"Indeed." His eyes not leaving Moriarty's face, Sherlock said, "John, I believe you just received a text."

John nodded and reached in his pocket, reading Sherlock's text. "Moriarty, why did you want to speak with me?"

"Because you're all fun and games!" He bounced on the balls of his feet. "Sherlock's more..." he rolled his eyes. "...intense."

John let out a short laugh despite himself. "That's true."

"We're out of time," muttered Sherlock, and as if on cue, the doors behind them opened, and Sally Donovan led a troop of security officers down the corridor. They had Keiran in custody. The boy twisted his arms in the grasp of the cuffs, but otherwise made no resistance as he was placed in the cell next to Moriarty. John stared at Sherlock.

Moriarty let out a laugh. "And now they have my knight. Your move, Sherlock."

"I believe that would be your king," Sherlock observed, looking up as Sally called his name.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you doing here?" She managed to make it sound like he had invaded somehow even though the prison was a publicly owned.
"Catching up on my gossip," he replied, gesturing toward the still agape door to Keiran's cell. "May I?"

"Fine." Sally stepped aside, glaring at him. "But be quick."

Sherlock stepped inside the cell and Donovan clanged the metal door shut behind him. Keiran did not look up for a long moment, but when he did, his face was pale.

"You have to believe me, Mr. Holmes," he began in a whisper. "I didn't do this alone. I didn't do it on my own."

"Who else?" Sherlock asked curtly. "No point in lying now, I have three very good ideas as to who they are, I only want confirmation."

Keiran paled. "He's over there, the man... He said he would pay us."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. Has he? I suspect that had something to do with the identity theft; large amounts of untraced money being moved about between accounts would attract attention. We are finally getting somewhere. What can you tell me about the poisonings? The yachtsman?" His eyes were glowing as he stared at the boy.

Keiran nodded woodenly as Sherlock spoke. "He paid us while the money was being transferred. Took his slice and gave us ours... And I don't know. I can't remember, Oh gosh, why can't I remember?!"He slumped to his knees and began to cry softly. The teenager looked tiny, curled into a tight ball in the corner. Sherlock watched uncomfortably as the boy sobbed.

"I have reason to believe you were not in complete control of your faculties. It is something I have experienced," he said at last, not knowing if Keiran was listening or not. Oh, goodness. What would John say to do around someone crying? Sherlock furrowed his brow in though, and then patted him on the head awkwardly. "Could you just... stop that now. Yes. That's better. Did you hear me?"

Keiran sat there for a moment before looking up at him. "Mr. Holmes, I don't want to be in jail for... the rest of my life..."

"Nobody does," Sherlock retorted, going to the door and looking about for John. His questions were answered, and he didn't know what to do further with an emotional person.

John turned and looked at Sherlock. "What did he say?"

The detective gestured helplessly. "Get him to stop," he said, adding, "It's as I suspected."

John laughed and nodded, walking into Keiran's cell. "Keiran. I need you to stop now, okay?"

The boy looked up, and swabbed at his wet face, glaring through his tears. "Would you bloody leave me alone?" he growled, his voice cracking. "And somebody call my aunt."

Sherlock volunteered, pulling out his phone and speeddialing Mrs. Hudson. "Hello?" he said. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke, her voice shaky. "Sherlock, you tell me what is happening, right now."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I intended to." Sherlock stepped out into the corridor, the door clanging shut behind him. "I'm at the prison, Keiran is here. John is with him at the present."

"What is he doing to my nephew, Sherlock?" She sounded incredulous. She knew that John wouldn't hurt him, but fear was making her irrational.

"John is talking to him; boring stuff, keeping him company, I suppose." Sherlock blinked slowly. "But he's not a murderer, apparently."

"Of course John isn't a murderer."

Sherlock threw his hand in the air. "Keiran, I meant Keiran, of course! You'll be happy to hear it."

She almost burst into tears as she heard the news. "Oh thank God!" she whispered on her end of the phone.

"Well, you could thank me," Sherlock replied dryly. "I did prove it."

Mrs. Hudson just laughed indulgently at his remark. "Sherlock, you have no IDEA how much this means to me." She laughed again with relief before ending the call.

Sherlock held the phone to his ear a few moments longer before realizing she had hung up. "John?" he called. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, I believe so" John responded as he exited the cell. "Are we done here?"

Sherlock took one last look at Moriarty, grimacing behind bars, and nodded. "I believe so. Where to, John? Baker Street?"

John smiled. "I could use some rest."

Sherlock looked down at him. "Rest? What for?"

John looked at the detective, incredulous. "Well, I've got a long night ahead of me, what with typing this up on my blog!"

Sherlock laughed. "It's not over, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"You're never going to completely keep up on that blog of yours." Sherlock shoved open the door of the facility and waved down a passing cab, waiting for John to clamber in first.

John complied. "Sherlock, how did you know?"

Sherlock looked out the window. "Know what?"

"That he wasn't the culprit. I mean, I get the bit with Moriarty's name, but what made you suspect?"

Sherlock looked back at John. "Have you not been paying attention at all?" He exhaled. "Let me write this post for your blog. At least then it will make sense."

John sighed. "You can write a footnote."

The detective looked thoughtful for a moment. "It won't do to have the footnote longer than the actual blog post." Then he cracked a grin.

John laughed along as the cab rolled to a stop in front of 221b. "No, I don't suppose it would."

They alighted on the sidewalk, which was damp from the drizzle that was beginning to descend over the London evening, and then entered the flat. As the door shut upon the two, the knocker gave a weak little nudge at the wood, and hung crooked from its hinge.

FINIS