"I will burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty cried out jubilantly in an odd, low tone. "Burn it!"

He began to cough furiously. Sherlock raised a pale, almost absent eyebrow. "Got a hairball?"

John, meanwhile sighed. He really shouldn't have gone on that date with what's-her-face, the one who'd been obsessed with zoo animals. Sherlock, of course, had tagged along and become obsessed with all sorts of exotic creatures. (He'd woken up more than once since, Sherlock perched on the footboard-like a cat caught up a tree and refusing to be brought down-babbling, "But tigers, John." John had half expected for his hand to be swiped at and to be left swearing with a bloody hand.)

"Ahem," Moriarty said, seemingly perturbed by the comparison of his violent coughing fit with a feline's filamentous biomaterial. "Ahem. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you later," Sherlock ground out, almost absent eyebrows drawing down from his supraorbital processes.

Moriarty whirled, beginning to call out, "No you won't-" when he stopped dead in his tracks.

The red dot of an errant laser scope traced the wall next to Moriarty.

There was a moment of profound, echoing silence while Moriarty stood stiller than stock-still. Then he pounced.

With an ungraceful yowl, Moriarty fell into the pool. He splashed furiously before sinking down below the surface of the over-chlorinated water.

John sighed as Sherlock slipped the gun back wherever he had drawn it from. "I think that's all worth another trip to the zoo."

Sherlock nodded seriously. "Tigers, John."