A/N - Woo! An update! A very, long overdue update but at least it is here now!

I do check long chapters several times over for typos, but all the words start to blend into one after a while so I have done my best - if there is a typo I missed, please don't hesitate or feel rude pointing it out 😊

Anyways, I shan't keep you on a boring A/N any longer!

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The thief stirred at the feeling of a chilly breeze tickling her bare shoulder, causing goosebumps to arise across her body. Groaning, she stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders before she lay on her back. She turned her head, looking beside her to find the detective was gone but still ran her hand across his side of the bed. It was cold. He must have left some time ago.

"Typical." She laughed through her nose, "Stick around for the fun but not for the pillow talk."

This wasn't true of course. The past two times they had spoken after. Apparently, the third time wasn't the charm in this case.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Elizabeth walked into the living room, dressed in Sherlock's beige gown. She was a little bit upset that the blue gown was gone as that was her favourite - she thought that herself and Sherlock had that silent understanding but, that said, they were still his gowns.

Worry carved faint wrinkles into her brow. Where was Sherlock? Where was her phone so that she could ask where Sherlock was? She looked everywhere: the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom and even the landing and couldn't find it anywhere.

Footsteps lowly rumbled as John headed down the stairs, strolling into 221B with a friendly air about him. He saw Elizabeth rush from the kitchen and into the living room, straight for the desk by the windows and observed her frantically picking up books and papers alike. The doctor's eyebrows knotted together as he watched her rushed movements.

"Lose something?" He deduced.

"Oh, John!" Elizabeth jumped, looking at him with deep concern, "Sorry, you haven't seen my phone have you?" She turned back to the cluttered desk, shuffling more books and papers around, "I can't find it anywhere."

"Uh no, sorry. Where did you have it last?"

"I could have sworn it was on my bedside table but I checked all around there - under the bed, under the little table, behind the table and bed - it's not there."

"Mm...where's Sherlock? Have you asked him?"

"I don't know, we were..." Elizabeth paused, "Spending time together and...I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, he was gone."

John nodded, "Right...and you've checked everywhere?"

"Yep - John, could you please phone or text Sherlock? Just find out where he is and if he's seen my phone?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." The army doctor nodded, fetching his phone out of his jean pocket.

John brought the phone up to his ear as he watched Elizabeth continue to search under the couch.

"Sherlock?"

"Everything alright, John?"

"Yeah, no, everything's good - where are you?"

"Out."

John nodded, "Hey, listen, have you seen Elizabeth's phone? She can't - "

"Has she checked under my chair? She has the tendency to fall asleep there sometimes - the phone may have fallen on the floor."

"Have you checked under his chair?" John asked Elizabeth.

The thief nodded, "Not under there. Where is he?"

John shrugged, "She says it's not there."

"Then I don't know where it is...sorry."

"When you coming back?"

"Later."

"Out and later isn't very specific, Sherlock. Are you okay?"

"Fine, John. See you later."

"Sherlock - " John sighed, lowering the phone, "He hung up."

"Great." Elizabeth sighed, lost as to where to look, "Call my phone, I don't think it's on silent..."

*  *  *  *  *  *

Rain poured that evening as Sherlock took a long trip out of London and into the countryside by taxi. During the ride, he just stared at the raindrops on the window and, in a moment of childish innocence, silently willed the raindrops to race each other down the glass. He knew the trip would cost him a small fortune but at this point he didn't care.

"Stop here." He called to the driver as they arrived outside an open gate.

"I can drive yeh ta the front door - "

"That won't be necessary. You've already cost me an arm and a leg." Came his curt response as he handed the money over before getting out.

He needed the short, rainy walk to ready himself.

*  *  *  *  *  *

The maid slowly opened the door to grand dining room, peeking in to see that both her boss and his guest were still there. When she saw them, she opened the heavy, dark door wider, stepping in so that they could see and hear her.

"Mr Holmes, there's a man here to see you."

"Are you incapable of asking who they are and what they want before you come to me, Madeline?"

"Myc, don't be rude." Rita scolded as she set down her tea on the dining room table.

"I asked but he wouldn't elaborate actually, Mr Holmes." Madeline defended herself.

"It's okay, Madeline." Rita assured and then smiled, "I'm sure you already know you work with an eternal grump. Don't take it personally."

Madeline shared a smile with the ex-surgeon as she approached, looking at the empty plate in front of her, "Are you finished with this?"

"Yes, thank you."

"And you, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes." Came his droning voice.

The maid collected both of their plates and then left them in the ridiculously large dining room.

"I suppose I should head down then." Mycroft sighed.

"Of course." Rita nodded, standing to move towards the still seated Mycroft, "You can't keep this mysterious visitor waiting."

"I detest mysterious visitors."

"Ohh, woe is you, Mycroft, woe is always you." Rita rolled her eyes, delicately laying her hands upon his shoulders and placed a chaste kiss upon the top of his head before leaving the dining room.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Mycroft opened the front door, "Yes, what is - Sherlock?"

There on the doorstep, Sherlock stood in the pouring rain, his normally bouncy curls now wet and matted against his forehead, and his eyes slightly red and shining with the grief of betrayal. A well-worn frown crept across Mycroft's brow as he looked at his brother in silence, waiting for him to say what he already knew.

"Come in." Mycroft swallowed, stepping aside.

And the detective stepped in, speechless still.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Mycroft had the fire going in the living room and guided his brother in there after taking his damp, icon-of-a-coat away from him to hang up.

The younger Holmes strolled in, his mind not racing but struggling to comprehend the situation he now found himself in, struggling to think of the right words to use - did he want Mycroft to treat her harshly or did he still have some care for her? He couldn't even work that out himself. Sherlock took a seat by the fire, the same seat he had taken the night they had found Elizabeth stealing from Mycroft.

Back where it all started to find how out how it would end.

Mycroft walked in, moving to the tray of liquor and poured himself and Sherlock a small glass of brandy. Handing a glass to his brother as he walked past, Mycroft took the seat beside him, then took a sip of the alcohol.

"I assume you are here because you now find yourself with the veil lifted?"

Sherlock didn't respond, just stared deeply into the crackling fire.

"I tried to warn you, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, "I tried."

"I believed in her."

"And people believe in an unseen presence who also often disappoints them." Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock who fiddled with the glass of alcohol in his hand, "High expectations are rarely met, Brother Mine, regardless of the how seductive an ideal may be to the wisher or the wished-upon...what did you really expect of Moriarty's personal larcenist?"

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head, "That she could change. That she could be different because she showed me she could be..."

Mycroft nodded, "Psychologically, when shown a glimmer of hope, regardless of the other evidence or...past presented to us, we prefer to hold on to it tightly for the truth can hurt. And wouldn't we rather believe in a beautiful lie than a painful truth?"

Sherlock swallowed drily.

"Sometimes...the hope is fulfilled," He thought of Rita, "And sometimes it is not."

The detective remained quiet.

Both men sat in silence for a moment, appreciating the subtle warmth that crept towards them from the fire place, appreciating the fiery reflections on the polished wood floor, appreciating each other's rare company. But Mycroft had to break the silence with a truth that needed to be established.

"Her involvement in the ga - in crime will mean - "

"You were going to say 'gang'." Sherlock's head whipped to look at his brother accusingly, "How - "

"Slip of the tongue, Sherlock - "

"Yes but it wasn't an accident was it? How do you know? How do you know, Mycroft?"

"Brother, listen to me - "

"I am not here to play games, My - "

"Mycroft? Madeline wanted to know if - " Rita paused in the doorway of the living room as she saw Sherlock sat in the chair.

The detective was rendered speechless once again at the sight of a dead woman walking. His eyes darted between his brother and the ex-surgeon, the betrayal weighing down on him even more as another scoff left his lips. Hypocrite! Mycroft was a hypocrite. And he told Sherlock to keep away from a criminal, the detective thought, yet here he was with a criminal of his own.

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly, knowing the cogs were turning in his brother's head, "Let me explain."

"Oh, yes, please do." Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or cry or shout or get out and so he continued to sit, "How the hell is she here?"

"'She' can speak for herself." Rita paused, "And because Cleo Black had me fake my death because she didn't have the spine to kill me, Mr Holmes."

"And thank God she didn't." Mycroft muttered honestly.

"You," Sherlock pointed his finger at Rita, "You got Elizabeth involved with the gang. You corrupted her. She could have been good if you didn't - "

"Didn't what? Tempt her?" Rita strolled towards Mycroft's chair, "Because if you want to use a suggestive verb such as 'tempt' then even you knew deep down that she couldn't ever really turn her back on the lifestyle she was raised in."

Sherlock closed his mouth, eyes burning as he tried to keep the tears back. He wouldn't cry in front of his brother, God help him.

"Sherlock, I know this is a shock but I only found out yesterday that Rita - "

"Why is she here?"

"As opposed to where?"

"Prison." Sherlock bluntly responded, looking at the ex-surgeon again, "She was part of a gang."

"Yes."

"She lied to you."

"Yes."

"So how is she here?"

"Because Rita saved your life, saved the lives of two criminals that have now been rightfully imprisoned and because," Mycroft paused, "Rita is important to me so, bearing in mind I was...infuriated to see her alive too to begin with, I asked her to give me something to prove that she wanted to move on."

"What could she have possibly - "

"I want to be with your brother, Mr Holmes." Rita interrupted, "It broke my heart when he left my bedside at the hospital and so I came to win him back because he was all I had left."

"'All I had left'? Please, You had a gang."

"Only for as long as I was useful to them. Cleo might have saved me but she certainly told me to jog on after. So I did. I jogged on straight to Mycroft Holmes with knowledge of the gang that could take them down for good."

"Sounds like a stupid idea to turn on a gang of more than likely fifty people for one person." Sherlock retorted.

"Well," Rita threw her hands out to her sides, "Love makes us do stupid things and especially when love is all one has left."

Sherlock shook his head, a sarcastic smile crossing his lips as he looked at Mycroft in disbelief, "And what happened to the emotionless brother I knew?"

Mycroft spoke managing to keep his voice from breaking as he did think about this change in attitude, "Rita is the only person I have ever felt anything for and when we witnessed her faux murder, I have never felt such debilitating sickness and when I had to confirm that the body was her own, I have never felt so painfully numb and when I attended her funeral, I have never felt such agonising grief in all my life, Brother Mine."

Sherlock's anger hushed itself at his response and he swallowed. Mycroft inhaled loudly. Rita kept her gaze on the floor but rested her hand on the back of Mycroft's chair.

The three of them sat/stood in a long silence, all avoiding each other's gazes...

Sherlock was the one to eventually speak up, "Sometimes hope is fulfilled..."

Mycroft nodded, "Yesterday, I found out about Elizabeth's disloyalty and lies."

"So what are we going to do about it? Because now she is an accessory to a murder."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes." Rita confirmed, "What I know is that they plan to give her an initiation ceremony after she has proven herself to the gang. If you wait until then, you will be able to arrest a lot more members on the spot."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"You cannot let her know that you know." Rita added, "And do not tell anyone else. This plan will fall apart otherwise."

"How can I - "

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke calmly, "You have to act like you do normally with her. Elizabeth will get suspicious if she senses that something is different."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Near enough two weeks later, filled with far less conversations and hardly any shared looks between the lovers, the Baker Street trio found themselves in the living room. Elizabeth hadn't been rostered on for Monday having spent some extra time at the café last week, when she had inevitably agreed to do two smaller jobs - robbing from some jewellery stores alone. The thief sat besides John on the couch, reading the newspaper with him.

Elizabeth looked up briefly at Sherlock with a soft smile. His eyes were on the paper in his hands so he reciprocated no smile back. The detective had chosen to grow distant from her, against Mycroft's and Rita's wishes, and Elizabeth failed to understand why. The last two weeks left her with very little affection and acknowledgement from him. Her gaze rested on the blue gown he wore - she hadn't been allowed to wear it since he had returned from Devon and it was her favourite one whereas the purply one was Sherlock's favourite.

It seemed like a small thing to get upset over but upset her it did.

"'Boffin'." Sherlock quoted as his eyes finished scanning the words, letting his own newspaper land on the coffee table with a smack, "'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'?"

John handed his current paper to Elizabeth and sat forwards, grabbing the paper Sherlock had discarded, "Everybody gets one."

"One what?"

"Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'...'Nasty Nick.'" John suggested as examples, "Shouldn’t worry. I’ll probably get one soon..."

"Page five, column six, first sentence."

Elizabeth chuckled at this as she watched John open the newspaper Sherlock had possessed in search of his nickname.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" Sherlock exasperated as he punched the hat.

"Because," Elizabeth began, setting the paper John had given her aside, "It suits you and makes you look precious."

"'Bachelor John Watson'?" John quoted.

Sherlock ignored Elizabeth and continued on his mini rant, "What sort of hat is it anyway?"

"'Bachelor'?" John repeated, looking between the detective and (somewhat sullen) thief, "What the hell are they implying?"

"Uh...that you're on the market?" Elizabeth attempted to converse with John now, "Maybe a cute journalist likes you?"

"It was written by a man."

Her lips formed a small circle as she let out a quiet, "Oh..."

"Is it a cap?" Sherlock questioned aloud, switching the hat around in his hands, "Why has it got two fronts?"

"It’s a deerstalker." John answered before returning to the paper, "'Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson...'"

"'...And the enigmatic Elizabeth Parrish'." She looked up briefly to meet John's look, "How did they get my name?"

John shrugged, both of them looking back down at the article to see what else had been said about them.

"You stalk a deer with a hat?" Sherlock commented to himself, "What are you gonna do – throw it?"

"'... confirmed bachelor John Watson'!"

"'...is the elusive Elizabeth shacking up with Sherlock Holmes?'" Elizabeth was taken aback at reading those words, and looked up at Sherlock with mild concern.

Sherlock swung his arm out with the hat in hand, "Some sort of death frisbee?"

"Well..." Elizabeth shrugged, looking at John again, "At least that's not 'confirmed' like yours is John. Don't fancy my private life being in the papers...don't actually fancy being in the papers at all. I'll just join you on smaller cases from now on."

John nodded vigorously, understanding her concern, "Okay, this is too much." He said, trying to gain Sherlock's full attention now, "We need to be more careful."

"It’s got flaps..." Sherlock remarked with disdain in his expression, "Ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, John!" He chucked it at his friend who caught it effortlessly in one hand, "What do you mean, 'more careful'?"

"I mean this isn’t a deerstalker now; it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective any more." John held up his left hand, his thumb and index finger about an inch apart, "You’re this far from famous."

"Oh, it’ll pass." The detective sighed, sitting back in his chair.

"It’d better pass." John warned, "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on you."

Elizabeth's brows knotted together at hearing John's words. He certainly wasn't wrong and that worried her too. Seeing her name in the paper also made her wonder if Jim might see it or, if not Jim, people that she could have wronged in the past.

Sherlock looked at John as he let his arms rest on the sides of the chair, "It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don’t understand. Why would it upset you?"

"Because we care about you." Elizabeth jumped in.

Sherlock's gaze briefly - very briefly - met hers before returning to look at John. His look caused her to sit back a little, uncertain of what such a short, stoic stare meant. The ribs around her lungs seemed to tighten after, pained by how empty that gaze of his was when normally she could find the love or adoration or amusement in those ever-changing eyes of his.

"Just try to keep a low profile." John finished in a huff, "Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news."

*  *  *  *  *  *

While John was in the shower, Sherlock had decided to return to his experiments, unpacking his microscope and various other morbid items on the kitchen table. Elizabeth had followed Sherlock into the kitchen to make tea but found she had to fill the kettle and wait a tedious amount of time for it to boil. As the steady rumble of the appliance disrupted the silence, the thief leant against the counter, watching Sherlock as he meticulously fiddled with the magnification.

"What's wrong?" She asked aloud.

Without looking up, the detective shrugged, "What do you mean?"

"Over these past couple of weeks you seem...distant?"

"No. Just busy."

"But even when you're busy, you still laugh at the little quips I make, still have time for conversation with me even if it is in bursts of a mere few minutes or less. Even on cases you barely paid any attention to me. And that's not me being overdramatic, I can tell that something is wrong. So what's going on? What is wrong? Have I done so - "

"I'm trying to focus on my experiment. Can we talk about this later?" Came his monotonous response, again without looking at her.

The kettle clicked, the ferocious sound of bubbling lingering for a minute more as Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek. Turning away, she poured the water into her mug, setting the kettle down to wordlessly fetch the milk out of the fridge of horrors. She put a dash of milk in her tea, returned it to the fridge, unphased by the small body parts that were housed in there as well. Picking up the tea spoon, she lifted the teabag out of  the liquid and dunked it back in again, repeating this action a few times until the colour of the liquid was that of a light tan.

Sherlock peeked at her from behind his microscope, watching her do this with a forlorn expression. He knew that she knew what she had done wrong. He also knew that she didn't know that he knew and that would be how it remained until this supposed initiation.

Elizabeth finished making her tea, binning the tea bag and proceeding to go and sit on the sofa in the living room so she wouldn't have to look at him while he was being so dismissive.

*  *  *  *  *  *

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes."

"How sure?"

"How sure are you about questioning me? You know that's never a safe thing to do."

"Well, you could say I like to live my life on the edge."

Jim smirked at Seb, "And this is why you're still here." He sang quietly as he looked up into his right-hand man's dark eyes, "You're not afraid of me."

Slipping his hand into Seb's trouser pocket and giving him a lustful look, the napoleon of crime pulled out a half-finished pack of chewing gum. Using his thumb and index finger, he coaxed out a piece of gum, letting it fall into the palm of his hand before pocketing the rest of the packet with a smile. Opening his mouth, Jim pinched the piece of gum out of his hand and delicately placed it on his tongue, all the while holding his gaze with Seb.

Then Jim wrinkled his nose as he chewed the gum, "Pineapple? Sebastian you need to get your flavours right - "

Seb sighed, "I like pineapple."

"Strawberry's better." Jim suggested, "I'll accept mint too."

"Well, buy your own gum next time then."

"Yeah...but making people scream is so much more fun than buying the groceries." Jim chuckled, raising his hands in defence, "I don't make the rules."

The corner of Seb's lips teased upwards slightly but he was determined not to be distracted from the matter at hand, "But seriously, Jim - committing a crime of this scale just to gain attention from your so-called 'nemesis'?"

"No." Jim shook his head, "He's not that special, it's not just for him." He paused, looking around at all the people bustling about the Tower of London, "And it's called advertising, duh." Jim rolled his eyes, "We've planned it out perfectly. It will be fine."

"And if it's not?"

"You're such a worrier, Seb." Jim drawled, "Come back when you have your big boy pants on."

Seb's eyebrow raised as he crossed his arms, staring at his shorter partner, unimpressed. Jim simply laughed, pulling an item out of his back trouser pocket.

"Who's that over there?" Jim pointed behind his partner.

As Seb turned to look, the criminal placed a souvenir London cap on him. The sniper turned back, offense and disbelief written into his expression by how he held his mouth agape. Jim started chuckling again.

"Oh Sebby, you're so gullible. It's adorable." The criminal entrepreneur tried to stifle his laughter, "Don't you just look precious."

"Right. That's it. I've had it." Seb pointed at the tower, "Go get yourself arrested before I kill you."

"Psh." He scoffed, "You wouldn't kill me."

"Go."

"Lighten up, Seb."

The sniper whipped his cap off and smacked the criminal on the arm with it, "Bye now. See you in a couple 'a months."

"Don't hit me, Sebastian Moran." Jim warned playfully, snatching the cap to put it back on Seb's head before he started to walk away.

"Goodbye, James."

"Don't call me, James!"

Seb simply waved the criminal mastermind off as he began heading towards the crown jewels exhibit, pausing to snap a picture of Seb with the cap on and then proceeded to wave a cheery goodbye to the sniper. When he turned back around to continue heading in, Seb took off the hat again, looked down at it and laughed when he saw the Great British flag with a corgi on the front.

"Bloody prat."

*  *  *  *  *  *

John walked back in through the kitchen, wearing his stripy gown and attempting to rub his hair dry with the towel after his refreshing shower. He heard a ping as he passed Sherlock who was looking into his microscope.

"It’s your phone."

"Mm." Came his hum of disinterest, "Keeps doing that."

"Elizabeth?" The doctor enquired, ignoring the phone now.

"With Mrs Hudson."

John nodded, not failing to notice the dangling pair of mannequin feet hanging from the ceiling. Grabbing his newspaper, he took a seat in his chair, inhaling a breath as he contemplated the right question to ask.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

"Oh, Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." Sherlock picked up a dusty book, slamming it shut before setting it down again, "Bow Street Runners: missed everything.

"Pressing case, is it?" John asked with minor alarm in his tone.

Like the case of Elizabeth working with the Forty Elephants? Sherlock huffed silently at the thought.

"They’re all pressing ’til they’re solved."

*  *  *  *  *  *

Jim strolled into the exhibit, still chewing the (vile) pineapple bubblegum and shuffled towards the metal detectors. Being so relaxed, he 'completely' forgot to put his phone in the box and ended up setting off the alarm.

"Excuse me, sir." The security guard addressed him plainly, "Any metal objects – keys, mobile phones?"

Jim pulled a face, half-amused by his own 'forgetfulness' and half-apologetic as he backed out of the detector, pulling his phone out to put it in the tray before walking through again. Without a beep, the guard gave a nod of approval.

"Go through. Thank you."

And then, the napoleon of crime continued through to the room displaying the crown jewels.

He paused a little way away from the cabinet, smiling mischieviously at the chair, the crown and the sceptre, smiling like the cat who got the cream despite the fact he was yet to get his hands on the priceless heirlooms of the monarchy. The criminal pulled out his phone again, untangling the ear phones before setting them in his ears. He cracked his neck and looked down at his phone, pressing play on Rossini's The Thieving Magpie.

And then the organised chaos would begin with a single tap of an 'app' on his phone.

Seconds later, alarms began to blare and tourists and natives alike began to run from the room yet Jim stayed right where he was, about meter away from the glass display.

A guard rushed over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave - "

But the guard was met with an incapacitating spray as Jim turned to face him, and he dropped to the floor with thud like a weighted sack. As Jim watched the vault door automatically shut, he whipped off his cap, no longer needing to fit in with the average people.

Another tap and elsewhere in London, the Bank of England would be suffering with another 'break-in'.

Jim pulled a white sharpie out of his pocket and quickly got to writing on the glass 'GET SHERLOCK', designed with a little smiley face in the 'o'. Bellissimo, he thought to himself as he sent a chef's kiss towards his art.

And to top it all off, he tapped on his phone again, smiling deviously as he knew that Pentonville Prison would be dealing with a rather large riot with all the trapped underlings.

Then, Jim was thankful to dispose of the now tasteless pineapple gum but not in the traditional way. No, he pulled it from his mouth in a long string, pressing it against the glass display case. He fished in his pocket again, taking out a small packet with a teeny-tiny diamond inside and then took the little diamond and pressed it into the gum.

With a grand spin, he whipped off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor like a feather that had fallen from a bird. He stepped into an elegant fifth before he began a dainty waltz towards the fire extinguisher, then with his new partner in a shiny alarm red, he waltzed back over to the display, heaving his arms back before forcing the extinguisher through the glass.

Moments later, when the glass had been shattered into a gazillion, pointless little pieces and once he had dressed himself in the crown jewels, the vault door finally opened and in rushed the many police, both armed and unarmed.

Jim smirked at the funny, little people, calm as could be, "No rush."

*  *  *  *  *  *

Mrs Hudson pulled a tray of freshly made shortbread from the oven, turning around to face Elizabeth with a wide smile on her face.

"Ooh, these smell divine!"

"They really do." The thief inhaled, calmed from her irritation that had been caused by Sherlock's emotional distancing again, "You know what we should make next? A pie. Something sweet...maybe...apple."

As Elizabeth moved to check the landlady's fridge for the suitable ingredients once again, Mrs Hudson nervously looked at the quickly disappearing space on her kitchen counter. It was currently filled by chocolate chip cookies, a loaf of sourdough bread, jammy biscuits, oat cookies and now shortbread. While Mrs Hudson enjoyed baking and couldn't have been happier to find that Elizabeth wished to assist her, she was beginning to discover that the thief was getting rather...obsessed with it.

"Elizabeth?" Mrs Hudson sweetly called as she set down the tray of shortbread before approaching the thief, "Don't you think we have enough?"

"We can never have too much...but you don't appear to have apples...you do have cherries though...cherry pie - "

Her phone buzzed on the landlady's coffee table.

"Aren't you going to get that?"

"Uh...no. Especially not if it is from a detective whose name begins with 'S' and ends in 'Herlock Holmes'." She clicked her tongue as she grabbed the cherries from the fridge, "So cherry pie!"

Mrs Hudson did like Elizabeth but...this was getting to be too much. Maybe if they stopped at two it would have been okay but this was excessive now. The landlady hurried over to Elizabeth's phone, almost hoping that she would see a text from the thief's boss telling her she had a shift. To the elderly woman's confusion though, she found it was a text from someone she didn't know.

"You have a text from...'J-M'."

Elizabeth stopped mid-action of washing up the mixing bowl, just watching the water run for a moment, letting the crockery fill and then spill over with water.

"Who - who did you say?"

"J-M. Who's J-M?"

The thief rushed over, holding her hand out for the phone. When she unlocked it, she couldn't believe the message she had read.

<See you soon, Lizzie. - JM>

*  *  *  *  *  *

"Jim's back!" Elizabeth announced urgently after she had raced up the stairs to 221B, not caring if she was to be  ignored again or not, "Jim - he texted me - he's back."

Sherlock had been looking down at his phone and John had been watching Sherlock uneasily. The two looked up with her, both equally as worried as the other, but the only difference was the subtle, conflicting look in Sherlock's eyes.

She was genuinely thrown off by the criminal texting her...or was she just a good actress? Was she involved in some great comeback Moriarty had planned? Her microexpression told Sherlock she was being truthful in her reaction though but could he trust himself after having been so blind before?

"We know." Sherlock spoke, turning his phone so she could see, "He texted me too."

<Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x>

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A/N - Honestly, it makes me sad how little of Jim and Seb I feature in this story considering I love writing their characters so much!

Also, after watching The Falcon and The Winer Soldier...

I can't unsee Sebastian Stan as Sebastian Moran and now he is the faceclaim forever and always for me: