The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}

Chapter 21- Predacious Proprietor

 We turn a particularly sharp corner, and I lurch into the side of the door, mentally cursing the taxi driver for being so inefficient. I should probably invest in my own car, at some point. I can drive, but I choose not too, for the general safety of the public. I am a very aggressive driver.

My phone vibrates in my jean pocket. I retrieve it, not paying attention as I tap in the string of digits and letters that make up my password. If it's another text from that insurance-

Does it really take that long to drive from Baker Street to Coventry? 

I scream at the taxi driver to stop. 

We slam to a halt, before pulling over in a lay-by. 

"What the hell was that all about?! Bloody gave me a heart attack! Wait, where are you going? You haven't paid-"

I shut the door forcefully, and begin walking in the opposite direction, towards the block. The text wasn't signed, I tell myself. He usually signs it with his initials. It's not him. It can't be him. Not after all that happened in Switzerland. I reach the familiar parking lot behind the apartment complex, and look up to the top floor, squinting. I can make out the window to my room. The blinds are still drawn. It looks totally inconspicuous.

I'm not going in there.

I'm not going to fall into the trap. If that man is waiting for me, I won't give him the satisfaction of my arrival.

I turn away, about to attempt to persuade the disgruntled taxi driver to give me a lift back in the same direction. I'm half way across the concrete expanse, when my phone vibrates again. 

Do you really want to do that? 

I am so very tempted to reply. But I grit my teeth, and force myself to continue walking forwards.

For someone who hacks systems for a living, your hard drive was very easy to access.

This stops me walking. My home hard drive stores everything; back-up encryption codes, crucial data, irreplaceable files. Everything on my laptop has been duplicated and stored onto this device. And if Moriarty is actually inside my apartment, and has somehow managed to get past my security software, I might as well hand myself in to the local police station now.

I grapple with my conscience for one, long minute.

And then, I coerce myself to turn around. I take a step towards the apartment complex. It's painful. I get another message:

Good girl.

I very nearly throw my phone at the window. 

But I keep on walking forwards; I need to get to my hard drive. I am aware that this is almost certified death. I'm going to risk it, though. If there is an opportunity to rescue my life's work, I'll take it. Even if it means prising the disk from him physically. I take the stairs, abandoning my luggage in the entrance and ascending the steps two at a time. By the time I've reached the top floor, my adrenaline levels have peaked and I'm preparing myself for anything from an empty room to a round of bullets. I don't let myself pause at the door to my apartment. Instead, noting the twisted lock, I push through, not giving the doubts in my head enough time to settle.

He's here, all right.

I can't see him. But there's a subtle shift in the atmosphere: it's darker, the air drained of oxygen and replaced with tautly-strung tension. I don't waste any time. I head straight for the computer, in my bedroom. I pull the door open, and almost collapse with relief. It's untouched. I hastily extract the disk, and pocket it, before straightening up and backing out of the room.