Fleeting Impressions | J.M.

15: dancing with a ghost

"Sit, sister mine," Mycroft is the first to speak. A demand clear in his voice like usual. I roll my eyes.

Mycroft sits on the couch, Sherlock gazes out the window like an angsty teen, and John holds the tea after walking from the kitchen.

Mycroft gestures to johns seat across the room, instead I sit in sherlocks high backed chair. And I don't miss the intense look Sherlock gives me. Curious. It's like he's living a memory.

"Why did you steal the crown, dear sister?" Sherlock walks to me in two large strides, towering with his height.

"I didn't," my eyes narrow on his, a staring contest ensues, each not wanting to back down. This is why we could never live with each other. Both too stubborn.

"We have the tapes, Beretta," Mycroft sighs. He twists his umbrella counter clockwise in his hand, a move that signifies he is anxious. For what, I'm clueless.

James, my lovely Irish man, promised that he tampered with the security footage. So what tapes are they talking about?

I look to John. The sensible one in the room, the one to give me straight answers.

He only shakes his head in sadness. "I've seen them. It's not looking good for you, Etta." John uses my nickname. I frown at this.

Looking to Sherlock for answers, knowing my dear brother would be the one to tell me. He was always too impatient. When he wanted to solve something, he wanted it now. "Look here," he's back to sitting at his small desk by the window, hunched over the laptop like he used to in our 'case days'. I walk over casually, still not too concerned.

I bend at the hips, my face incredibly close to sherlocks neck, where I breath obnoxiously. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

The video plays.

At first, no one is there. But then my smile slips from my face into one of a mask of indifference. I try to hide the surprise I feel filling up my entire body.

My figure is seen walking into the room. I have my arm out at a an angle to we're it would look like I am escorting an invisible man into the room. I laugh at nothing, talking to the room around me.

The video skips. It fuzzes out and in, until I am seen again, but this time with the fire extinguisher in my hand. I dance to the glass case before busting it open.

The video pauses and skips again until I am seen walking out of the room again. Then the video stops for good.

James was right, he did tamper with the tapes. Instead of getting rid of all evidence of us stealing the crown, he just erased himself.

But why?

My heart drops in my chest. The memory of us dancing in the Tower of London, chewing gum, listening to classical music, is all distorted with the film that I just witnessed.

To anyone, it just looks like I am a schizophrenic, dancing with no one, talking to a delusion. James cut off all the important parts where he did anything. It's just me.

I straighten up, having seen enough. I didn't want to see it again. Relive the disappointment. I stand at the window where Sherlock once was, staring blankly out the window to the views of Baker Street. But I take in nothing around me.

How could James do this.

I know he is a psychopath, I know he is a criminal. But I thought what we had was different.

I kick myself for sounding like such a love sick teenager. I should have known James was like this. He didn't want a queen, he wanted the crown again. He wanted me to take the fall for stealing it.

How am I going to explain that to the three men behind me. It's not like they know how manipulative a man like Moriarty can be. I don't even have the crown to give them back.

I turn around. Will I have to come up with a lie?

Sherlock answers that question for me.

"We know someone destroyed parts of the tapes. And it is obvious that you are talking to another person. If you were psychotic I would know. Tell us who this other person is."

"I'll go to jail," I look to the floor. And who knows what James would do to me if I turned him in. He's the Napoleon of Crime for Christ's sake. He has a criminal web of people at his disposal. Who knows who will get hurt if I utter his name.

"We can say you were black mailed and coerced into this crime if you give us the name and the crown," Mycroft pipes up from the couch.

"The crown is in his hands, I have no control over it anymore," I state, ashamed.

"Who," John presses. Why don't they understand that I cannot say who it is.

"You will go to jail if you do not tell us."

"We are the only ones that can get you out of this."

"Just spit it out already."

"I would say a psych ward is where you are going if a judge gets wind of this."

"Oh come on, it's obvious she is trying to protect her boyfriend," that's Sherlock, the one to come to this conclusion. A wrong conclusion, but not far. We were somewhat of partners for awhile there. But obviously, James never intended me to be his partner, in any sense of the word.

Why am I protecting him? I know, but I don't want to admit it.

I sigh, looking at all of them in pity. They have no idea what is coming for them after I speak the criminals name.

"Moriarty. James Moriarty."

And then silence.