While he waits, Sherlock begins picking at the chess set. It's simplistic. Maybe it's meant to be an irritant that throws Moriarty off, like the cabbie's persistent commentary. Perhaps it's a streak of melodrama. Either way, by the time he's done, two pieces are left on the board.

The black king and the white king.

He isn't looking at either bottle. His fingers haven't given a nervous twitch toward one or the other, either as a bluff or double-bluff. He is leaving the choice wholly up to Moriarty.

"No sniper. No soldier. No aces. No proxies."

There's almost a note of satisfaction in his voice.

"Just us. Like it should be."