The tourist stands alone beneath the overcast sky, hands in his hoodie pocket, a cheap "I ♥ London" cap tugged low over his brow. Earbuds dangle lazily from his ears — playing nothing. He's chewing gum. Watching.
To anyone passing, he’s nobody. A backpacker. A foreigner, maybe. Harmless.
But then, with a lazy swipe across his phone screen, the CCTV feed for the Tower of London flickers — then dies.
He strolls in. No rush. Security doesn’t stop him — not until it’s too late.
Inside, red lasers slice the dimness like a spiderweb. Guards yell. Alarms shriek. But he’s already in.
You sit perched on the velvet arm of the throne like a porcelain doll — motionless, composed, gloved fingers resting elegantly in your lap. Dressed in shadows and satin, you’re less an accomplice, more an accessory. A muse. A warning. One that doesn’t speak unless it’s to wound.
Moriarty takes the throne like it belongs to him.
The Crown rests crooked on his head, a grin too wide on his lips. Diamonds sparkle like broken teeth where the glass once stood. A single phrase is smeared in dust and blood across the inside of the display case:
"GET SHERLOCK."
Guards pour into the chamber too late. Guns drawn. Confused. Powerless.
Moriarty glances at the room — at the chaos he choreographed. He leans back, draping an arm around your waist, fingers tapping the silk of your outfit like a bored conductor.
Jim (quietly, to no one in particular): "No rush."
Time Skip — Old Bailey, Days Later
The courtroom is hot. Packed. Electric with tension.
The world watches as the man who walked through national security like mist sits untouched, untouchable, in the defendant’s chair.
You’re there, too — this time several rows back, veiled and composed, still and silent. His shadow.
On the stand: Sherlock Holmes. Posture stiff. Gaze sharp.
PROSECUTOR: "Mr. Holmes, can you identify the man who breached the Tower of London, The Bank of England, and the Pentonville Prison — all within minutes?"
SHERLOCK (coldly): "Yes. James Moriarty. A criminal consultant."
Moriarty flashes a smile, resting his chin on his fingertips. He doesn’t look at Sherlock. He looks at you.
And then, impossibly — he’s found not guilty. A subtle smirk. A breath of relief from you. Applause — from no one.
Later — 221B Baker Street
It’s raining. The city sighs beneath it.
Sherlock paces the flat like a storm cloud in a suit, violin untouched, tea cold. John watches him from the armchair, not speaking. Not yet.
Then — footsteps on the stairs. Not Mrs. Hudson. He stops. The door creaks open.
There he is. Rain-kissed. Smiling like the devil got bored in Hell and came up for a laugh.
And you — behind him, dry, collected, eyes a weapon in your skull.
MORIARTY (arms wide): "Did you miss me?"
SHERLOCK: "..."
MORIARTY: "Oh come on, you know me. I'm me."
He sits in Sherlock's chair — legs crossed, fingers steepled — like he owns the room. You lean against the bookshelf, still saying nothing.
MORIARTY: "The court believed me. So should you. Or don't. It's more fun that way."
Sherlock doesn't answer. You do. With a smile — quiet, unreadable, dangerous.