"You're Mr. M," John realized, thinking aloud.

"I'm the host, yes." He grinned at them both. "How are you enjoying the party?"

James and John both politely smiled, nodding. "It's good," James offered up. "The gin is... strong."

"I'd hope so. I wouldn't be a good host if it weren't." He shifted minutely to look at John, who was slowly leaning toward a plate of crackers and cheese. "And John," the man prompted, the slightly unnerving grin still plastered across his face as he neared closer. John didn't know what to make of it, freezing in place with a nervous smile.

Somehow, Moriarty could keep on chewing his gum through that face-splitting Cheshire grin, extending an arm to John and ignoring James completely. "We should walk, John," he suggested.

John blinked a few times, processing, and then slowly stood without taking Moriarty's hand. It suddenly came to mind that Moriarty used John's first name, and that John couldn't recall mentioning it today. Ever.

Moriarty began to walk, his hand pressing on John's back. John felt each fingertip individually as Moriarty steered him away from James, nearer to the darker edge of the casino, by the bathrooms and the bar. John tried to look back at James to see what on Earth was happening, but Moriarty kept on pushing him forward, trying to prompt conversation. "Your friend is very handsome. What's his name?"

"James," John answered. He smiled, somewhat dubious, then nodded. "He is. Quite."

"I do love him in a suit," Moriarty continued, walking towards a group of people donned in tailored tuxedos. "Even you were a bit flustered. Don't lie," Jim laughed amiably. "Do you often attend these gatherings?"

The noise in the room seemed to swell around them as they neared to bar, which stank of beer and paper money. John was lost. He could only manage a "not much" before Moriarty began speaking, his eyes sparkling with something John couldn't identify. "Why not?"

John couldn't see anything. It was too dim, and the air was too thick with smoke. "Oh, er, the fiancée," John said, his voice lost. He could feel a cool hand on his back, pressing him forward, but he was looking for a way out. His eyes surveyed the room. All the exits he thought he had seen previously had now disappeared. Moriarty's voice seemed to only get higher and higher, and his body was smothering John, crowding him. Suddenly, it was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out. John swayed. He could only hear static and see spotted darkness, his entire body disconnected.

"I hear that you're quite the artist, Doctor Watson," John heard. "I'm very lucky to have you."

John chuckled nervously, questions throbbing deep in his mind. "I swear," he said, trying to keep his tone modest. "I'm not as good as people say."

Jim giggled, then. A feminine little giggle, that may as well have been accompanied with a twirl of hair. "You're a very funny man, Dr. Watson. Great liar. No wonder Mr. Holmes... well." Jim picked some food off a spare platter, and bit down on it, talking through food. "Anyway."

Something jumped in John's stomach, then. Something with claws.

Did I just hear that correctly?

"So, John, fancy giving our casino one of your works?" Moriarty asked.

"I-"

"I really do appreciate it, John. Your exhibit in Bristol's Art Gallery earlier this year was absolutely magnificent."

"It wasn't, uh," John stammered. "Wasn't that good." John yanked his tie loose so he could get a bit more air, and it dangled uselessly from his neck, half done up. He was starting to perspire from his upper lip, so he reached up and wiped wetness away.

"Don't be so unbearably modest, dear!" Jim led them both into a hot, cologne rich crowd, filled with black and white tuxedos and champagne. John could see the shape of a woman and a man by the restrooms, her figure clad in a skimpy dress, his head bent back as she did something implicit with her right hand. John shivered as Moriarty brought him back to attention with: "Want a drink?"

"Ah, um."

Jim turned to the bartender, his soft Irish lilt ringing through the surrounding sounds. "A sherry for my friend, here, Dan." He turned back to John quite suddenly, his face brightened, voice cheery. "I just love talking to my guests. May I introduce you?"

John nodded, even though he had no clue what was happening. James pointed over to a man, tall and burly, in a pinstripe suit, apparently not intent on actually introducing John to anyone. "Like him. He's an accountant, and incredibly good at it. Good enough, in fact, that he earns six hundred. A month."

John's eyes flickered to Moriarty's, caught at attention. His mouth set as he spoke. "How is that… how's that even possible?"

"It isn't," Moriarty replied, still bizarrely smiling. "Which is why we tell everyone that he's an accountant."

John abruptly stopped walking, looking over at Moriarty with a grave face. The man practically scoffed at the sudden halt. "How about Lawrence Hudson, then," he continued, his arm coming up to motion at a man that strangely resembled a grasshopper. "He's a restaurant tycoon. He earns one thousand a month."

"Jesus, how?"

"I wouldn't know!" Moriarty said indignantly. His mouth eased into a languid, full toothed grin as he smoothed his hands down his tuxedo. The barkeep suddenly placed a glass of sherry next to him, and he handed it off to John. "On the house," Moriarty said.

John downed it in three gulps. Immediately, he was hit by the effects, his body slumping as everything seemed to slide out of place, like unfocused binoculars. "Thanks," John hiccuped.

"It's my pleasure," Moriarty said, placing an arm around John's shoulders. "Anyway. Oh, there's Kevin. Shall we say hello?"

John squinted, trying to see the man Moriarty was talking about.

"He's with a lady. Oh, my. I haven't seen him with a woman since" - Moriarty's voice got low, and he hissed the words out - "his wife divorced him. Poor man."

John nodded blankly, a man coming into view. "Jim!" he heard. The voice was strange. Garbled. "This party... I haven't seen the likes of this since 1932."

John didn't even know where the voice was coming from. It seemed to be everywhere. He wanted to hide.

"Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Julia. Julia, meet Mr. James Moriarty."

"Is this your girlfriend, Kevin?"

"Ha," a pause, then. "I wouldn't say that, Jim," the man joked. Sudden nausea from this conversation made John bite back a moan. He swore he caught a glimpse of Julia's pink garters when the man Jim was speaking to mauled her ass with one hand.

Wait.

That couldn't have just happened.

Did Jim just roofie him?

"Have fun," John heard. "Kevin, Julia." He felt their presences leave as a space opened up near him.

"Julia was quite lovely, wasn't she?"

"What?" John looked up from the floor.

"She frequents here often. I never asked what her going rate was. Do you want me to find out?"

John blinked blurriness from his eyes, uncertain if Moriarty was kidding. "I'd rather not," John stated.

"Claudia also comes around a lot. She's quiet. She's carrying a child, so most don't bother her as much as, say, Harriet."

John's eyes snapped to Moriarty's face, suddenly alarmed.

"Harriet Wenken?" Moriarty offered. "Very good at her job."

John stood taller, resisting Moriarty's pressure against his back. Jim began to speak again. "It's flattering how many people turned up. I wonder if Samuel came."

"Huh?"

"He's been busy settling a lawsuit against his company for selling over-the-counter medication for recreational use. Hardly deserving of a lawsuit, I say." Jim patted a man on the back as he walked by ("Hi, Damien!"). "And let's not delve into Sally. She's all the rage. I mean, no one knows how her cup size grew quite so fast so quickly. Larry said she had surgery, but she swears that isn't true. Strangely enough, I believe her. And that man over there" - Moriarty pointed - "he has another kid, but we don't mention that, lest he try to jump off the eleventh balcony of his high rise again; hey, Travis, how are you doing? Paul is waiting for you by the gramophone."

John could barely keep up. Through all the gossip, all he could hear was the thrum of his pulse, threading in his neck. "Things lately. So dramatic. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Mm," John let out, unable to keep track of the words that were coming out of Moriarty's mouth.

"Honestly, I don't understand why people just can't abide by the law anymore. It's probably this mid-war buzz."

Suddenly emboldened by alcohol and simmering anger, John hummed out: "I don't understand why you can't mind your own business."

Moriarty was completely unperturbed. "It's a fault of mine. I'm a very curious man, Doctor." His hand led John from the bar to the nearest poker table, pulling out a chair for John to sit in. He sat in the chair adjacent to John as John looked across at him, lost.

He seemed to know everything about everyone, and he was dropping his knowledge left and right; a trail of breadcrumbs. He knew John's name, and his artwork, and he seemed to know other things, too. Darker things. He could let something slip from his lips about John that could never be taken back. What if he said the wrong thing to the wrong person?

Moriarty quickly arranged the poker table, snapping over a card sharp.

"Care to play a game, John?" he asked, gesturing to an empty seat.

"I-"

"Sit down." Moriarty did not smile, this time. His eyes were cold. "I insist."

***

As soon as the dealer started setting up the table, it was as if the whole world quieted to listen. The nearby conversations went to a standstill, and people began petering in to take a look at the game, avoiding Moriarty's side of the table.

One man even sat down, greeting Moriarty and John with a friendly grin. He gave the crowd behind John a small wave, almost bewildered at the cloud of varying men that had their eyes glued to the match. "So," he prompted. The man had a soft, gentle timbre. "I'm Isaac," he said to them.

Moriarty's obsidian eyes flickered over his new opposition, gauging him, sizing him up. "Hello, Isaac," he said, obviously annoyed that he decided to join the game uninvited. He clicked the c with clear repugnance. Isaac swayed back a bit.

Moriarty's voice had lost its syrupy tone and had now transitioned into something much lower, more concentrated. The sparkle he had in his eyes when John and he had first met had now dulled, and the overhead fluorescent was casting dark shadows below the sharp jut of his brow.

John swore he heard wagers being made against him, the soft clicks of shillings being handed off. John resisted the urge to turn to the men behind him and snap out something ill mannered as they began to murmur quietly, placing bets. Instead, John just sank deeper into his seat, playing with his poker chips. He tried to even his breathing, despite the fact that all he could hear was the dissent of the people behind him. He groaned inwardly and bent his head back into the chair.

Two more blonde men sat down, talking amiably to each other. They seemed to be twin brothers, their speech in sync, as if part of the same chord. They readied themselves with the same movements. Moriarty didn't seem to react kindly to that either, staring one of the twins down, as if to scare them away.

"Ready, lads?" The dealer smiled at the five of them, showing off metal-capped teeth. John nodded inattentively. Moriarty was still chewing his gum. The flavor would have been long gone by now.

The dealer begrudgingly ignored the table's indifference to him and passed out two cards to each player, humming some nondescript tune that was playing on the gramophone. John counted out ten cards passed out in total, and then the three community cards were shown in the middle of the table.

"Hmmmmm," Moriarty hummed. "Hm, hm, hm. Quite surprising," he mused, "indeed, indeed." His eyes flickered across John's face, as if he were trying to intimidate John into folding. His cards were shit, anyway.

"Fold," John announced blankly, throwing his cards in and sitting back, a hand supporting his chin.

Moriarty somehow had a self-satisfied smile on his face, like the one John had seen when they first started talking. "Fun, isn't it?" Moriarty droned, his tone nonchalant.

John looked up from the community deck. "Hmm?"

"Poker," Moriarty answered. His features seemed to be locked into place, frozen, a smile painted crudely on. He just wouldn't stop grinning. "It's very fun, isn't it?"

John smiled warmly, despite himself. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he replied. "Yeah, I... I started playing in, uh... primary? Yeah, it must have been primary."

"Primary, John?" Moriarty questioned. "You were an early learner."

"Yeah," John admitted. "I had a lot of practice. My dad - he was a real junkie, back in the day."

"And 'the day' was...?" Moriarty trailed.

"Back in the mid twenties, about."

"The twenties," Moriarty mused. "I was a child in the twenties, living out my summers in France. I was just thinking about the rates on my summer home the other day," Moriarty said, pushing in a couple chips. "Raise to twenty quid."

Isaac's head shot up. "You've been to France?"

"I lived in France for five years. Quite the place, Nice."

"How is it? What does it look like?"

"The ocean is the most vibrant shade of cerulean," Moriarty stated, smiling again. "It's very beautiful."

"We went to London for vacation," John half-muttered.

Moriarty seemed to ignore John completely, continuing to speak. "The taxes on my little getaway are going up extremely, extremely high. It is so hard to even get to France, nowadays. They don't want tourists flocking about. I mean - I certainly can't condemn them, but..."

Moriarty's voice soon died away as John spaced out, the only sensation that he felt being the click of his plastic poker chips. He looked up and around, trying to survey the room through the congregation of men surrounding his seat. He didn't think it was possible for the room to get any more hazy, but the smoke was starting to get opaque. There would be a pitchy film on every beer glass by tomorrow if the smoke wasn't somehow gotten rid of.

John's eyes caught onto the hot red glow of a cigar at one of the other poker tables, being smoked at intervals. He couldn't make out the owner of the cigar; he was covered by someone's left leg. He could see long, pale fingers, though, holding the cigar upright. And maybe the tips of raven, curly hair...

John looked away before Sherlock could notice him staring, heart hammering like a worn out drum.

"And what do you think, Doctor?"

Moriarty looked expectantly at John, eyes almost knowing. John shuddered his way through a breath. His hand tightened.

"Sorry," he stammered. "I wasn't... I was distracted." He fought his hardest not to look over at Sherlock, who was now very not-hidden by anyone's leg. "Apologies."

Moriarty nodded, slow, a smug smirk cracking through. "I was just talking about my family, John."

"Hmm, well." John nodded, his face growing slightly hot. "Who's in your family?"

The dealer showed the turn. Moriarty's face didn't change at all as he went all in, pushing in the remainder of his chips. Isaac called. Languidly, Moriarty replied to John's question. "I have a brother."

"Really," a twin said, his tone cynical. John looked over to him. His features were cold and blank.

"I'd do anything for my brother," Moriarty hummed. His voice seemed to be getting lower and lower. There was an eerily sinister tint to his words. "Wouldn't you?"

One of the twins started rapidly blinking, fidgeting around in his chair, and the other one rested a hand on his leg, apparently staring Moriarty down with an angrily calm look. "Ron," John heard the agitated one say, pleading in his eyes. They stared at each other for a few tense moments, speaking with looks.

John felt a comment bubble up in his throat. "Hey, er, sorry, but it's your turn."

"Ron," as he was referred to, gave John a passionless look.

Then he flipped over his cards with a flourish, folding right then and there. And it was funny - because he had an astounding hand. John gave him a look of disembodied shock, tracing the twins' bodies as they both stood, as if trying to make them realize what an enormous mistake they just made. One looked frightened, and the other looked entirely indignant, shooting dangerous glares at no person in particular.

As they left, the entire room seemed to follow the duo with their eyes until the exited from the room, as if they all could sense something a bit off.

John couldn't help but wonder what Moriarty could have been implying.

Was it a subliminal threat? Was Moriarty threatening them, right in front of everyone's noses?

Against his own judgement, John's eyes involuntarily flickered to Sherlock's shape, almost to reassure himself that they were both still safe. He nearly looked away.

Nearly, oh so close.

But then he was seeing him and then he was noticing him and it was suddenly striking how very beautiful he was. As if John was rediscovering him. Like he was finding him for the first time in his life.

John tried to look away, again, and again, and again - but Sherlock had this expression on his face: his brows were knotted, and his lips pressed tightly together, a hand running repeatedly through his curls in an attempt to calm himself down. He had a look of concentration so serious that John found it almost laudable.

He couldn't look away.

Just then, Moriarty and Isaac showed their hands.

Isaac's cards were ludicrous. Moriarty dragged in poker chips by the bucketful, his expression strangely dissatisfied, as if it weren't enough.

Isaac, no longer having any money, shrugged with unconcern at John, like it was no big deal that he just lost three hundred pounds. He got up and trodded away with seemingly unbroken spirits, his head up and his hands in his suit pockets.

After a bout of murmuring from the crowd, the second betting round began. John reluctantly gave Sherlock one last look before collecting two more cards and peeling the corners off the table so he could see them.

A nine and a ten of hearts.

The community cards were a nine of spades, a three of clubs, and a jack of hearts. John quickly arranged some statistics and calculated that at best, he could have a full house - but that was highly, highly unlikely. At least he'd be able to get a pair if all else didn't work out.

"Check," John said warily. He felt his eyebrows knotting from the new weight of being alone, as if time were tightening and becoming sharper with the reality of the situation pressing against John's consciousness. Moriarty had apparently blackmailed two players and had made another one broke, and John had a sinking feeling that he would get no special treatment.

Moriarty simmered a couple of seconds.  "Fifty," he offered, pushing in some chips, his face suspiciously blank.

The dealer flipped over one more card, a three. John looked up at Moriarty to somehow get a clue what was happening - but Moriarty's face was undecipherable. John was forced to call his bet, still unsure of who had the upper hand.

After a long, cold silence, Moriarty prompted, "And how's your family, John?" although he sounded pretty uninterested. John kept his response blank and to the point as Moriarty raised to one hundred fifty.

"Good, good."

"And your sister?" Moriarty asked, faking an innocent tone.

John's heartbeat slowed down as Moriarty pressed on with a high pitched lilt. "I know she's being going through a bit of a rough patch, lately."

He slowly levelled his gaze at Moriarty.

"You don't know anything about my sister," he said, his tone edging on a threat.

Moriarty now had a little self-satisfied smile settling over his features. John fought hard to keep his pulse under control.

He was a doctor and a marksman. He knew how to suture a bleeding heart. He knew how to crack a shot from fifty meters away. He knew how to stay steady, dead still, and even as he struggled to compose himself his face never faltered.

But how? How had he known about Harry?

The dealer flipped over the river, and it wasn't a ten, but yet another three. A three meant his best hand was a two pair. A three meant that he was going to lose the pot; lose all he'd put on the table.

Suddenly, he couldn't meet Moriarty's pitch black gaze. His hand was digging into itself so hard that his fingernails could cut into his palm. He barely steeled himself, smiling humorlessly. His teeth were starting to grind.

"Ooh hoo, John, didn't like that, did you?" Moriarty said, his voice somehow taking back on that syrupy self-congratulation that John could not bear, not even for half a moment.

"Shut up," John bit, unable to meet Moriarty's eyes, "and play your hand."

"Temper, darling."

There was still a chance that Moriarty had worse cards than him. Maybe he was so annoyingly chipper because he was faking it. Maybe he was bluffing. The only way that John could come out of this with all of his money was if he bluffed it. He had to gather his confidence and let the constant dissonance of the men behind him wash over him and out to sea; he had to concentrate on not shaking.

To calm down, he kept his eyes fixed on the table, on a blue poker chip that signified ten pounds, and then pushed in most of his chips. "Raise to four fifty," he said, silently praying that Moriarty wouldn't call his bluff. He prayed to whoever would listen - Allah, Jesus, Buddha - while miserably attempting to stare his opponent down, trying to intimidate Moriarty into folding.

Moriarty seemed to lean closer. John was hanging onto every breath he let out, praying onerously, without abandon.

He said: "Call."

John frowned, and Moriarty tsked, imitating a false sense of partiality. "Shouldn't have done that," Moriarty sing-songed in a high pitch. "I can always tell when people are lying to me."

What he said meant nothing. He was taunting him. John's eyes seemed to go dark as he glared at Moriarty, still as a statue. They stared at each other for a long time, John's composure thinly veiling his anxiety. Under the table, he felt his hand tighten up, the tendons starting to freeze and become hot with tension.

He heard people swear behind him, milling around shamefully, cursing their luck. John forcefully released his fist and flipped over his cards in one quick motion, revealing a mediocre hand.

Everyone that was watching the game began to murmur amongst themselves, tension rising in the crowd as Moriarty began to flip over his hand, unbearably slow.

John immediately knew he lost. From the noises the crowd was making - from the smirk that Moriarty couldn't hold back. He knew because he could read every single person in this room except for the goddamn man that was holding the winning cards.

He had two threes; a three pair. He won with a three pair.

The room was starting to feel very, very tight. He couldn't allow himself to react, or else the tightness would turn into suffocation, and he'd be a fish floundering on a boat deck. John glared at Moriarty's beaming face until his eyebrows started to feel terse, aching, even through the sound of the dealer, announcing a ten minute break.

"Hey," John heard, under the soft current of elated speech behind him. "Hey, John."

John reluctantly pulled away to see James, whose baby blue eyes were blown out with a mixture of alcohol and anxiety. "I am never ever coming here again," he hissed. "Don't you dare drag me back, unless you want to end up having one less testicle."

"Why are you over here?" John snapped, turning his torso to James.

"Because you're getting your ass handed to you."

"Thank you for that scintillating peek at your infamous all-American intelligence. Should I be taking notes?"

"No," James answered, quite serious. "But I'll give you a tip."

"Anything would help, yes."

"Next round, don't talk. Don't speak, don't breathe, don't blink. You always beat me when you're silent." James added, "It's honestly very scary. I have nightmares about it."

John allowed himself to nod, thinking. "You're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm fucking right, I'm always right. Jesus, John. Pull yourself together."

John shot James his best deadpan.

"That's it," James said, voice filled with new conviction. He jabbed his finger into John's chest, stumbling. "Right there. That's the killing look. You're going to win wars with that look, my friend."

"Alright," John said, lightening up again. His heart was starting to hammer, the tightness of the room no longer choking, but driving.

"You're going to win your money back."

John nodded and gulped. "Yeah, definitely."

***

It wasn't as if he could mess this up. Because what he was feeling, now, it was something more certain than anything he'd experienced today. It felt as if he couldn't lose his cool; not because he wasn't nervous, but because he was locked in this sort of post-high that prevented him from expressing any vulnerability. All of it had been exhausted. Now he was concentrated tirelessly on getting his money back and running his opponent into the ground.

John kept his eyes blank and unreadable as he pushed forward the small blind, staring coolly at Moriarty. His pale skin had almost become translucent under the sheen of his brow. It seemed as if he was trying to figure out John's new strategy, rolling his shoulders and chewing his gum more vehemently. Everything that he was was unsettling.

The gramophone soon caught up to the vibe of the room, switching from a showy swing tune to something much more slow and firm and eerily fitting.

John could hear a violin amidst the saxophone.

He smirked and put up forty pounds. A small flicker of surprise lit in Moriarty's eyes, as if he weren't expecting the smugness that John now was taking into stride.

The thing was that John's hand wasn't that good, but he had to carry it like he had the best cards in the room. He couldn't win if he bluffed. He had to believe he had the winning hand.

John peeled his cards off of the table and looked at what they were. He had a two and a two of clubs and diamonds, and the community cards hardly corresponded: a nine, a four, and a queen.

I have the winning hand, he had to keep telling himself. I have the winning hand.

Moriarty had to read that on him; in his eyes, in his posture, in the line of his jaw - and the only way that was going to happen was if John fooled himself as well.

The calm settled, like the sea after a storm. Everything just seemed to slow down. And then they were playing in an arid silence that made them thirst for victory, chips clicking, feet tapping, chests seeming to rise and fall over the span of hours.

"Raise to one hundred," Moriarty drawled, pushing in some chips. He started to chew on his gum a bit harder, as if he were stressed, although his eyes gave nothing away at all.

Then, the dealer flipped over another community card, announcing the river. It was a two. Another two.

John fought a smile, lest it give away his position. "Call," he said, tempering himself. The violin song was starting to swell up triumphantly, singing out a G chord that made winning the match seem a little less than impossible. If he could make Moriarty go all-in, then he would get all of it back and more.

"Hm," Moriarty mused. "Good. Very good." He produced two hundred forty pounds' worth of poker chips while locking eyes with John mercilessly.

The dealer, seeing that the play was finished, flipped over the last card; another two.

John looked back down at his cards to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating. He had a four pair. He couldn't even remember getting a four pair, not in the past three years.

He could win this. He could get all his money back. John squeezed his chair with one fist to calm himself down, so he would stop wanting to shake. Reluctantly, he drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising too quickly for it to be anything but skittishness. "All in," John said, shoveling out the meager remains of his chips.

It only took a moment for Moriarty to make the next bet. "All in," he said, strangely starting to smile.

"Dr. Watson," the dealer said. "Your cards, now, please."

John slowly flipped over his hand, a smirk fighting its way to the surface.

"Four pair," the dealer said. "Congratulations, Mr. Watson. You won the pot."

And then the entire room seemed to erupt into yelling. "Holy shit!" John kept hearing. "Holy fucking shit, that bloke beat him!"

"No one has beaten Mr. M in at least two years..." someone exclaimed. "Who is this guy?" And: "Damn right, I placed my bet on him. Someone had to do it."

Moriarty's slim, lithe shape crept into view. He barely steeled himself, smiling humorlessly as Moriarty gave him a meaningless bout of praise. His teeth were starting to grind. "Thank you; it was a great game," John said, the trite phrase echoing hollowly in his ears.

Moriarty's face began getting closer, like he was leaning in to kiss John on the cheek. He could feel puffs of sickly bubblegum breath against his chin as Moriarty bent nearer and nearer, and John found himself frozen in his seat, despite the smell of Moriarty's cologne becoming more potent. He was half-convinced that Moriarty was going to stab him when he neatly slotted his mouth to John's ear - his voice somehow soft again - like linen and the smell of steaming oatmeal, but the words didn't fit the tone. John could visualize black, sticky tar soaking into a silk dress as he spoke.

"Say hello to Mr. Holmes for me." His eyes were feline, his voice a purr. He walked away and John finally found it in himself to exhale.

***

John remembered the time that his father shot a stray cat infected with rabies with a rifle. It actually kind of looked like Moriarty, come to think of it; dark eyes, crazed movements, slinking closer and closer, every step a potential threat.

Until his dad put three bullets in its head.

John was nine years old. Two weeks later, against his mother's wishes, he got a pellet gun of his own.

He hit a pheasant out of the sky with a lucky shot on the third day of nonstop practice. It fell like it was diving. Now, John could imagine it, shaped like a jet, a bomber pilot ejecting from its neck.

When he found the thing, its left wing had snapped. He buried it under a tree, and placed a heavy stone atop its grave. No one could tell that a life had been taken on that very spot. And no one knew what happened to the cat infected with rabies - except that it was there one day, and gone the next.

Then again, when people died, did the falling of their bodies make a sound if no one was there to hear it?

What if they died morally? What if they bluffed away the pain of their cells decomposing? What if no one heard the crackle of their heartbeat turning to slate? Blood coagulating, slugging through arteries like blackened molasses.

He could see Sherlock near the exit, sliding onto a bar stool.

John could leave. He could tear his eyes away, and make the right choice. Walk away with a thousand pounds in his pocket and everything he knew about himself still intact.

Strangely, John now owned four thousand more pounds than he had five hours before - but he was no longer sure who truly won the game.