"Soho", Sherlock murmured towards the cab driver. "Make it quick". The driver nodded, turning the taxi off the pavement.

"Anywhere in particular? Soho's a big place", he asked in a gruff voice.

"Restaurant..." Sherlock murmured, trying to infer where it could be. "I'm looking for a restaurant. New opening, about four months".

"Four months? Uh..." the driver hummed. "There's one that set up shop around the dodgy end. Wouldn't recommend it, heard it's a drug dealer's paradise 'round there".

"What's it called?"

"Some weird German name. Reichen-something". Sherlock sighed; at least he had found Foxglove, but did she really have to dig up the past.

"Reichenbach".

"Yeah, that's the one. Bit of a mouthful if you ask me", the driver droned, and then pulled the cab to a stop opposite the restaurant. "Usual damage, Mr. Holmes". Sherlock threw a five pound note into the front seat and got out. In front of him loomed his destination, a metal sign nailed into the door reading 'The Reichenbach' symbolising it. He heard a hum of the taxi leaving behind him, but paid no attention and, without reluctance, stepped through the door. The sight of a man, dressed in a shirt and with shaggy brown hair, sitting behind the bar greeted him

"What can I get you, Mr. Holmes? She'll be with you in a moment", he bellowed. Sherlock eyed him from a few feet away. Steady hands, dirt under the fingernails, manual labourer, probably a builder. Needle scars: frequent heroin taker. Left handed; the scars are in the right arm. Has a string of lovers, from the concoction of perfume that's still traced on his shirt collar.

"I don't believe I know you, so how do you know me?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't know you?" the man laughed. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes to be precise". The man heard a whistle, and he composed himself, gesturing to a door beside him. "She'll see you now". Sherlock furrowed his brow, then went through gingerly.

:/:

"Lestrade, I need a favour", John exclaimed, knocking on the glass door of Greg Lestrade's office. He could see the police detective through it, with his head resting on his keyboard.

"And I need a week off", he responded, and lifted himself from the desk. He invited the doctor in, and sighed.

"There's been a suicide, on the south bridge. We need to get a rescue team in there".

"South bridge, huh? You won't need a rescue team, you'll need an undertaker".

"The river's over freezing point at this time of the year. If the man keeps himself buoyant and landed straight, then there is a chance that he survived".

"Careful, you're starting to sound like Sherlock", Greg replied. "Where is he anyway?"

"Going off on a tangent...on his own".

"That's dangerous. Last time he did that he threw himself off a hospital building".

"Look", John said, getting impatient. "There's a man possibly dying out there. We need to get out there now". Greg sighed, and murmured something through the glass towards another policeman.

"How's the murder investigation coming along?" Greg asked, trying to change the subject.

"We think it's asphyxiation, but we're still working on it".

"Wouldn't be the first".

"You're meaning to tell me there's more? Why didn't you say?"

"Because they weren't murders. They all died naturally", Greg explained. "Three of 'em. One was waiting for a heart transplant, one in their nineties and another drug addict and alcoholic. We didn't think there was anything suspicious about it. But if the want the names, they're all yours". He dove into his drawer and passed a file his way. "Right then, rescue team. Let's go".

:/:

Sherlock studied the room he was in. It was dully-lit from two wall lamps, and a long conference table stood in the centre. The floors were grey tiles, the walls white, with scratches across them. Some of them had been covered up with paintings; depictions of Heaven and Hell, angels and demons; wicked souls, half skeletor, still with their clothes clinging to their bones, climbing through the ground into the land of the living. Sherlock could've found detail in every centimetre, but his attention was stolen by the woman, sitting at the table, with her feet up on it. She sat picking at her nails, seemingly completely unaware of his arrival. Sherlock was about to say something, but she beat him to it.

"You took your time", she murmured, looking up at him with glassy emerald eyes. "I thought it would've taken the consulting detective a little shorter to find me. God knows I wasn't hiding that well".

"You're Foxglove?"

"We can go with that if you want. I do quite like that name, it's very... appropriate", the woman lulled, with a smirk across her painted lips. "So, go on. You must have deduced something about me by now. Impress me". Sherlock tilted his head, looking at the woman in front of him.

"Why should I? For all I know you could just want to taunt before killing me".

"Well, all the more reason for you to bide your time", she replied, and Sherlock nodded.

"You're Irish, came across a few years ago, judging from your accent; slightly broken by living in London for a while. You wear heavy makeup, and have recently styled hair, therefore you have time, so you're either unemployed or trying your hardest to hide something. Since such expenses can't be covered by someone out of work, the latter is true. You use your appearance as a façade, possibly to hide your emotions over something. I'm guessing that I have something to do with it, as you wouldn't have brought me here. So, what is it?"

"Moriarty", Foxglove said simply, and Sherlock furrowed his face into confusion.

"Yes, what about him?"

"He's dead", Foxglove replied with a laugh, but didn't seem to have been amused. The laugh was more sour, like she was angered by the fact. Sherlock sighed, frustrated.

"If you just brought me here to tell me that, then this has been a waste of time. Trust me, I do not need you to tell me this. I was there".

"You didn't let me finish", Foxglove cut in, and took her boots off the table. She leaned across the table, so that she was face to face with the detective and smiled. "Let me deduce something, Mr. Holmes. You helped Moriarty fake his death, you know where he is". Sherlock frowned; what was this woman talking about? "So, to avoid any unpleasantness, tell me where he is, now".

"You'd threaten London, for Moriarty? How-".

"I'm not a threat to London, I assure you. As long as nobody crosses my path, nobody will be hurt", she answered, with a contradicting malicious smile. "I suggest you take my advice".

"I do not know where James Moriarty is, or what happened after he committed suicide. For all I care he could be rotting in some cemetery". Foxglove cackled.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. I think that was a lie", she lulled with a raised eyebrow. "James Moriarty was your equal. The Lucifer to your God, and no one could ever match the chaos that he could bring".

"Someone will try".

"Of course. Your very power invites challenge", Foxglove said, leaning back in her chair, with a knowing gaze. "And I know someone whose been interested in you for a while. Heard of Charles Augustus Magnusson?"

"He's the Napoleon of blackmail. He finds your pressure point and works on it until you crack. My brother warned me of him a few years ago".

"Well then, I'll step in for brother dearest... Watch your back". Sherlock walked around the table, until she was directly in front of him.

"Who are you, Foxglove?" Sherlock asked. "Because I'm certain a family wouldn't be naming their child after a lethally poisonous flower". Foxglove's eyes darted until they met the detective's.

"It must be so strange. To be a man who knows everything, and yet know nothing at all".

"Answer the question".

"The name's Selene Moriarty", she lulled, and ignored the widening eyes of Sherlock. "And I want my brother back".

:/: