A/N - Warning: some swearing.

Also attached the 'Sinnerman' song by Nina Simone because it's just so good!

______________________

Nearly an hour later the three found themselves at the Tower of London, sat in the security room and watching the CCTV footage of Jim.

Elizabeth smiled at seeing how he acted but it wasn't amused nor lighthearted. In fact, it was between a smile and grimace. Close lipped but not tight lipped and one corner curved upwards a little more than the other and just enough for her lone dimple to show. Her expression was that of a conflicted heart, as it always was when she thought of Jim.

"That glass is tougher than anything." Lestrade commented as they watched Jim take out his chewing gum to press it against the display case.

"Not tougher than crystallised carbon." Sherlock said, "He used a diamond..."

The detective inspector played the footage forwards and backwards so that he could pause it on the once unshattered message asking for the consulting detective himself.

The smiley face in the 'o' taunted them.

*  *  *  *  *  *

"Place your bag here please and anything metal, any technology."

Elizabeth placed her bag in the tray, took her phone from her pocket and did the same and then removed her 221B key necklace and sentimental ring, placing them next to her bag.

"Step through."

No alarm bells rung out as she stepped through the detector but soundless alarm squeezed her lungs as she inhaled a big breath. She swallowed.

"Roberts'll take you through."

"Thank you." She mumbled as she approached the friendly looking prison guard.

"Who're you here to see then?" Roberts questioned as she joined him by his side, strolling down the long hallway together.

"James Moriarty."

The prison guard paused, looked at her, thick, greying eyebrows crawling up his forehead, eyes widening as he nodded, silent.

"You're 'er then?"

"Who?"

"The one Mr Holmes requested to see 'im?"

"...Yes...did he say why?"

"You're his sister?"

"Not by blood."

"Adopted sister?"

"More like abducted but sure...we'll call it adopted." She muttered under her breath.

"Sorry?"

"Yes. I'm his adopted sister."

"Knew about his criminal activity?"

"...No. He kept it well hidden."

"S'pose they always do if family ain't likely to be keen 'bout that kinda life."

She nodded, feeling guilty about another lie she had added to her list.

"See him any differently?"

"It's complicated."

"Two-faced, was he? Nothing told you he would do this?"

"Yes and no." Another lie, "He was always nice to me - kind, brotherly..."

They stopped outside the door to an interview room.

Due to how grave his crimes were, Jim shouldn't have been getting visitors at all, but Mycroft wanted Elizabeth to meet with him, wishfully thinking that she would be able to coax some more incriminating information out of him. The trick was doing it without giving incriminating evidence on herself.

Roberts unlocked the heavy door but paused before opening it, "If he shows you his other side and you don't like it or can't take it, just knock on the door and I'll get you out."

Elizabeth wanted to laugh. He did do things she didn't like and she did try to get out but funnily enough, it was as though the door had been opened half way and she was being crushed between it and the door frame. But instead she nodded and gave Roberts a little smile.

The door whined as he opened it and there, in the room, sat Jim at a table, across from the other chair and facing her with an unsettling smile.

She stepped in.

The door whined shut.

Jim shuffled in his seat, sitting up a little straighter, his cuffed hands beckoning her to come and sit.

"Hello." Came his musical voice, "You know I don't bite, Lizzie, you can sit down."

And she did, wordlessly, letting the chair legs scrape harshly across the floor as she pulled it away from the table.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What are you doing?" She asked, not wanting to mess about.

Jim scoffed, "Hardly your best line of enquiry, Liz."

"What. Are you doing?"

Jim slid his cuffed hands across the table, as far as they would reach as he leant across the table to whisper, "Playing the game." He grinned.

"I'm not here to play games - "

"Bo-o-oring!" He slumped back in his chair, "You used to love playing the game with me. You love playing the game with the detective now but he's boring and he's rubbed off on you."

"No. I don't like playing these games. I never did."

"You know, you used to be so fun!" He announced, his voice exaggerated, "Now you're just 'Plain Jane' from 'Plain London Town'."

"No." Elizabeth shook her head, "I'm really just sick of your games."

"Let's play a game - "

"Jim - "

"I'm thinking of a number." He stated, "Guess."

"I'm not guessing. I'm not playing."

"Then..." Jim leant his head down towards his hands so he could mimic zipping them shut, smiling as he sat back up again.

Elizabeth sighed, "Eight?"

He mimicked the sound of a buzzer, "Wrong! Seven, I was thinking of seven."

"Why?"

"That's how old you were when I took you away from that abusive step-father of yours. Although, I was meant to take your smokin' hot sister - " He gasped in faux shock and shut his mouth tightly for a second, "I shouldn't have said that..."

The thief blinked, frowned, shook her head, sat back, searched his eyes for something that told her it was a joke.

"Oh," Jim laughed, "Your face. Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie."

"What do you mean?"

"Mean about what? I said nothing." He shrugged, a glimmer of amusement twinkling is mischievous, dark gaze.

"What sister?"

"Great question. Who?"

"Jim - "

"I'm thinking of another number..."

"Jim, are you lying? What do you mean 'sister'?"

"So many numbers to choose."

Rattled, she took a breath, "Fifteen?"

"Nope. Try again. Lower this time."

"Thirteen?"

"So close."

"Twelve?"

"Ding ding ding! I took you to New York. You loved it."

"I remember. You took me to Carnegie Hall."

"You had fun."

"I'm not having fun now."

Jim pouted, "This is life, Lizzie. Adulthood is often disappointing."

"Jim, please," She wanted to ask about this supposed sister but she knew that Jim was probably just messing with her, "Why the crown jewels? Why the prison and the bank?"

"Could ask you the same about the ban - "

"Jim. Answer my questions!" She snapped, slamming her hand on the table, eyes shining.

"Ooo there's the feisty girl I know," He growled playfully, "Rawr."

She inhaled. Once. Twice. Three times and looked away from him for a moment, "Why the bank, why the prison, why the crown jewels?"

"Why not?"

"Jesus..." She ran her hands over her face, unable to look at him.

"Lizzie, I'm King." He smiled, "They can't touch me, they can't get me."

Elizabeth laughed, looking around the room, "Really? Because it looks like they got you."

"Want to guess another number?"

"Oh, fuck off." Elizabeth pushed herself away from the table, chair legs screeching as she stood and walked over to the door again and knocked.

Jim chuckled as the door opened, "For the record it was eight!"

She walked out. The door shut.

"Eight months." He whispered to himself, "Eight months, Lizzie. I hope you're ready."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The thief was glad to be back at Baker Street and practically raced up the stairs. Sherlock and John were sat in their respective chairs, both reading newspapers with Moriarty on the headline.

"Any luck?" John asked as Elizabeth as he heard her enter the flat.

"No." She answered, throwing her bag down by the coat stand and rushing into the kitchen to make a passive-aggressive cup of tea, "He was being a prick as usual."

"What did he say?" Sherlock enquired.

"He wanted to play a guessing game. So he had me guess pointless numbers which still led me to no useful information."

No useful information, but certainly an unconfirmed rumour that continued to play on her mind. Did she really have family? Actual blood-related family? And if yes, how could she forget?

"What were the numbers?"

"Seven, twelve, eight. Nothing significant."

Sherlock nodded. He believed her.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Around five weeks later came the date of the dreaded trial.

John looked in the mirror as he threw on his blazer, sending a look to Sherlock who was just buttoning up the last button of his black shirt. Elizabeth walked out of the bedroom, dressed in a white blouse, black trousers and a black blazer, same as the men.

"You okay?" John asked her.

She nodded, "I mean, this was what we were aiming for when I agreed to help you so..."

Sherlock looked at her sympathetically, something he found himself doing frequently despite his will to distance himself from her. He just couldn't quite cut that emotional connection with her, as much as he despised her.

"Quite frankly lucky I don't have to testify." Elizabeth gulped.

The detective met her nervous gaze, his eyes softening as he looked at her. And for the first time in weeks she could find the love in that gaze and that reassured her greatly. Perhaps he was just going through a phase or was dealing with something he wasn't quite ready to share. Who knew when it came to Sherlock Holmes?

John gestured for them to head down the stairs and Sherlock took the lead, Elizabeth behind and John last. The couple paused by the front door and the nerves rose in them both as they heard the low commotion outside.

The doctor went for the door but paused in front of them.

"Ready?"

"Yes." Both Sherlock and Elizabeth nodded.

John took a breath, readying himself as he held the handle of the door and then opened it.

Instantly, the three were assaulted by flashing lights and high voices begging for a comment or two as reporters surrounded their door like vultures, desperate to feast on a carcass. They all remained silent as they pushed through the crowd to get to the police car that would be escorting them.

"Get in." John urged as he went around to the other side of the car.

Sherlock calmly opened the door and gestured for Elizabeth to climb in first and then followed as John got in on his side. All three were reassured by the now muffled shouts of the journalists, who were now trying to surround the car. Sherlock found it a pathetic, pointless, profitless move unless they were willing to vandalise the car by breaking the window - and even then, the three had vowed not to speak to the press.

The car started and they began heading to the trial of century.

John started, "Remember - "

"Yes." Sherlock interrupted.

But John persisted, "Remember - "

"Yes."

Elizabeth's lips curled faintly upwards at this and shared a look with an increasingly irritated John. He's not going to listen, her look told him. But the doctor wouldn't have it - he would make Sherlock listen.

"Remember what they told you: don’t try to be clever - "

"No..."

"And please, just keep it simple and brief.

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent." Came the sarcastic response of the detective.

"'Intelligent,' fine; let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth." John retorted.

"I’ll just be myself..."

"Sherlock - "

"Are you listening to me?!" John interrupted Elizabeth, vexed by how obtuse his friend was being.

*  *  *  *  *  *

"Crown versus Moriarty, please proceed to Court Ten." Came the instruction from the PA.

Sherlock had left the pair of friends stood together by the entrance to the courtroom. People began heading in but Elizabeth was practically shaking with nerves.

"Ready?" John asked Elizabeth.

"Yeah..."

"You sure? Your 'yeah' sounded more like maybe."

"That's because it was more of a 'maybe'."

John looked at her sympathetically, "You don't have to come into the courtroom. You could stay out here and I can fill you in after if it's going to be too much?"

"No, no. I'll be okay, I just - " She took a breath, "I know I said I would help you find him but I A) didn't expect it to happen like this and B) never thought this day would actually come. Jim's always been so clever, so evasive so to be here, to see him in court it's just..."

"Surreal?"

"Yeah, exactly." She nodded, watching the small crowd of people enter the courtroom.

John started strolling towards the door too and her feet followed but the queasy feeling in her stomach remained.

"Do me a favour," John whispered to her as they entered, "Pray to God Sherlock avoids being a smart-arse."

This earned a small, hopeless laugh from her as they took their seats.

*  *  *  *  *  *

"A consulting criminal?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded to the barrister.

All was quiet in the court, as the jury and those seated watched and listened to the case presented. Elizabeth fiddled with her silver ring and John just stared down at the detective and the criminal.

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

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

John was rather surprised by how well this was going for Sherlock. Their prayers truly were answered.

"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."

Jim smirked as he chewed the strawberry gum he had gotten one of the guards to give him. This comment also earned a small chuckle from the audience and the jury, a small smile from Elizabeth but a desperate, wordless plea from John to not get clever now.

"Would you describe him as - "

"Leading."

"Here we go..." John mumbled to Elizabeth, "Knew it was too good to be true."

"It is Sherlock after all, John." She muttered in reply.

"What?" The barrister was taken aback.

"Can’t do that. You’re leading the witness." Sherlock briefly looked at the defending barrister, "He’ll object and the judge will uphold."

"Mr Holmes!" Drawled the Judge's stern warning.

But Sherlock continued to advise those qualified on how they should do their job: "Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

Kitty Riley entered the courtroom having recovered from her encounter with the consulting detective. At hearing the tiny creak of the seats behind them, both Elizabeth and John looked back, both meeting a brief gaze with the journalist before looking at the court again. But Kitty recognised the evasive Elizabeth, not many would seeing as the detective was more important, even John was relatively forgettable when it came to the media but Kitty was always keen on a different angle.

"Mr Holmes," The Judge spoke again, "We’re fine without your help."

Elizabeth felt a tap on her shoulder and she turned to look at the woman, "If I'm not mistaken," Kitty whispered, "You're the detective's partner, aren't you?"

The thief's eyes narrowed, "Why's that any of your business?"

"Was hoping you'd give us a comment? A little insight into...the more human side perhaps?"

"No." She turned away, again wishing not to get involved with the media.

Kitty sat back in her seat, irritated by the fact that she was unable to get her scoop - especially when there were so many opportunities to on a day like today, but the opportunities simply weren't willing to cooperate.

The prosecuting barrister amended her question, "How would you describe this man – his character?

"First mistake." Sherlock paused, locking his gaze on Moriarty, "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."

The barrister cleared her throat, successfully unsettled, "And how long - "

"No, no, don’t - don’t do that." He rolled his eyes, "That’s really not a good question."

"Mr Holmes!" Elizabeth could have sworn she saw a vein popping out of the Judge's forehead.

"How long have I known him?" Sherlock hurriedly continued, "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." His eyes widened sarcastically at the criminal.

Jim grinned and kept chewing.

"Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?" The Judge interrogated.

But the barrister never got a chance to answer as the detective took over, "Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample."

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

"Oh, really?"

Sherlock sent his gaze towards the jury and both Elizabeth and John knew exactly what would happen next. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.

Elizabeth sighed, "Here we go..."

"One librarian, two teachers, two high-pressured jobs, probably the city. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand."

"Mr Holmes!" The judge tried to interject once again.

"Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." Sherlock looked the judge innocently again, "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr Holmes!" The judge roared, "You’ve been called here to answer Miss Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess."

Sherlock looked away, sneering as though he were ignoring a telling off from a teacher. He looked up at the audience, acknowledging John's hard stare that told him 'no', ignoring Elizabeth altogether and then shared a look with Moriarty who, as ever, appeared to be the only one entertained by his antics.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes," The judge paused to yell, "Without showing off?!"

Sherlock was bored.

He just couldn't help himself.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Straight after the session, John and Elizabeth headed down to the cells to bail Sherlock out. Elizabeth stood, swaying on her feet, messing with the silver ring on her finger, acknowledging how dull the metal looked after all these years as they waited for Sherlock to sign his release forms. John was fuming but he quashed a lot of the anger, replacing it with passive aggressive 'I told you so-s'.

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

"I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap." Sherlock replied, grabbing his things from the guard and proceeding to slip them back into his pockets as they walked away, "Well?"

"Well what?" Elizabeth asked as they travelled down the grossly yellow-lit corridor.

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

The thief shrugged, "Like you said it would be."

"He sat on his backside," John elaborated, "Never even stirred."

"Moriarty’s not mounting any defence."

*  *  *  *  *  *

Back at the flat. Home. A place where Sherlock could show off safely as the only bad things that could happen to him if somebody were pissed off by his intellect would be people walking out and/or slapping him. Elizabeth did consider the fact someone may try to kill him depending on the gravity of his deductions but she found it an unlikely concept. Most were just reduced to tears.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville." John announced as they walked into the living room, "Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why." John paused, taking a well-earned seat in his comfy chair, "All we know is..."

"...He ended up in custody." Sherlock finished, hands steepled under his chin as he looked down at John.

"Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

Elizabeth nodded, understanding, electing to stand along with Sherlock, "You’re doing the look again."

Sherlock looked between the two of them, "Well, I can’t see it, can I?"

John motioned to the mirror and Sherlock looked in it straight away, puzzled. No. He couldn't see it. He didn't get it.

"It’s my face."

"Yes, and it’s doing a thing." John said, "You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. I don’t, and it's likely Elizabeth doesn't either - "

"Well..." Elizabeth did try to think of an explanation but...couldn't really.

"Which is why I - and Elizabeth - find 'The Face' so annoying."

Sherlock sighed, "If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there."

"I thought it was too easy." Elizabeth mumbled, her gaze drifting towards the floor.

"Somehow, this is part of his scheme."

Sherlock's gaze lingered on Elizabeth.

*  *  *  *  *  *

A couple of days later, Elizabeth elected to stay with Sherlock at the flat, seeing as the detective was now banned from the court. For the most part, Sherlock lazed about in his gown, wishing the thief had gone with John who was probably her only true friend (alongside Mrs Hudson) at this point.

He couldn't look at her without thinking:  liar.

Elizabeth sat opposite him, looking at a newspaper report but glanced up at the detective a couple of times, who acutely avoided her gaze. Rustling the newspaper, she set it down on the coffee table besides John's chair.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He continued looking at the empty fireplace.

"Can we talk about us for a second?"

He opened his mouth to speak then shrugged, "A second's passed."

"Sherlock, it's figure of speech."

He didn't respond.

"Please, Sherlock. I love you, please just tell me what's wrong?" She pleaded.

The statement was true, he could tell that. But then how could someone who loved him betray him like she had? Elizabeth will get suspicious if she senses that something is different. The detective sighed, meeting her deceptive gaze.

"Nothing is wro - "

"No. Don't say that. Something must be wrong because you're just..."

"I'm 'just' what?"

"You're just not...the same. In mood, in words, you've been ignoring me, don't think I can't tell because it's stupidly obvious. Even John's been asking me what's wrong at the courts but I can't give a proper answer because I am clueless. If I have done something wrong, please, tell me. Tell me so we can fix it."

Well...there was joining a gang, being an accessory to a murder, continuing to help said gang and continuing to steal more with them. But he couldn't say any of these words. Especially not when that heavy, lying gaze of hers was so full of hurt. Clueless. He would laugh if he knew it wouldn't set her off. How could she still keep doing this, still keep lying?

He sighed, feigning genuine apology, "Nothing is wrong. I've just been...thinking...a lot." He paused, "Elizabeth, I love you too, and I apologise for being so distant. Moriarty reappearing again has...unsettled me. Last time he was here, I almost lost John."

Sherlock wished he could say all of what he said was a lie but then that would be a lie in and of itself. The only statement that wasn't true was the first thing he said.

"I just wished you talked to me about it more instead of keeping it all pent up."

And again, he noted the genuine care and affection in her tone. But how could you love someone and still lie to them?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

About a week later was the sentencing but Sherlock already had his suspicions. Moriarty wanted to be in court, wanted to show himself off to the world (but why? To instill fear? For the fame?) and therefore knew he would never be convicted. How he was not to be convicted was another question entirely.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, cross legged against one arm of the chair, looking up as he recited what he presumed to be the judge's conclusion.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence, and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty." He shut his eyes and whispered again, "Guilty."

The why was covered - the consulting criminal obviously wanted to draw attention to his talents - for what purpose he still didn't know - but it was the 'how' that irritated Sherlock most.

How would Moriarty get out of this? How would he twist the web for his own benefit? How could he not be found guilty?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"He won't be found guilty." Elizabeth muttered to John as they waited outside the court room, both sat on one of the hard marble benches.

"What? He has to be - "

"You saw the way he looked at us John." The thief pointed out, looking at the doctor, hopelessly shaking her head, "He's planned something. I know it, I know that look."

John sighed, "You're sure?"

"So sure I'm praying that I'm not."

The clerk came out of toilets, walking past the two friends, "They’re coming back."

John looked at his watch in disbelief, "That’s six minutes."

"Surprised it took them that long, to be honest." The clerk replied, "There’s a queue for the loo."

John looked at Elizabeth, incredulous, but the only expression she responded with was one of resignation.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The two couldn't get out of the courts quicker.

"I knew it." Elizabeth huffed, "God damn it, I knew it, I knew he would do this somehow."

"I just - how? How could they possibly..." John shook his head furiously, fetching his phone out of his pocket, ringing Sherlock's number and brought the phone to his ear, "Not Guilty. They found him not guilty. No defence, and Moriarty’s walked free." He paused a moment, waiting for a reply, "Sherlock, are you listening? He’s out. You - you know he’ll be coming after you. Sher - " John heard the beep as he hung up and looked at Elizabeth, "He's only just bloody gone and hung up."

Elizabeth was quiet, "For what it's worth, Moriarty's style isn't really to just appear at the flat, gun in hand, ready to shoot."

"How sure are you? I mean, you've said previously that you clearly didn't know every aspect - "

"I know enough, John. If Moriarty wants to kill Sherlock, he won't do it yet and he won't do it in such a...dull way."

*  *  *  *  *  *

After the phone call with John, Sherlock had no words for he knew what would happen next. Moriarty had a plan and there was no doubt about it that he would come to gloat. So, Sherlock Holmes did what any Englishman would do - he popped the kettle on.

While it boiled, he switched his blue gown for a simple black blazer - one had to dress their best for the Napoleon of Crime, after all. As he strolled back into the kitchen, he grabbed a china tea set and placed it on a little serving tray. Why not be hospitable to the one person that had almost killed his best friend and was responsible for making Elizabeth the way she regrettably was?

He took the tray and popped it on John's coffee table before grabbing his violin and began to play, mainly to soothe his own nerves before he met once again with Moriarty.

Bach's music cried out from the strings and as he heard the groan of the stair case he paused. He was almost here. Just a few steps away. Sherlock's goal was to remain calm and so he continued to play the sweet tune.

The door creaked open behind him.

"Most people knock. But then you’re not most people, I suppose." The detective lowered the instrument, inhaled, but still didn't dare turn to the mastermind as though he believed him to be Medusa - instead, he looked at his own reflection  in the mirror for a moment, "Kettle’s just boiled."

"Johann Sebastian would be appalled." Jim said, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket, "May I?"

Sherlock finally faced his foe, "Please."

With his bow, he gestured to John's seat but to his silent irritation, Moriarty opted for the detective's seat. If it were anyone else, he would have argued but he knew that the criminal was used to taking what didn't belong to him - people, items and money alike - so why would the situation of seating be any different?

To retain his composure, Sherlock simply finished making the tea for the two of them.

"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach," Jim held a knife against the apple in his hand, "He heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end - "

"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."

"Couldn’t cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you. That’s why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock questioned, turning to hand a cup of tea to Moriarty.

"With me," The criminal replied, taking the cup from him with an air of indifference as he stared up at the detective, "Back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." Jim grinned, unsettlingly so to the point of which the emotionless detective turned away, "You need me, or you’re nothing." He continued to explain, "Because we’re just alike, you and I – except you’re boring. You’re on the side of the angels."

"Got to the jury, of course." Sherlock stated, wishing to move the conversation along.

"I got into the Tower of London - you think I can’t worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Sherlock stood for a moment, unbuttoning his blazer as the thought dawned on him, prior to sitting down, "Cable network."

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen. And every person has their pressure point, someone that they want to protect from harm." Jim took a sip of his tea, "Easy-peasy."

Here it was, Sherlock thought, the gloating, the bragging - he wondered if he would be smug about Elizabeth's betrayal. As if reading the detective's mind, Moriarty beamed at him again.

"How's Lizzie?"

"She prefers 'Elizabeth'..." Sherlock asked himself internally as to why he was still fighting for a liar, "Still care about her then?"

Jim shrugged, "How is she?"

"Fine."

"Upset you has she?"

This question threw the detective. Did Jim know she was joining the Forty Elephants? Did Jim know about her other criminal behaviour at all? He seemed like he was still interested so why wouldn't he keep an eye on her?

"No."

"Come on," Jim smirked, "I practically raised her - call me an older sibling - you can tattle on her to me, Sherl. What's she done?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"She's been naughty though, hasn't she?" He chuckled a bit now, "Tell me what she's done."

"No."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, she's my family, I have a right to know."

"Perhaps you should have kept a closer eye on your family then."

Jim tilted his head with a sinister smile that read 'fair enough'.

Sherlock blew on his tea, "So how're you going to do it...burn me?"

"Oh, that’s the problem." Jim's eyes conveyed his relish in the situation, relishing in the fact that he knew more than the 'smart one', "The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?"

Sherlock kept gently blowing on his tea as he thought. The final problem? If he were Jim, what would he plan? Something big, something painful, not necessarily physically after the emotional and mental trauma of their last encounter. What pawns would he use to ensure his win?

"What’s the final problem? I did tell you," He paused, then saying in a sing-song tone, "But did you listen?"

Jim took another sip of his tea, setting the cup down in his saucer and then letting his hand travel to his knee. Tapping on his leg, he kept his eye contact with Sherlock until he looked away, looked to his dancing fingers. The detective peered over his cup, absorbing the binary code that he knew Jim was communicating with him.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don’t know'?"

"I dunno." Sherlock replied nonchalantly, putting his cup and saucer back on the tray.

"Oh, that's clever, that's very clever, awfully clever." Jim mocked, "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

The detective steepled his hands under his chin, "No."

"But you understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then." Moriarty insisted, biting a piece of apple off his knife.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No. I want you to prove that you know it."

Sherlock complied, "You didn't take anything because you don’t need to."

"Good."

"You’ll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good. Because...?"

"Because nothing, 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."

"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." He paused, a smug grin playing on his lips, "Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king, and honey," He shut his eyes, swaying his head to silent music, "You should see me in a crown."

"You were advertising all the way through the trial." It clicked, "You were showing the world what you can do."

"And you were helping."

Sherlock's lips frowned at this statement. John was right, he should have kept the statements simple. How stupid of him - he should have realised sooner.

"Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I’m Mr Sex." Again, Moriarty slipped a piece of apple into his mouth from off the silver knife.

"If you can break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't." Jim responded quickly, honestly, "I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Maybe that's why I kept her...but then...I made her not-so-ordinary..." Jim looked back up at Sherlock, "Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself another live-in one."

"Why are you doing all of this?"

Jim was lost in thought at the prospect of keeping another funny, little person, "It must be so funny."

"You don’t want money or power, not really." Sherlock watched Moriarty carefully as he slid the blade into the apple, "What is it all for?"

Jim sat forward, the words tumbling sadly from his mouth, quietly, "I want to solve the problem – our problem. The final problem." He looked down at the staked fruit, "It’s gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don’t be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

The psychopath mimicked the descending whistle as his head moved down in a slow nod, ending his example with a rather violent (childish) splattering and/or exploding sound, only to intensely meet his gaze with Sherlock's again.

He stood, unnerved but fortunately not showing it on his face, "Never liked riddles."

Jim stood too, still holding his gaze, "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I...owe...you."

Then the criminal left just a quietly and as curtly as he had arrived.

Sherlock picked up the pocket knife that had skewered the apple, turning it to see Jim had carved the acronym into the apple.

I.O.U.

Something big was coming.

And the fall was coming soon.

But not just for Sherlock.