Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Not Guilty

Not guilty.

"Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You-you know he'll be coming after you. Sher..."

Sherlock clicked off the phone, shutting out John's voice. That was the verdict. Moriarty was not guilty; twelve ordinary citizens of varying stupidity had deemed the most dangerous criminal in England as not guilty. Sherlock boiled the kettle, set out a tea tray, adjusting the silver spoons so they rested evenly on the saucers. He filled the teapot and rested the tray on the little table beside John's red chair. He picked up his violin, deftly flicking the bow a few times in the air like a sword before resting the taut horsehair across the strings. Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor flowed from his mind to his hands and through the violin. The beautiful melody filled up the room and whispered down the stairs. A creak in the slow footsteps of Sherlock's visitor made him pause. Third step before the landing. Sherlock breathed in, preparing for battle and continued the sonata. He let a few more notes sing from the strings before he lifted his bow from the instrument. "Most people knock," Sherlock murmured, voice low and powerful. He shrugged nonchalantly, still facing the window. "But then you're not most people, I suppose." He flicked his bow over his shoulder, pointing towards the tea tray. "Kettles just boiled."

Jim Moriarty, elegantly dressed in a light suit which contrasted strangely with his pale skin and dark eyes carefully picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled," he drawled in that uncaring Irish lilt. He tossed the red apple, catching it easily. "May I?" He looked at John's chair.

Sherlock finally turned around, facing his greatest enemy, his greatest game. "Please."

Moriarty immediately dismissed John's chair and flopped into Sherlock's. He pulled out a silver penknife and edged the sharp blade along the skin of the fruit. Sherlock, slightly unnerved, began to pour the tea. "You know when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he head 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."

Moriarty tilted his head, considering the apple. "Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you," Sherlock said. "That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased." A devilish smile played on Moriarty's lips.

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock picked up one of the teacups, adding a splash of milk and gave it to Moriarty

"With me," Moriarty mused softly, "...back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain...You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I - except you're boring." He shook his head, obviously disappointed. "You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock sipped his tea, ignoring how it burned his tongue. "Got to the jury, of course."

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

"Cable network," Sherlock breathed.

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm," Moriarty explained. "Easy-peasy."

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and sat in John's chair, cup lifted to his mouth. They were playing a game of chess except there were only two kings on the board. "I want to make a deal."

Moriarty frowned, yawning loudly. "You want to take the fun out of everything."

"Clara Oswald."