Irene was bored at 221b. There was no doubt about it. On a normal day, she wouldn't have let Sherlock go off into London by himself, leaving her at the flat like some commonplace woman left to tend to the home.

Nevertheless, as she always did, Irene had a reason.

She and Sherlock had returned to the flat after their time at the crime scene, and the two had done nothing incredibly exciting. Sherlock shut himself up (being sure to lock the door for fear of his chastity) in his bedroom and slept. Molly had disturbed his mind, and all he wanted to do was think. Irene was equally employed: she lounged on the sofa looking at her cell phone. Twitter wasn't going to update itself.

Scrolling through the feed made her bored after about a half hour, and she ended up setting her phone down on the floor. Closing her eyes, she stretched out on the sofa and let herself go limp.

Knock, knock, knock.

Her phone emitted the said noise and buzzed from the floor. Absentmindedly, she reached down to pick it up. The grin spreading across her face was trouble incarnate, and the message she read twisted it into devilry:

Hi.

JM x

She laughed under her breath. Her fingers hastened to reply, and they tapped the screen furiously.

Good Afternoon.

IA

She kept her phone open, watching as the message was "read" and Moriarty formed his response from the other end.

Is he dead yet?

JM x

Good things come to those

who wait, dear Jim.

IA

Obviously.

JM x

So be patient.

IA

I know.

JM x

I think he's in love already.

IA

Not like he ever stopped.

JM x

I'm flattered.

IA

I saw him kiss you.

JM x

I know. Wasn't it clever?

IA

I couldn't believe he actually

had his hands on you.

JM x

He's forgotten his own advice.

IA

What advice?

JM x

Just something he told me

when we first met.

IA

Have you forgotten yours?

JM x

No.

IA

I know.

JM x

He's leaving in a few.

IA

Oh...?

JM x

To St. Bart's.