Chapter Twelve: The Truth Gets Fuzzy When Your Head Feels Buzzy

'Tonight, 8pm. Be ready outside and wear something nice.'

I sigh at the text from Moriarty. Not even a hello. I am getting tired of this. My phone clatters on to the coffee table in front of me and I pick up my book again.

"Darcy, what was the name of the criminal who left Shakespeare quotes at the scene of the crime?" Sherlock yells from downstairs. Without missing a beat, I reply. "Pete Tailor."I sigh at the silence. Not even a thank you. Maybe I shouldn't even try to stop that sniper.

My eyes glance over my wall. A few notes were tacked up, and one or two photos and background information that I'd found out about the man I worked with. I need more if I want to bring Moriarty down. I need a plan.

That night, I stare at myself in the mirror. He had said wear something nice and I was tempted to turn up in sweatpants and a hoodie. But no, I will do this right. My black dress feels stiff and smells of new clothes. My makeup is a little sloppy but I tried my best. I grab my bag before walking outside. On the way past Sherlock and John's flat I strain to hear anything, but the silence said even more than anything they could have said. Out on another case together. 'They really do make a good duo,' I think, only half bitterly.

The breeze had a cold edge, but my heavy black coat keeps me warm. I might be about to execute an insane plot to take down an evil mastermind but damn it, I was going to be warm doing it. A sleek black car pulls up in front of me and I roll my eyes at the cliché. The back door opens and I get in. The driver is stone-faced and I decide to not even try to talk to him.

The drive was arduous, and I spend most of it memorising the route we take. When we eventually pull up in front of a fancy restaurant I know exactly where we were. The waiter sees me and guides me to a corner where Moriarty is sitting, half in shadow. 'How fitting,' I think. "Darcy. Nice to see you," he says, smirking as I sit down. "You too," I say, adding a giggle for good measure. Let the games begin.

"Aren't they all so ordinary? What can you tell about that guy?" Moriarty says, staring out at all the people around us. I can sense that he is testing me. "He's cheating on his girlfriend with the nice volunteer at the vet. His dog's not really sick, but the poor girl keeps paying for him to take the dog to the vet. It's kind of sad, isn't it?" I say. He smirks at me, raising an eyebrow."Oh?"I hate this, but I have to play along. "His jacket is covered in dog hair and the receipt hanging out of his pocket is from a vet. The bottom is signed 'Call me. xx Lydia.' Now, why would the vet have written that on his receipt if she wasn't seeing him? There's also the signs of more receipts sticking out of his pockets with the same kind of paper, showing that he's been back. He keeps checking his phone, showing he had no interest in his girlfriend now. The date on the receipt is from two months ago. The girlfriend is also covered in dog hair, and has only ordered a small meal showing that she is cautious with money now as she is still looking hungry, even though she used to be an extravagant spender. Just look at those nails. And the dog is completely healthy. The amount of hair on both of them is normal for a small spaniel. The girlfriend's phone's wallpaper is a photo of the dog.""Well done. I'm impressed," smirks Moriarty. I grin shyly and look down at my plate.

An hour later, I am drunkenly smiling at Moriarty over the edge of my empty wine glass. "Maybe you should slow down there," he says, only a hint of a smirk playing on his features. "Jim Moriarty telling me to slow down?" I slur. Moriarty pays the waiter and stands up, holding his arm out to me. We walk to the curb, me stumbling and him supporting me. "So back to 221B?" He asks. "That's too far. I'll be sick in the car," I whine, pouting up at him."Then we'll go to mine," he says, opening the car door for me. The drive is short and when we arrive I am taken aback. Moriarty, King of the Criminals, lives in a flat. He helps me up the stairs and we tumble into his apartment. He sits me down on his couch. "Could you get me a glass of water? I feel sick," I say. "Of course. You getting drunk was completely your own fault though.""You know that's not true Mr Moriarty. You were the one who kept filling up my glass," I giggle as he goes through the door to the kitchen. The moment he can't see me anymore, I start looking around. I had gotten this far, now all I needed to do was find some good evidence against Moriarty. "Do you want something to eat as well?" He yells from the kitchen. "No!" I giggle, sounding drunk when in fact I was rifling through papers on his coffee table. A receipt, a letter, some random paper and a few scribbles shoved into my purse and then Moriarty walks back in, handing me a glass of water.

"So, Darcy, I have a few questions..."