Author's Note:Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story. The chapter title refers to a line in the original movie: "Off the top of my head, I'd say you're looking at a Boesky, a Jim Brown [...] not to mention the biggest Ella Fitzgerald ever!" (Yeah, I'm rubbish at chapter titles.)

Make the call.

A lot of power could come from three little words. It could be given, and taken away. In this particular situation however, those three little words had proved to be the final nail in Jim Moriarty's coffin.

The call had come through almost immediately, and via a simple hacking programme, Wiggins was the one who had answered, a loose American twang in his voice.

"991 emergency response."

Behind him, Lestrade and the others quickly began to struggle into their costumes.

"Congratulations on the accent – didn't think you had it in you," Lestrade remarked as Wiggins finished the call and stood to grab at his own costume. He shrugged.

"I've got more talents than just 'acking – anyway, yours will 'ave to be just as good."

Lestrade smirked. "Not a problem."

In the vault, atop the money they planned to rob, sat Sherlock, Mary and Soo Lin. Mary, her hand tucked under her chin, sighed.

"How long do you think they'll be?"

"30 seconds," Sherlock replied. "Most likely."

Contrary to his affirmation, the elevator doors slid open. A nest of red sniper lights fell on the three's chests, but Sherlock only received the gesture with a one-shouldered shrug. John flicked a grin at the three of them.

"Night goggles on." His American accent echoed down the empty corridor. "Prepare to cut power."

The lights cut out and immediately, they all got to work. The others shoved the money into bags, Lestrade and John's voices filling the air.

""We have two – three guards – down – wait—"

"Guys! Someone's here, someone's here!"

"Take 'em down!" John fired his rifle into the air as Lestrade threw a grenade into the vault, orange briefly lighting the corridor.

"Lights!" John panted. "We need power, now!"

After that, everything had just, well, fallen into place.

Moriarty stormed down the corridor, his fists clenched tightly around his radio. He had to have had something to do with it—had to have tipped them off, or given them information. Just something. There was little to no possible way Sherlock Holmes was an innocent bystander. He was many things, but never that.

He pushed open the door to the interrogation room and Sherlock immediately fell to his feet, knocked to the ground by a swift punch to the gut. Bruiser loomed over him. He raised his hand to deliver another blow.

"My vault got robbed tonight, Mr Holmes."

Bruiser stopped, and Sherlock tilted his head up, squinting. A bruise was already forming on his jaw. "That's unfortunate."

"You had a hand in it. Didn't you?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock groaned and, drawing himself up to a sitting position, he clutched his stomach. "I was, after all, enjoying the company of your attack dog here."

Moriarty nodded once to Bruiser, who drew Sherlock up to standing in one swift action, causing another deep, painful groan to spill from the man.

"You'd better not have had a part in this, Sherlock. Because if you did—" Moriarty's voice lowered to a soft whisper. "I will skin you."

Sherlock smirked. "Luckily, I have no idea what you're talking about."

She should've blown the whistle on the whole thing. Sherlock, Irene, the job, everything. She should've gone back down to the security centre and tipped him off. Watch television. She'd tried, by God she had tried, but her mind hadn't left her alone. She'd just blindly obeyed, and for a reason she couldn't quite figure out. Maybe it was just the audacity of it all. There was Irene, stood in the middle of Moriarty's own casino, helping Sherlock rob him blind—and all with that smile on her lips and that teasing lilt in her voice. And there was the audacity of Sherlock, even daring to steal from James Moriarty. And for what?

She jumped at the sound of the phone.

"Hello?" she answered, grabbing it.

"You might wanna turn to channel 88."

She narrowed her eyes, looking around. No cameras to speak of. "Who are you?"

No answer. Simply the sound of a hung up line. Hesitantly, she switched on the television.

It was a feed to one of the many security cameras nested within the corridors of the Bellagio's cages. A door to the right opened and Moriarty, his face drawn closed in quiet anger, walked out. Sherlock followed, escorted out by Moriarty's bodyguards.

"You're free to go – however, I will give you one last chance, Sherlock." Moriarty tucked his hands behind his back and tilted his head. "Tell me where my money is."

"I don't know. But, if you want your money, I get it back to you in at least 24 hours."

"Okay. How?"

"Well, there is a condition."

"And what's that?"

"You have to give up Molly in return."

Molly frowned. That was pointless. Had he not, hours earlier, made his goodbye? Had he not told her that she deserved to be happy? On the screen, Moriarty shrugged.

"She's replaceable."

"Not to me."

Oh. The realisation came down over her in one fell swoop. He wanted her to be happy, yes; but he knew, he'd always known, that she could never be happy with James Moriarty. In a way, she'd known it herself, but had been—as was usual with her—too stubborn to admit it.

"But if you wish for your money, then here it is: I know someone – they can track down anyone you wish. I was—"

Moriarty bent back his head, blasting out a laugh. "Get out of my casino. Moran, contact the police and tell them that Sherlock Holmes is in serious violation of his parole."

A spiteful, bitter act of a man who knew he could do little else. Molly watched Sherlock turn away, advancing back down the corridor towards the exit. Unnoticeable to anyone, he glanced up, his blue eyes locking straight onto the camera. She found herself smiling. The last time that had happened, she'd been celebrating her engagement on a cruise. By the end of the cruise, she'd stepped off the boat with no fiancé. A year later, she had ended up married, to a man who was difficult, stubborn as her, irritatingly enigmatic, devastatingly handsome and loved her, wholeheartedly.

It took little hesitation for her to gather up what little things she had and leave, slamming the door behind her. Moriarty had already lost his money; if she was as replaceable as he claimed her to be, he could no doubt deal with losing her as well.

The handcuffs were snapped against his wrists, and he was steered forward to the waiting police car.

"Wait!" Her voice echoed, and her running footsteps grew closer. "Wait! That's—"

She pushed forward against the policemen, coming to a halt in front of him.

"That's my husband." For a long, single moment, she studied him. She smiled. "I watched the television."

"Anything good on?"

"Define 'good'."

Sherlock's own smile, small until that point, grew and he leaned in to kiss at her cheek.

"I'll see you in three to six months."

Outside the Bellagio, a gathering took place. It started gradually, a trickle of small nods and smiles shared between people who, according to a passing bystander, were no more than strangers, joining together to pause and witness the spectacle of Las Vegas.

The gathering only lasted a short while; one by one, the members departed, slipping into the crowded streets, each one of them wearing small smiles that, when pressed, witnesses would only ever have been able to describe as 'content'. The first to leave was a tall man, with thinning dark hair, who departed from the place with a single of his head. The last was an elderly woman, who, as the lights of the Bellagio fountain display faded away, daubed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Only two decided to remain, huddled close together.

"How do you feel?"

Mary contemplated him and his question with a smile. "Unstoppable."

Reaching forward, she cupped at John's cheek and kissed him, deeply.

Three to Six Months Later…

The London air was crisp, the leaves on the trees were faded into a darkened orange and the prison door swung closed behind him with an echoing clang. Tugging at the collar of his shirt, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and walked forward. Stood just outside of the prison fence was John, as ever dressed in an unimaginative combination of shirt, jumper and jeans. Bland, plain, unnoticeable.

"You brought what I asked?"

John nodded and silently retrieved a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. Taking them, Sherlock lit one and smiled as he tucked it between his lips and took a drag. Together, they walked towards his car. Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye.

"Other side of the street, silver saloon car. Seen them?"

"They tracked me all the way here."

"You think they could be bought off?"

"Probably."

"How much?"

"A hamburger each?" Sherlock stifled a laugh and John grinned, lightly shrugging. "Okay, maybe two."

"I hope the last few months haven't been too strenuous on you, by the way."

"Depends what you mean by strenuous," John replied, his gait and his grin giving away the nature of his thoughts. Sherlock chuckled, tapping out his cigarette on the pavement.

"You need to get yourself a girl John, if you're going to continue making those sorts of jokes."

John grinned wider and stepped around to the side of his car, opening the door. "I'm ten steps ahead of you there."

Sherlock bent slightly to see a pregnant Mary Morstan sitting in the front passenger seat, a glow about her skin and her hands rested on her belly. She smiled in greeting.

"Your friend works fast," she said, the trace of a laugh in her voice. She nodded to the back seat. "We picked up a passenger along the way – hope you don't mind."

Sherlock turned his head to be faced with Molly Hooper sitting in the backseat. She matched his cool arch of an eyebrow and he duly got into the car, settling into the back. Her wedding ring glinted in the light; it was still a perfect fit. Silently, he took a gentle hold of her hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss. She hummed in low approval.

"That suit,"—her eyes traced over his clothing—"it looks awful on you."

He was unable to hide his own smile. Reaching up, he cupped at the back of her head and leaned closer. Instinctively, she tipped her head back as their mouths touched in a long, lingering, passionate kiss. Linking his hand over Mary's, John pulled away.

The bodyguards followed on.