As the car finally pulled up, shorter than the estimated twenty minutes and shorter even than the fifteen Jim had quoted, Moriarty went to the window beside Sherlock and pressed his hand against the frigid glass. The car did not stay for long and John Watson appeared to have something in his hand. He looked left and right (darling! Was he expecting traffic to whizz along and bowl him over?) before he entered the building. There were some lights on in the windows downstairs (battery operated since Jim had shut down the grid in the whole city that wasn’t hooked up to generators without anyone noticing due to the weather) and certainly lights on up here with them, but John never looked up.

It made him squeal. And so did being called Jimmy.

“Oh, nicknames now! So. Cute. You’ll be Sherly from now on,” he pronounced and headed over to the fireplace to open the cabinet above it and reveal the television. There was an infrared image of John Watson’s lingering downstairs. Most of the doors were locked. He’d have to take the stairs. It was hard to see exactly what he was doing but he seemed to be fishing around in his pocket—

Sherlock’s phone, the one still in his pocket, buzzed.

“Go on, answer! You’ve got enough play with your jewelry haven’t you?”