I was half tempted to chuck Sherlock's phone out of my hand as though it was a ball of fire.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the name that stared me in the face. My heart ran a marathon in my chest. That name was one I never wanted to see or hear ever again.

It was too late now.

And did Sherlock know of my past? His comment involving the words your boyfriend made me wonder if he'd figured it out. Or I could just be overreacting and he used the words sarcastically. Yeah, let's go with that.

"John, get dressed, we're going," Sherlock said suddenly, snapping me out of my dazed stupor.

With a nod of acknowledgement, John sauntered off. Sherlock removed himself from the kitchen, plucking his phone from my hands. I flinched, slipping into the den area.

It looked like your typical apartment den room. It had the necessities: a few chairs, a loveseat, a fireplace. Things were scattered everywhere, papers mostly, and books. Two laptops were lying around. I quickly looked away when I saw a skull perched on the mantle of the fireplace. I also ducked around the hanging dummy.

Yellow spray-paint on the wall to my right caught my attention. Floating above the loveseat was a yellow smiley face. My brows furrowed. I walked towards the childish art, looking closer. My eyes bugged as I noticed there were bullet holes in the wall.

"Do I want to know what happened here?" I flicked a thumb towards the bullet-worn wall.

"I was bored," Sherlock said simply.

"You painted a smiley on the wall and shot at it because you were...bored?" I knew the news constantly went on about Sherlock's unnatural ability to figure things out. That certainly wasn't the only thing unnatural about him.

I mean, shooting a wall out of boredom? Who did that?

My mind quickly changed from bullet-ridden smileys to that name. Jim Moriarty. I didn't know whether to fear the name or be angry with it.

"You arriving here wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Moriarty, would it?" Sherlock questioned me.

"Why would you think that?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"No," I said shortly.

"Either you're lying or you're annoyed."

"I'll give you two guesses." I tapped my foot on the floor. "I haven't seen or heard from him since that time."

"How can I believe you?"

"Don't you remember what happened that night?"

"It doesn't necessarily mean that you weren't on his side. You could have been putting on an act, like you could be now."

I rolled my eyes. "There is such a thing as being wrong, you know." I hated the smugness in his voice as he accused me of being currently involved with Jim Moriarty.

"How's your shoulder?"

I winced. "Like you actually care."

"Stop instigating her, Sherlock," John warned him as he came out dressed and ready to go. I smiled at him, thankful he was defending me. "You don't want to get on her bad side."

Sherlock sniffed. "As if she could do anything to me."

"You forget I'm decent with a gun," I chimed.

"Your aim is off, if I remember correctly. And you can't call yourself decent when you have only shot a gun once in your life."

"Sherlock," John urged. "You wanted to go so badly, so let's go."

"Wait," I interrupted. I didn't know why the idea came into my mind. "Do you mind if I tag along?"

"Why would you want to?" Sherlock pressed me. "Do you want to reunite with him?"

"God no."

"Then why—"

"Don't question me; just let me go with you." To prove my point further, I dropped my duffel bag on the floor. "Since you clearly won't help me find my dad, it's the least you can do."

"Just let her, Sherlock. She won't do anything," John said.

Sherlock didn't look very pleased, but he didn't say that I should be kicked out of 221B and catch a taxi back to the airport.

* * *

"Hold on," said a silver-haired man as we arrived at the Tower of London, "who's this?" He bobbed his head towards me. He came off as a weary guy. He had to be some form of police here in London. I wondered if crime here was more frequent and rougher than it was in any state back in America.

"She's with us," John told him.

"I'm Rachel." I held out my hand.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man introduced himself, taking my hand. I threw him a shy smile. "Do I want to know how you ended up coming along?"

"Probably not."

We four entered the Tower, heading straight for the area where the security footage was recorded and monitored. I felt a twinge of excitement. This wasn't a dream of mine, to get involved in something like this. I had had a taste of something similar before. The two incidents shared only one common thing, and his name was Moriarty.

Once we were in the room, Lestrade got the footage rolling. We all watched the black and white images as they played for us. I kept my hands under my armpits so they wouldn't bother each other. I didn't want to give away that I was nervous, but if Sherlock was watching, he probably would notice anyway. If the signs weren't obvious to everyone, they would somehow be obvious to him.

We were watching Moriarty as he executed the perfect plan of clearing the place out to get himself trapped alone in the room. It was so weird seeing him in casual wear. All the times I'd seen him he was dressed like a business man. He had to have thought this through for a while; things looked to be falling so easily into place. That's how he was when I knew him, he was a plotter.

Moriarty was now at the glass case that protected very expensive jewels. He was crushing a piece of gum to the glass—for what reason, I didn't know. He looked to be spending a little more time with it, putting something in it.

"That glass is tougher than anything," Lestrade commented.

"Not tougher than crystallized carbon," Sherlock countered. "He used a diamond."

I shot the consulting detective an odd stare. Though it would sound strange coming from anyone's mouth, coming from his, it didn't sound as unusual.

Lestrade adjusted the footage, showing it to us from a different perspective. We were looking from the perspective of another camera, this one on the other side of the glass. Lestrade had the video in reverse. We watched as the glass rose back into place, repairing itself before our eyes. Moriarty's extinguisher was also pulled out of where the glass now was.

My lips parted as I saw there were words scrawled on the glass. They were as clear as the glass that was now repaired via video. From our previous angle, we wouldn't have been able to read the message—not unless we could read backwards. Moriarty wrote his message backwards so the camera we were staring at now could show it to us properly.

The message was only two words, but for some reason, it chilled me to the bones: GET SHERLOCK. All the letters were capitalized, and within the "o", Moriarty scribbled in a smiley. I felt bile rise in my throat.

I stole a glance at John and Sherlock. John was glaring at his roommate, but Sherlock was focused on the screen.

"Where is he now?" I dared to ask.

"We've got him. He didn't resist," Lestrade told me.

I shook my head, my eyes still stuck on the video. Just what is your game, Moriarty? You're always playing one. He had been playing one long before I met him. He had played one with me, and I hadn't known it until it was too late.

Something seemed wrong about this picture. Why would he accept capture so willingly?

* * *

It turned out that Moriarty had broken into three places in total: the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison.

How was it possible? Well, he does have lots of friends. But still, what was the point? He took no money from the Bank, no jewels from the Tower, and no prisoners had gotten free from the prison. What was there to gain if nothing was taken?

My brain hurt from mulling it over on the cab ride back to 221B. Oh crap, once I'm there, I've got to find a place to stay. I knew night would be falling soon. I remembered my encounter with London's nightlife. I knew I wouldn't run into Moriarty on the streets, but the same could not be said for predators lurking in alleyways.

I could take all the taxis I wanted to a hotel. I would at some point have to get out, by myself.

I followed John and Sherlock back into their apartment. Once inside, I gathered my duffel bag, nearly tottering to one side and falling over.

"You're leaving so soon?" John asked me.

"Of course she is," Sherlock snapped.

I ignored his comment. "I've got to find some place to stay before nightfall. I'll have to find the nearest places on my iPod." Speaking of the device, I unlocked it and connected to the Wi-Fi, pulling up Google. "I didn't think to book ahead of time."

"How could you not think of that?" asked Sherlock.

"Hold on. You don't have to do that," John told me.

"Huh?" I looked up from my iPod. I was halfway typing hotels in London.

"You can stay here."

"John." Sherlock's tone became dangerous.

"Really?" I stammered. The three of us didn't know each other; we'd only met twice in our lives.

"Your stuff is already here," John reminded me.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's not," Sherlock voiced.

"Behave," John retorted. He looked at me calmly. "Really, it's no trouble."

"That's not what he believes." I flicked a thumb at Sherlock.

"Well, it doesn't matter what he believes or says to you, I'm offering you a place to stay."

"Or she can find the next flight out of London back to America," Sherlock suggested. "There should be some."

"I'm not leaving," I said defiantly. "Not when Moriarty's got a trial coming up in a few months. I want to be there to see him locked up for good."

"Oh yes, because that's a smart idea, attending the trial of a man who probably hasn't forgotten you and what you've done. If he sees you, you'll regret going to the trial."

"He won't be focused on his audience," I said simply. I turned my attention to John. "Now, about me staying...How long can I get away with?"

"As long as you need." John smiled.

"She's not staying here for free, John," Sherlock reminded him bitterly.

"I was actually going to ask about payment," I said.

"We'll figure that out," John assured me. "You can take my room, I'll sleep out here."

"You don't need to do that." I flushed. "Really, sleeping on the couch is fine. And by the way, since I'm staying here, that," I pointed to the dummy hanging, "needs to go." Sherlock made a noise of annoyance, I ignored his moody behavior. I had a feeling this was something I'd have to endure for some time.

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable enough?" John asked me.

"Oh, yeah, sure. It won't bother me." I looked at the furniture warily, remembering the shot smiley above it. "I just hope Sherlock doesn't get bored during the night."