine.

'What is this about, Moriarty?' His voice is low, and threatening.

'I want to solve the problem – our problem.' Moriarty speaks softly. He directs the next question at me. 'Don't you want to know how he did it?'

I eye him suspiciously. 'Did what?'

Moriarty stands and brushes his jacket down, pocketing his penknife. His black eyes sear into mine. 'How he got back.' The words hang in the air like smoke, lingering. I glance at Sherlock uneasily. The thing we never speak about – the elephant in the room – my eventual return to reality.

Moriarty turns to look at Sherlock. 'It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall.' He whistles a slowly descending note while lowering his gaze towards the floor. 'But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination.' He glowers dangerously at Sherlock, who grinds his jaw.

'Never liked riddles.'

'Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you.' The tension is tangible, it almost heats up the room as Moriarty slowly makes his way to the door. He reaches the handle and turns around. 'I'd keep a weather eye on the horizon, if I were you, Audrey.' Winking slyly, he leaves the room.

I sigh shakily, groan, and rest my head in my hands. 'This is not good.' I sense Sherlock bending down in front of me, and carefully lifts my chin up to meet his eyes.

'Did you know about your Grandfather?'

'No!' I exclaim. 'I had no bloody clue about any of this malarkey until I was gobbled up by a book and spat out into an alternate universe! Oh…Sherlock…' I groan, 'What if he finds my family? Is that even possible? God I've made such a mess of things…' I trail off as my voice begins to show tell-tale signs of bursting into tears, and my eyes begin to prickle.

'Audrey, Audrey… don't be daft.' He soothes me in a typically Sherlock-fashion. Pulling me up from the armchair, he gathers me up into his arms and sits back onto the seat, so that he is cradling me. I twirl a few strands of hair by the nape of his neck, sniffling loudly. 'We'll figure something out.' He holds my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my head upwards, lowering his head and kissing me tenderly. He places another kiss against my forehead. 'We always do.'

I nod my head contentedly and enjoy the warmth of Sherlock's embrace.

That is until I remember the friendly neighbourhood cannibal waiting behind the door to the sitting room.

'Oh shit.'

The door creaks open and a disgruntled looking Hannibal Lecter strides through. 'Indeed.'

Sherlock looks from me, to Dr Lecter, and then back to me. He exhales loudly, and rests his head against the chair, closing his eyes. 'For the love of all that is holy, Audrey.'

'I'm sorry! I didn't know what else to do!'

Dr Lecter, seemingly unperturbed by the not-so-enthusiastic welcome from Sherlock, steps smoothly over the footrest and approaches the widow. Pulling back the curtains, he gazes down onto the street below.

He then sniggers, a sound I never thought I'd hear coming from his esteemed self. Baffled, I hurry over and join him at the window, just in time to see Moriarty slide into the backseat of his sleek, shiny, black car.

'Oi, wot's so funny?' I mumble, glancing up at Hannibal. But the good doctor doesn't have to answer as I catch a glimpse of James Moriarty's furious expression, pale and... was that... fearful? I grin up at Dr Lecter, feeling a glimmer of hope spark in my chest.

'I don't think he likes you very much.'

'Good.' Dr Lecter's deep maroon eyes follow the car until it makes a right at the end of the street. Turning away from the window, he pulls the curtain closed again and smiles dangerously. 'Hell hath no fury...'

Hello my lovely readers!

Gaelic names are notoriously hard to pronounce, even for Irish people like myself, so here's a little guide on how to pronounce the three Irish terms:

1.) Tuatha Dé Danann: Tu-ha-day-dan-an

2.) Cearul: Kar-ul

3.) Danú: Dan-ooh

I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, I'm really sorry for the delay but graduating college with a good degree is my top priority for 2016/2017 so writing (and all other things that bring me happiness) will have to take a back seat for the foreseeable future.

Thank you to everyone for your kind, thoughtful comments! They make me so happy. I always read them when I get bogged down with assignments and exams and start to question my academic abilities hahah.

Feedback is always welcome, feel free to let me know what you liked, or didn't like, about this chapter.

Next chapter should be up by the end of the week, I just need to fine-tune it. Hope everyone has a happy New Year! x