Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Check Mate

"What d'you mean, 'use it'?" His brows creased, easily shifting to confusion, which happened a lot around Sherlock.

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook," Sherlock explained, staring at the cabinet.

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again." A silent wave of pride washed over him. Usually, Clara was the one to figure it out. John looked around, surely she was here, sleeping or chatting to a scientist? He gave up his search, knowing better than to bring it up in front of Sherlock. Their bloody rows would be the death of him.

Sherlock stood up, rubbing his neck, lost in thought. John hoped he hadn't noticed him looking for Clara. Or maybe he had; you never knew with Sherlock. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere – on the day of the verdict – he left it hidden..."

"Uh huh," John replied, pretending to know what was going on. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. "What did he touch?

"An apple. Nothing else." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bench.

"Did he write anything down?" He offered.

"No."

John walked away, pacing by the store cupboard. He was completely oblivious to Sherlock's eyes widening at his own fingers and the short text he quickly sent on his phone.

Come and play.

Bart's Hospital rooftop.

SH.

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

.

"John, I really don't want to talk ri...what?" Clara stopped in the street, nearly dropping her groceries. "Oh my god, I'll be right there," she said, switching off her phone and hailing the nearest cab. Mrs Hudson had been shot, Mrs Hudson had been shot. Clara's mind was a whirlwind as the cab speeded around London streets. "Can you hurry? It's an emergency," she told the driver, trying to control her breathing. Clara didn't want to think that the worst could have happened to her landlady, her friend.

.

I'm waiting...

JM.

The sunlight was burning through Sherlock's overcoat as he closed the door to the rooftop. Moriarty was calmly sitting on the edge, shoes polished to perfection and dark hair slicked back. His phone was in his hand, music blaring out of it. His foot tapped in time to 'Stayin' Alive'. "Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." He didn't look up as he spoke, relishing the music. He held the phone up higher as Sherlock paced towards him. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" He shut off the music in an angry jerk. "It's just...staying." He dragged his hand palm down through the hair, glaring at the slow movement. He drew his head into his chest, clearly vexed. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

That drew Sherlock's attention. His eyes flicked towards his enemy dangerously. "And you know what?" Moriarty continued, frustration lacing his words. "In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them." He rubbed his face, before finally giving Sherlock a glance. Moriarty was hopelessly disappointed. That was even scarier than his anger.

"Ah well," he sighed, standing up. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he began pacing around him, like a lion circling its prey. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"