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“I don’t think the Mothman belongs in ancient Ireland, dear.” Mrs. Hudson looked over Jim Moriarty’s shoulder. “I saw a video on YouTube.”
“Oh, be quiet,” he snapped. “You’re supposed to be kidnapped.”
“I know. Your henchmen tying me to the chair made that quite clear.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. She wasn’t entirely opposed to being tied to chairs by muscly young men, but these were definitely not her preferred circumstances. “But in Beg Ben, really? Don’t you think it’s a little bit over the top? It’s almost like you’re trying too hard.”
“Trying too hard?” Moriarty did not try too hard. He went hard and found it offensive to be thought to have fallen short of the mark. “I stole the crown jewels. I run all of London’s Underworld. I have brought nations to their knees. I am not. Trying. Too hard.”
“Yes, and that’s all very grand, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Hudson dryly. “But putting the Mothman in a deer stalker in your time-travel fanfiction about my lodger definitely is. You might want to consider another hobby, you know. This obsession can’t be healthy.” She held up the rope she’d worked her way out of. “I took a course on escape artistry, for instance. It comes in handy every now and then.”