The Trial of James Moriarty

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"That glass is tougher than anything." Lestrade said. He, Alex, John, and Sherlock were watching the security footage of Moriarty. He was in jail, awaiting trial.

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

A few weeks later, the three of them were getting dressed to go to the trial. Alex was wearing a blue shirt with a black skirt and Sherlock and John were wearing suits. Sherlock stopped them at the door to the flat. He looked at John and Alex.

"Ready?" He asked.

"Yeah." Alex nodded.

"Yes." John said.

John opened the door. There was so much press. A policeman helped them get through. Alex covered her face, trying not to be seen. Pictures were being snapped and questions were being shouted at them. All three of them got into the car that was waiting for them. Sherlock looked out the window. He silently took Alex's hand. Alex looked up at him.

"Hey, it'll be okay." She whispered. "Just remember what we've told you. Don't try to be clever. Just keep it simple and brief."

"Confident the star witness is charged to come across as intelligent." Sherlock said.

"Intelligent, fine." John said.

"I'll just be myself." Sherlock said.

"Are you even listening to us?" Alex said.

They got to the court house and got out of the car. There were so many Sherlock Holmes fans. The trio had to fight their way to get into the building. Sherlock looked to Alex and John.

"I'll either see you in there, or be right back. I have to go to the bathroom." He said.

"TMI." Alex said.

Sherlock smiled at her and left. As he was washing his hands, he looked into the mirror and stopped dead. There was a young, red haired woman standing behind him. He kept his cool and dried his hands.

"You're him." The woman said.

"Wrong toliet." Sherlock said.

"I'm a big fan." The woman said. "I read your cases, I follow them all. Sign, my shirt, would you?"

She tried to hand him a marker. Sherlock refused to take it.

"There are two types of fans." He said.

"Oh?" The woman said.

"Catch me before I kill again, type A." Sherlock said.

"And what's type B.?" The woman asked.

"My lips are only a few inches away." Sherlock said.

"What type am I?" The woman asked.

"Niether." Sherlock said.

"Really?" The woman said.

"No, you're not a fan at all." Sherlock said. "Those marks on the edge of your forearm, the edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry probably, pressure on, facing a deadline."

"That all?" The woman asked.

"There's a smudge of ink on your wrist and the buldge in your left jacket pocket." Sherlock said.

"Bit of a giveaway." The woman said.

"The smudge is deliberate. It's to see if I'm as good as they say I am." Sherlock said. He sniffed her wrist. "Hm. Oil base. Used in newspaper print. Drawn on with an index finger, your finger. Journalist. Unlikely you get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me."

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