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."
"Oh, I miss her. Little Clara...always up to tricks." A deadly gleam resonated from Moriarty's eyes.
"I want her out of the equation."
"Sorry," Moriarty sang, his voice childlike. "No can-do. She's too much fun. Plus, that silly stunt at the pool..." He shook his head, "No, no, no, no, she is the equation, lover boy.
"So how are you going to do it...burn me?" He blew on his tea softly but deliberately.
Moriarty seemed to smile slightly. "Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? I did tell you...but did you listen?" He idly drummed his fingers on the armrest. Sherlock's jaw twitched. "How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"
"I dunno," he replied smoothly, nonchalantly.
Moriarty chuckled in his superior tone but his eyes remained empty as the night sky. "Oh, that's clever; that's very clever - awfully clever." Sherlock smiled humorlessly, resting his cup back on the tray. "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"
"Told them what?"
"I'm sure little Clara is dying to know - why I broke into those places and never took anything."
"No."
"But you understand."
"Obviously."
"Off you go then," Moriarty prodded. He carved a piece of an apple with the flat of his silver pen knife and biting down on it, relishing it. Sherlock paused, taking a second. So Moriarty wanted Clara to be part of the game, and Sherlock couldn't get her to stay away. A conundrum in itself.
"You want me to tell you what you already know?"
"No - I want you to prove that you know it."
Fine, Sherlock thought, I'll play. "You didn't take anything because you don't need to."
"Good," Moriarty commended, like Sherlock was the student and he was the teacher.
"You'll never need to take anything ever again..."
"Very good. Because...?" Moriarty was sitting on the edge of his seat, grinning like a madman.
"Because nothing ... nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."
"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world with locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown." Moriarty smiled in delight.
Sherlock frowned, he was slow, too slow. The important things were only coming into his head now. Idiot. "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."
"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me." He sliced off another piece of apple, a small droplet of juice dripping to the carpet. "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."
"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"
"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one. But I think one like Clara would be so much more exciting, at least for a while."
"Why are you doing all of this?" Sherlock was sick of him mentioning Clara like he was considering buying a pot plant.
Moriarty was staring into space, his eyes alight. "It'd be so funny."
"You don't want money or power – not really." Sherlock watched as Moriarty dug into the apple with blade, carving across the red skin. "What is it all for?"
"I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem." His voice was soft, melodic. He lowered his head, becoming sombre. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall." He looked up whistling as his eyes trailed back down the ground, imagining someone falling. "But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."
Sherlock sniffed in annoyance. "Never liked riddles."
They stood up, matching each other's murderous glare. Sherlock bared his teeth slightly, thinking of the danger Clara would be in.
Moriarty locked eyes with Sherlock - black pits on pale oceans. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I...owe...you." Sherlock didn't move as Moriarty brushed past him, footsteps whispering down the stairs. The apple was still sitting on the armrest, knife stabbed into the core. Sherlock picked it up. I O U had been carved into the red surface, exposing the white flesh beneath. Sherlock's lip quirked up into the beginning of a smile. It was terribly fun to battle with Moriarty.
.
Clara's feet slapped across the pavement as she marched down the street; a woman with a mission. She was meeting Molly again for some girl-to-girl talk. Clara always found it refreshing, talking about silly things with another female. Most of her time was spent racing after a man in a long coat and arguing with half of Scotland Yard. At least with Molly, Clara could complain about her new pair of shoes or discuss the new fashion trends. It made her feel like she was back in middle school again, gushing about cute boys. Clara stopped, spying a familiar black car pulled up at the curb. "You have got to be kidding me," Clara sighed, looking at the grey cloudy sky.
She opened the door, sliding in next to Anthea. Clara could never quite work out what Anthea's job was. She was always busy on her phone, her painted nails clacking on the street in double time. "I like your dress," Clara said, even though Anthea wore a similar black dress every time they encountered each other. Anthea allowed Clara a glance in her direction before turning back to her phone.
"Would you ever want to..." Clara started, choosing her words carefully. A deep blush was circling around her throat and up to her cheeks. There was no harm in trying - Anthea was a very beautiful lady.
"I have a girlfriend," Anthea snapped quickly. But at least she paused in her rapid texting.
Clara sighed. How could this day get any worse?
The Diogenes Club brought back a lot of memories. The first time Clara had been here, she'd punched one of the staff, giving him a blood nose. It wasn't her fault that no one told her it was strictly a silent venue. Mycroft's office was ornate with leather upholstered chairs and bookshelves made of deep red wood. Clara stopped when the door clicked behind her.
"Doctor," She greeted stiffly. He'd taken her by surprise - sitting in one of the lavish chairs, reading glasses on the edge of his nose and an upside down newspaper. Mycroft sat behind his desk, chin propped on his hands. "Should've guessed," Clara muttered. Of course Mycroft knew about the Doctor. Was there anything he didn't know?
"My people work very closely with UNIT," Mycroft explained.
"Of course they do," Clara replied. "You read this stuff?" She exclaimed, pointing at 'The Sun' newspaper on a small table.
"Caught my eye," Mycroft shrugged.
Clara sat down in one of the armchairs, eyeing the Doctor and Mycroft. It was strange, seeing her Alien life and Detective life in one room. They seemed like two magnets, repelled against each other's charge.
Mycroft stood up, handing Clara a file. Clara opened it, instantly looking at the photograph paper clipped to the top of the page. "Who's that?" Clara asked, looking at both of them.
"Don't look at me, I'm just here for the biscuits," the Doctor grumbled, stuffing a ginger biscuit into his mouth.
"Never seen this face before?" Mycroft prodded. Clara frowned. Should she know this mysterious stranger? "He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from 221B."
"Lovely, John and I were thinking about doing a drinks thing for the neighbours," Clara smiled.
Mycroft smirked snidely. "Not sure you'll want to. Sulejmani - Albanian hit squad. Expertly trained killer living less that twenty feet from your front door."
"It's a great location," Clara muttered sarcastically. "Jubilee line's handy."
"Clara," Mycroft warned.
Clara let the file sit limp in her lap. "What's it got to do with me?"
Mycroft handed her another file. "Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite."
"Okay..." Clara said, her voice edging with her nerves.
Mycroft spilled more files into her arms. "In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?"
Clara smiled briefly, unsure what to say. "I'm moving?"
Mycroft just narrowed his eyes. "It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"
"You think it's Moriarty?" Clara's gut twisted. Moriarty had just disappeared after the trial, no one had seen or heard of him since.
"He promised Sherlock he'd come back."
"If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already," Clara countered.
"If not Moriarty, then who?"
"Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him? He never tells me anything," Clara snapped, closing the file shut. Mycroft looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh God, don't tell me."
"Too much history between us, Clara. Old scores; resentments."
"Nicked all his smurfs?" Clara asked, a delicate brow arched in question. "Broke his action man?"
Mycroft glowered at her. "I have a proposal for you..." He walked over his desk, picking up a yellow envelope. "Just till all of this blows over..."
Clara opened it, a passport, a credit card, new driver's license and a plane ticket. "I'm staying, Mycroft," she told him, angrily, stuffing the documents back into the envelope.
"This was Sherlock's plan, but I - we," he corrected, glancing at the Doctor, "have another."
Clara turned to the Doctor. Her best friend. "I do have a time machine," he murmured, closing his newspaper.
Clara's lips parted, her brows drawing together. "So, what - I'll skip to the future with you? What if John's dead, what if Mrs Hudson's dead, what if Sherlock's dead?" Clara shook her head, trying to compose herself. "I can't leave them knowing that when I come back, they're not there." He's not there.
"And what if he get's you killed?" the Doctor asked, his eyes so demanding, so full of worry. "What if his stupid battle with that silly human goes sideways?"
Clara stood up. She couldn't believe this. Mycroft employed her to look after Sherlock and now he's telling her to run away and not look back. "At least then I'd die knowing I tried to save them, that I was brave, that I wasn't a coward!" She marched out, throwing the files to the floor, not caring that the top secret information spilled out of them onto the carpet.