(TAXI, Alice’s POV: )

Sherlock sat in the back lost in thought, but his hand still firmly on my wrist. I sat next to him, leaning on his shoulder and trying to not fall asleep. I don’t know why he was holding my wrist. It was as if he thought I would go away if he did. He reminded me of a needy child. I smiled a little.

Partway into the journey, the TV screen on the back of the driver’s seat switched on and an advertisement started to play. It was London Taxi Shopping advertising jewellery.

“This is a stunning evening wear set from us here at London Taxi Shopping,” The female voiceover said cheerfully.

“Can you turn this off, please?” Sherlock asked the driver. The driver didn’t respond and the advert continued.

“As you can see, the set comprises of a beautiful...” The voiceover continued and I sighed.

“Can you turn this off...?” Sherlock began, louder and angrier. The image on the screen began to fritz as if another channel was breaking through. There were momentary glimpses of someone who could’ve only be Jim Moriarty grinning at the screen. Eventually the advert disappeared and Jim was seen smiling cheerfully. Behind him was a pale blue wall with painted white fluffy clouds floating across it. Jim’s voice took on a sing-song quality as if he was talking to children.

“Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot,” Jim began cheerfully. Sherlock stares at the screen, his face intense. I did the same, but feeling more afraid than anything. Jim’s image continued to smile from the TV screen.  “Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he’d slain...” Behind him, the pale blue sky got darker and the white clouds became grey and threatening. “And soon they began to wonder...” Rain began to pour from the clouds. “...‘Are Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories even true?’” 

The hand that belonged to the wrist that Sherlock gripped made its way into his actual hand, but Sherlock didn’t turn away from the screen.

Jim shook his head.  

“Oh, no,” He said ominously. “So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said...” in a dramatic whisper. “...‘I don’t believe Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories. He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.’ And then even the King began to wonder...” He frowned, raising a finger to his mouth and gazing off to the side with a wondering look on his face. Jim frowned thoughtfully as cartoon lightning bolts shot out of the clouds behind him.

“But that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem. No,” Jim continued, shaking his head repeatedly. He looked down for a moment, and then raised his eyes to the camera again. “That wasn’t the final problem,” He said darkly. Sherlock bared his teeth at the screen as the camera pulled back to show Jim sitting with a storybook held in his hands. He looked up at the camera and finished in an even more sing-song voice,

“The End.”

Behind him, a red velvet curtain dropped down as if covering a theatre stage. The shot changed to an extreme close-up of Jim grinning hugely and showing his teeth, then the screen fritzed a few times and eventually returned to the jewellery advert. My stomach felt like the ulcer was back.

“Stop the cab! Stop the cab!” Sherlock shouted, squeezing my hand a little. The taxi began to pull up near the curb. “What was that?” He demanded, jumping out of the right-hand door and running forward to the driver’s door. I nearly fell over when he dragged me out, but I didn’t care at that moment. “What was that?” He repeated. The cabbie, wearing a cloth cap very reminiscent of the one worn by the cabbie in the pink case, turned his head towards us and revealed that he was Jim Moriarty, who adopted a London accent as he spoke,

“No charge.”

He immediately accelerated away as Sherlock tried to grab hold of the door and pull the cab back. Forced to let go, he chased after the taxi, letting go of my hand as well and leaving me on the curb, but it soon sped away. He stopped in the middle of the road, glaring after it and unaware that another car is speeding along behind him.

“Sherlock!” I shouted, running into the street as it sounded its horn in warning. Before I could even step off the curb, a man hurried off the pavement, grabbed him and pulls him out of danger.

“Look out!” He shouted. Not yet fully realizing what the man was doing, Sherlock striked out at him but then stopped as the car roared past and he realized what had happened. I ran over as soon as the car had past. Sherlock stood with the man at arm’s length, breathing heavily as the man looked warily at him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said breathlessly as I came beside him. He held out his hand for the man to shake. The man somewhat reluctantly took it and three bullets were fired into him in quick succession from somewhere behind Sherlock and I suddenly. I looked at him in horror as he slumped to the ground and Sherlock spun around, his arm across my torso protectively as he tried to find the source of the gunfire. Just then another black cab came around the corner and pulled up a short distance away. John jumped out and hurried towards us.

“Alice, Sherlock!” He shouted worriedly. Sherlock ignored the doctor and looked to me.

“Are you alright?” He asked, pointedly and obviously looking at my stomach. I nodded, both of us knowing that it was a lie.

Sometime later Sherlock stood twitching his fingers fretfully as an ambulance crew wheeled the man’s body away.

“That... it’s him. It’s him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He’s a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us,” John explained, sounding exasperated.

“He died because I shook his hand,” Sherlock replied, his hand on my wrist yet again. Maybe it wasn’t for his comfort. Maybe it was for mine. I didn’t know. All I did know was that my ulcer never fully went away and that this wrist-holding wasn’t helping.

“What d’you mean?” John asked.

“He saved my life but he couldn’t touch me. Why?” Sherlock said, more to himself than anybody. He stormed off, yet again dragging me behind. John followed.

221B

Sherlock walked rapidly into the living room, pulling his scarf and then his coat off as he went across to the laptop on the table. I didn’t bother with my coat and just lay down on the sofa, listening to the conversation.

“Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn’t come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive,” Sherlock realized. He sat down at the table while John went over to the window closest to him and looked out. “I’ve got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me...” 

“...the others kill them before they can get it,” John finished, taking what I was gonna say. Sherlock grunted in agreement and typed rapidly on the laptop, navigating away from the website for St. Aldate’s School and calling up a list of local Wi-Fi networks. There were five of them and he checked their signal strength and the names of the networks.

“All of the attention is focussed on me. There’s a surveillance web closing in on us right now,” Sherlock said seriously.

“So what have you got that’s so important?” John asked. Sherlock gazed into the distance and thought for a moment, then ran his finger along the table beside the computer before lifting it and looking at his fingertip.

“We need to ask about the dusting,” He said casually.

Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Hudson had been dragged upstairs in her nightdress and dressing gown. Sherlock was hurrying around the room checking for dust on all the furniture.

“Precise details: in the last week, what’s been cleaned?” Sherlock ordered.

“Well, Tuesday I did your lino...” She began.

“No, in here, this room. This is where we’ll find it – any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust,” Sherlock clarified. He lifted his hand from the latest piece of furniture that he had been running his finger along, and twirled his finger dramatically in the air. “Dust is eloquent,” He added. Mrs. Hudson looked over her shoulder at John and me.

“What’s he on about?” She asked him. John shook his head and mumbled. I understood, but I didn’t want to talk.

By now Sherlock was climbing on the furniture to look more closely at the top shelves of the bookcase to the left of the fireplace.

“Cameras. We’re being watched,” Sherlock said.

“What? Cameras?” She cringed. “Here? I’m in my nightie!” The doorbell had just rung and she hurried out of the room, John following her. I smiled a little at her reaction.

Sherlock had climbed down and now checked in the eye sockets of the skull on the mantelpiece before climbing onto small tables on the other side of the fireplace to look at the bookshelves there. Checking the books on the top shelf, he seemed to realize that the one on the far right had more movement around it than it ought and he pushed it deeper into the shelf, revealing a camera stuck on the side of the bookshelf. As he reached up to remove it, Greg came into the room followed by John. I looked over at him and sighed through my nose.

“No, Inspector,” Sherlock said without turning around, still concentrating on removing the camera.

“What?” Lestrade asked.

“The answer’s no,” Sherlock answered, stepping down with the camera in his fingers.

“But you haven’t heard the question!” Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated.

“You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking,” Sherlock replied dryly. He walks closer and Greg pulled in a breath.

“Sherlock...” Lestrade began.

“The scream?” I asked, interrupting.

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered.

“Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan,” I said bitterly.

“Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head; that little nagging sensation. You’re gonna have to be strong to resist. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home...” Sherlock reached forward and briefly placed his index fingertip on Greg’s forehead between his eyes. “...there.”

“Will you come?” Lestrade sighed.

“One photograph – that’s his next move,” Sherlock began, turning away, sitting down at the laptop and beginning to type.

“Moriarty’s game: first the scream, then a photograph of him being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy Sherlock inch by inch,” I finished.  Picking up the camera again, Sherlock looked at it for a moment, and then raised his eyes to Greg’s.

“It is a game, Lestrade, and not one we’re willing to play,” He said darkly, his voice deep like it was when he was irritated.  “Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan,” He added, looking back at the computer. Sighing and exchanging a brief look with John and me, Lestrade turned and headed off down the stairs. John watched him go with an exasperated look, and then turned back towards Sherlock who had now linked the camera into the computer so that he could pull up the footage on the computer screen. I looked down at the floor between my feet, my elbows on my knees and me bent over in thought.

John had gone over to the right-hand window and looked out at the car parked outside as Lestrade and Donovan were over to it and got in. As the car started, Sherlock briefly looked at John.

“They’ll be deciding,” Sherlock said.

“Deciding?” John asked.

“Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest him,” I answered, looking up and scowling.

“You think?” John asked.

“Standard procedure,” Sherlock explained.

“Should have gone with him. People’ll think...” John began.

“I don’t care what people think,” Sherlock interrupting.

“You’d care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong,” John argued.

“No, that would just make them stupid or wrong,” Sherlock retorted.  Angrily, John turned towards him.

“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re...” He began. He broke off as Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. They locked eyes for a long moment.

“That I am what?” Sherlock asked, sounding like an innocent kid.

“A fraud,” John and I said sadly, me locking eyes with the detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back in the seat.

“You’re worried they’re right,” He replied.

“What?” John asked.

“You’re worried they’re right about me,” Sherlock clarified, sounding sad.

“No,” John immediately argued.

“That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well,” Sherlock said, definitely hurt.

“No I’m not,” John insisted, looking back out the window again. Sherlock leaned forward.

“Moriarty is playing with your mind too,” He said angrily. Furious, he slammed his hand onto the table. “Can’t you see what’s going on?” He hissed. He didn’t look at me once. Did he only think it was John? Did he really trust me that much? Or was he just not speaking to me now about it?

John looked at him for a few seconds, and then looked out of the window again.

“No, I know you’re for real,” John confirmed.

“A hundred percent?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying d*** all the time,” John answered quietly, turning to face him again. I smiled and shook my head, looking back down. Sherlock locked eyes with him again, and then his mouth twitched with the trace of a smile. John looked away once more. When he did, I looked back up to my detective. He was looking at John sadly, just like Molly said. I licked my lips nervously, and he looked at me. We just stared at each other for a long moment, not trying to communicate. Just looking.

I have no excuse for not updating. I'm just lazy and I'm not looking forward to writing the Fall. Enjoy, vote, and comment fun peoples! =)