Sherlock has just run off in a whirlwind of coat without a word, leaving Scotland Yard cursing his name. It’ll be a while before they can get someone to translate this, and meanwhile that tall know-it-all bastard has gone off to do god-knows-what without bothering to even tell them what the note says. John edges forward in the middle of the uproar, and surreptitiously glances at the note. Androvy, it says briefly. The warehouse at five. Serdyukov. John seems like such an ordinary bloke. Appearances can be deceptive.

And how things could have gone differently.

“Your first mistake,” John says smoothly, “was calling yourself Moriarty. It got my attention.” In which Jim is not, in fact, Moriarty.