Moran wakes early. It's an army leftover, a habit he never could shake. And with so little else to do of an early morning, he walks down the street for the paper.

Takes one look at the headlines and the picture beneath and groans, "Fuck's sake…" Between the corner shop and his own front door he takes his phone from his pocket and dials. The one number he never saved and the one number which, to his dismay, he knows by heart. And as ever, this time of the morning, he waits a long lot of rings for the answer.

"Hello?"

"James. And how do I find you this fine morning?"

"…Okay. I'm having stew. You should come over."

"It's half-seven."

"It's third day stew, it's going to turn very soon."

"You haven't seen a paper, by any chance, have you?"

"No, Sebastian, the lights are off."

"Well, get on a fucking computer and look at the front page, would you?"

"Which paper?"

"Any of them."

"…You sound really angry, Sebastian, are you alright?"

"Sweet Jesus Christ," he mutters. Hangs up and kicks in the lock of his own door. That fucking idiot can't just take a bloody holiday, can he? Cops are going to have a fucking field day…

Lestrade got the call in the earliest of hours. And he hates the earliest of hours because that means the hacks are all out to get a front page before the presses have gone too far to change it. Get a call about four in the morning, it's not so bad. You've got til the lunchtime news if they call at four in the morning. But as it was, Christ, the journos were there before he was.

The journos were wishing they weren't there before he was.

Her wrists had been tied to the parted branches of a tree, ankles lashed to the trunk. Hanging forward so that, when her throat was cut, the blood fell not on her, but squarely on the ground beneath her. Ground where the grass was just starting to grow back. Where the splatter had jumped up and caught on the engraved letters of a headstone.

The overall effect one of crucifixion, of sacrifice.

He approached, because he had to, because it's his job. Getting closer, noticed something where the victim's baggy sweater hung away from her body, and with the end of a pen lifted up the hem to look.

In black biro, something written between the base of her ribs and her navel. Large letters, right way up, meant to be read.

'Bored now,' it said. 'Come and play'.

He dropped the hem again, tried to act as though he'd seen nothing at all. Cast an eye over the journalists, prowling like jackals but in the same sleepy haze as he had been until just a minute ago. Only cautiously did he leave them behind. Pulled out a phone, dialled a number he was told, once, to memorize.

Yawning, confused, "Hello?"

"Molly, you're not working the graveyard shift by any chance, are you?"

"No."

"You are now."

"No, I can't, I've got-"

"It has to be you, Molly."

"…Oh."

Her morning ritual. Tea in the café. Danish pastry, her one daily weakness, her present to herself. A newspaper someone else has left behind on the table. Her phone put away and begged not to ring. One lone half-hour of simply Anthea, before Mycroft's car arrives, before perfection, before Everything In Its Place.

She casts her eyes about, as she walks in. Trying to spot that abandoned paper, as usual, but trying too to spot that girl. No reason why. Just that she was there yesterday, had never been there before. Was so strange. Something about her hunted and arresting. She said her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth King. Said it as though it meant something to her, as though it was all she had, something she held very, very dear. Anthea understood. Anthea knew what that was, to cling to the intimate, the personal.

The naming of cats, she thinks, not quite knowing why, is a curious thing.

And she can't remember the rest exactly, but it's something about cats having three names. Two of these names are known. One is known only to the cat.

With that same sing-song, nursery rhyme tone in her head, she unfolds the paper.

Reaches for the Blackberry. Not begrudging, not thinking. And it's too early, so when Mycroft answers he knows from the click of the line connecting that something is wrong. Something too big to ignore or to delegate. Something private. Something intimate. The late, last name.

John hears it from Hudson. After his fresh brush with the press earlier in the week, he's been avoiding the papers, keeping the television off. But she calls to ask what he knows, and he knows nothing. That won't do. That's not right.

His cab arrives at St Bart's a moment after the unmarked police car, ten seconds ahead of Mycroft's chauffeur.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, eating a sandwich, Molly is waiting for them all in the morgue. As is the body on the slab.

And when they are gathered, she rolls back the sheet, as if for an identification. "Before I even start," she says, "Who here has seen this girl before?"

Each of them, distantly, remembering, mutters a different name.

Lestrade rolls his eyes, "Oh, this case is going to be great fun to untangle."

Of course, one of those journalists got to the body in between Lestrade and the scenes of crime team. Did what the detective had done and lifted the edge of the sweater.

Come and play.

Jim Moriarty did not fecking write that.

That's why he laughs.

There's a piece of pizza box propped up on his windowsill. 'Sherlock's grave', it says. She knew, of course she knew. She had it picked out before he did. He had been going to keep it. This, though, this in the paper, that got dear Sebastian so riled up, this is a game changer.

'Come and play'. Fuck's sake, angel.

Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, John Hamish Cat-Stealer Watson, come and play.

Sherlock, dear, darling, sweetie, Daddy Long-Legs, come and play.

He could have done with a day off, like. Twenty-four hours to get his head in gear. Christ, now he has to move. But his ma, at least, won't have his number anymore. Always a plus.

He goes for a shower before he starts packing. Clean body clean mind, get organized. Fucking get it together.

And as the steam hits the glass screen, he sees it written there with the edge of the soap. "No rest for the wicked, Uncle Jim." And two little Xs. Kisses, at first, goodbye pecks on the cheek, until the steam outlines the little smile drawn beneath them with the tongue hanging out. A single, terrible moment, one brutal little pain. But no more than that. No time for any more than that. No more time off.

No rest.

[A/N - And so we came to the end, ladies and gents. I hope you've enjoyed. Whether you have or you haven't, I'm always glad to hear a Yay or a Nay, especially here at the end. I don't usually truffle-hog for reviews, but here I am and i guess that's what I'm doing. Naughty Sal, slap wrist. Anyway, much thanks to all you good good people who've been here all this time. I honestly never thought anybody would follow this, but it's never been so nice to be wrong. I'm going to stop rambling now, finally. Go and find my own voice again, wherever I stowed it... Check behind the Pringles, maybe... Hm... Wish me luck with that. Hearts and hugs to all, Sal.]