Professor James Moriarty threw the telegram aside in disgust. In truth, he wasn't altogether surprised that the art forgery endeavor had failed. He had planned it as little more than a side job to his British crimes, and his Continental agents were not to the standard of his British ones. Yes, if Mr. Sherlock Holmes had only defeated that one part of his empire, Moriarty would have considered himself still very well off.

But the loss of the bank scheme, under the guise of the red-headed league (a plan so obscure the Professor allowed himself a distinct feeling of pride in coming up with it), represented a major loss to his earnings, and the combination of the two was nothing short of devastating. That was without even mentioning the countless other little ways Sherlock Holmes had made himself a dreadful inconvenience.

Moriarty looked around his university office. The desk was piled high with neat stacks of books and papers. The walls were covered with star charts and mathematical diagrams, all arranged by subject. Yet more bookshelves housed his more obscure texts on physics, mathematics and astronomy. The only thing out of order was the occasional appearance of a scrawled equation on the walls, where Moriarty had been so engrossed in his theories that he simply wrote on the nearest surface. The office contained no records of his criminal empire. The plans and records of his crimes existed solely in his mind.

"Evening, Professor," Colonel Sebastian Moran said as he knocked on the door and entered. Moran was the only exception to Moriarty's well-known rule that nothing criminal was allowed at his university. The faculty and staff all knew that the ex-Army colonel was the Professor's particular friend and no one questioned it. Moriarty rather thought he scared the rest of the staff anyway and was pleased at the effects of this.

"Have you heard of the failure on the Continent?" Moriarty asked by way of greeting.

Moran nodded and grinned, "I sent a message back to them, telling them they'd better get a head start to avoid me."

Moriarty frowned, "Must you give them a warning? I was looking forward to seeing what you did with them."

"Wouldn't be sporting if I didn't, would it, Professor?"

Moriarty sighed. These rules of conduct were so infuriating, but they were ingrained into him so deeply that he didn't question the reasoning. Besides, Moran was a hunter by nature; maybe the chase would make the eventual capture better. As long as Moriarty saw them suffer, he wasn't very particular. About Holmes, though...the situation was fast becoming impossible; Moriarty was hardly able to do anything without finding that infernal detective had tied his hands.

"The time has come, Moran," Moriarty began. "That devilish Mr. Holmes has put himself in my way far too often. We must do something about it."

Moran grinned, "I thought you'd never ask, Professor. He'll be the most difficult prey I've ever gone after."

"We've ever gone after," Moriarty said warningly. "I have a certain interest in seeing his demise, and he has proven such a worthy opponent I should not feel easy unless I was personally responsible for it." He so rarely got involved in the day-to-day operations of his own empire that he was beginning to cultivate an interest in how Moran did what he did.

Moran nodded. "So, are we having a party in Mr. Holmes's rooms tonight?"

Moriarty smiled. "Indeed we are."

They arrived at the Baker Street rooms long after nightfall. It was deserted, as Moriarty had expected. After his last little visit - the warning he had felt he was required to give to a man whose intellect was nearly the equal of his own - he had expected the detective to leave immediately. Obviously he had told his landlady to do the same. Doctor Watson, who was Moriarty's best leverage against the detective, had not lived here in several years. Still, there were trusted agents watching his house, and Moriarty knew that he could have Mr. Holmes dancing at his feet merely by threatening the doctor. But it would be so much easier if he didn't have to resort to that. Relying on emotional attachments to solve a problem was so...unreliable.

The room, Moriarty saw as he surveyed it, was quite cluttered. There were papers and remnants of cigarettes everywhere. Books lay strewn about the place. He sniffed in derision. How such a disorganized person could lay claim to the brightest mind in England besides his own was a conundrum.

"Messy fellow, isn't he?" Moran remarked, entering the room after Moriarty. He walked around the room, picking things up and putting them back in deliberately the wrong places. Then, thinking of something, he asked, "Where's the violin? It would serve him right if we destroyed something he's so attached to."

Moriarty had not even had to look around to determine that the detective's violin was missing. "He probably sent it to his brother, along with anything else he truly needs. Make a note of that, would you, Moran? Mycroft Holmes holds the power of government in his hands; we shall have to do something about him or we will never have a moment's peace."

"Whenever you say the word, Professor," Moran said, lighting a match. He handed it to Professor Moriarty. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Moriarty took the match and grinned as he gently threw it on the settee. He watched in quiet satisfaction as the flames grew to encompass the dining table and chairs by the window. Moran lit another match, letting it fly in the opposite direction so flames grew over the writing desk next to the fireplace. Moriarty stood there, enjoying the heat from the rapidly growing fire and the satisfaction of knowing that he was responsible for this destruction.

"Come on, Professor," Moran said. "We should be out of here before the fire company gets here."

"Yes, of course," Moriarty said, following the Colonel out the door, down the steps and through the back door. He could see the flames licking through the windows, and while he knew it wouldn't be long before the fire was extinguished, he smiled to himself. A nice little warning that next time, it would not only be Holmes's property that would burn at the hands of Professor James Moriarty.