Side of the Angels ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book II} *UNDER EDITING*

Chapter 80- Beginnings and Endings (+ A/N)

 Emily's POV

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"Remember, change the dressing every day, keep on top of your medication, and come back in two weeks so we can remove the stitching. Take it easy."

"Will do."

The nurse smiles at me, handing over a vial of pills and an instruction leaflet entitled: 'How to Prevent Infection.' I take it from her, and she waves, walking back down the corridor and disappearing from sight. 

I step outside, into the early April morning, and breathe in deeply. I am so glad to be out of that place. I hated it; hated feeling weak and vulnerable and exposed, hated the constant interruptions, hated the boredom. But, I'm out now, and I don't think I'll be going back- how hard can it be to remove stitches yourself?

I suppose I'll just go back home; my old apartment, not the temporary flat on the South bank. Three weeks in hospital has left me feeling distinctly out-of-touch. I've been reading the newspapers, but they don't provide me with the insight I need. I need to know what's happening: whether The Web forum has been discovered, who's dead, who's not- whether Sherlock and Co. have had further encounters with Moriarty.

Moriarty.

Sherlock, Millie and John have been visiting me almost daily, but I get the impression that there are things they're not telling me. Now that I've checked out of hospital, and am able to start my life up again, I'm going to find out. I grin as I remember: I also need to ask John about Sherlock and Millie. There's definitely something going on there.

I wonder what happened to Moran? I know he was arrested- the police told me that much when they visited me for questioning- but I don't know how long his sentence was, or whether Moriarty somehow tampered with the judicial system. I expect he did. I don't think Moriarty would risk losing his best sniper to the law.

I haven't seen Moriarty himself since the day I was stabbed. The nurse claims she saw him in my hospital room, whilst I was unconscious. I think she made a mistake. The concept of Moriarty entering a hospital  simply to see me is verging on ridiculous. He couldn't care less if I was dead or alive; in fact, he's openly admitted that he wants me dead.

Who knows, maybe he's finally got bored of me?

I sigh, and hail a taxi, climbing in and giving the driver my address. As I sit down, I wince- the wound hasn't fully healed yet. I'm going to be left with a very impressive scar. 

As we drive through the London streets, I think about all the changes that have occurred since I made the decision to visit Sherlock Holmes. Some have been good; I've made friends, my career has been heightened, and I know more about the way crime and justice work than ever before.

But equally, there have been moments that I would very much like to forget about. 

I know how hard Sherlock has worked to end the game. I know how much he wants it to stop. I know how much Moriarty wants it to continue. I know the capabilities of both men.

I have a deep-rooted feeling that it's only just beginning.

The taxi pulls up outside the familiar apartment complex, and I find myself grinning as I exit the vehicle.

I've missed this.  

The lift has finally been fixed, which is uncharacteristically convenient; that means I don't have to struggle up the stairs with the steady pain in my abdomen which doesn't seem to want to fade, no matter how many painkillers I force into my system.

I reach my floor, and pause at the door, wondering if anything has been stolen. I left the door unlocked when I stormed out of my apartment all that time ago, and although there's nothing really of value in there, I brace myself for destruction as I push open the door.

Nothing.

It's alarmingly similar to how I left it, albeit covered in a fine layer of dust. I walk inside, breathing in the motes. I smile, looking around:

It's good to be home.

I walk into my bedroom, ready to stretch out and start up my laptop - which was returned to me after the police found nothing of criminal interest on it, thanks to Millie - when I see something that's very out of place. It's a note. Folded on expensive paper, left on my bed. I frown,  half-expecting to hear that all too familiar Irish lilt emanate from behind me. When I don't, I reach down and pick it up, turning it over in my palm and opening it:

I want my tie back

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~Fin~

I believe a good six months have passed since the conclusion of this atrocious piece of literature (I am writing this paragraph retrospectively). I  felt complied to delete the original Author's Note because it was so excruciatingly pathetic to re-read. I apologise profusely to all those who were forced to endure my 'SOTA personality'. This book is the bane of my existence, and will continue to be until I find the time to revise it. I suppose I ought to commend you for your bravery – this fanfiction, with its squirm-worthy dialogue and less-than-perfect grammar, is not for the faint-hearted.

Thank you for your patience. 

[The Art of Corruption (the third book in this series) has been completed, and stands as a testament to my improved coherency. The fourth and final instalment, Human Error, is currently in the process of publication.]