A/N - Are you ready?
Only two more chapters after this! 😱😲
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In the taxi cab, Sherlock sat silent. It wasn't unusual, he didn't tend to talk to the cab drive unless he was telling him where to go or paying him. But in his silence, he kept hearing her in his head, kept seeing her sat beside him in the corner of his eye of which he tried so desperately to ignore.
You still love me. That's why it hurts so much, why it aches.
He ignored the illusion of his mind palace and looked out of the window instead. London at night was much calmer than in the day. He liked that. Less small-brained people forcing themselves to walk down every street because cars were slower in the day.
To stop it hurting, you have to confront me.
Over his dead body did he want to look at the thief's face again. But why? What was he afraid of? It wasn't like she could attack him and he didn't think she would try to do that anyway...but she lied. That was pain enough.
Surely, you want to know why?
He did and he didn't.
The taxi TV switched on suddenly, advertising jewellery, "This is a stunning evening wear set from us here at London Taxi Shopping."
"Can you turn this off, please?"
Something's not right...
"As you can see, the set comprises of a beautiful - "
"Can you turn this off - "
And just as he had said that, he could have sworn he saw Jim's face as the screen glitched. Again, the picture wobbled, fragmented, revealing the criminal's face more often, more frequently as though the recorded version of him were trying to break the TV itself. It finally stopped on a close-up of Moriarty.
"Hullo. Are you ready for the story?" Came his cheery voice, "This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot."
Sherlock watched with his mouth agape.
"Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain." As Moriarty spoke, storm clouds gathered behind his figure, "And soon they began to wonder...'Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?'" He shook his head sadly, "Oh, no."
The detective's eyes glimmered in the light of the screen as he listened.
"So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said: ‘I don’t believe Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories. He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.’ And then even the King began to wonder...but that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem." Lightning struck from cartoon clouds as Moriarty shook his head again, "No. That wasn’t the final problem."
Sherlock's lips quivered as he bared his teeth furiously at the screen. No. This couldn't happen. He wouldn't be called a liar too. He wasn't.
"The End." Jim shrugged on screen, a red curtain falling around behind his figure as the screen glitches back to the jewellery advert.
"Stop the cab! Stop the cab!" Sherlock yelled at the driver, rushing out of the door to look at the cabbie, "What was that! What was that?!"
The cab driver turned his head to reveal Jim in a cap, eerily similar to that of Jeff Hope, the serial killer cabbie.
"No charge." He said and began to speed off.
But Sherlock tried to hold onto the cab, as though he could stop it with his own bare hands but of course did this to no avail. Breaking into a sprint, he chased after the car but soon realised he couldn't keep up with the vehicle and stopped, panting. Damn it, he thought, damn it all.
His plan is beginning to fall into place, wouldn't you say?
The detective had listened to Elizabeth say this but had not listened for the car racing up behind him.
"Look out!" A stranger grabbed him from out of the middle of the road and pulled him toward the pavement.
Getting his breath back, Sherlock held the man an arm's length away against the streetlight.
He looked at the man gratefully and offered his hand, "Thank you."
The stranger took it but before they could shake, several shots rang out and had implanted themselves into the chest of the stranger. Sherlock had backed away instantaneously and looked, brow raised, at the man who now lay on the floor, dead. Looking around, he saw no sign of a shooter but did see another cab from out of which John came.
"Sherlock!"
* * * * * * *
A short while later, an ambulance had arrived. Sherlock watched, anxiously tapping his fingers against the palm of his hand, as the man was slid into the back of the ambulance. John paced in front of him.
"That - it’s him. It’s him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He’s a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us."
The detective lowered his nervous hand as he processed this, "He died because I shook his hand."
"What d'you mean?"
"He saved my life but he couldn’t touch me." Sherlock frowned, "Why?"
* * * * * *
The two friends raced up the stairs to 221B, shaken and running on adrenaline.
"Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn’t come here to kill me - they came to keep me alive." Sherlock took a seat at the desk, opening the laptop as John peeked out of the curtains, "I’ve got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me - "
"The others kill them before they can get it." John finished.
The detective opened the wifi tab, acknowledging all of the hubs, "All of the attention is focused on me. There’s a surveillance web closing in on us right now."
"So what have you got that's so important?"
Sherlock swiped his finger across the desk, peering at it curiously, "We need to ask about the dusting."
* * * * * *
Having called Mrs Hudson up to the flat, Sherlock had her stand in the middle of the room as he searched.
"Precise details: in the last week, what's been cleaned?"
Mrs Hudson thought, "Well, Tuesday I did your lino - "
"No, in here, this room. This is where we'll find it - any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust." He turned to face them, dramatically waving his hand, "Dust is eloquent."
"What's he on about?" Mrs Hudson whispered to John.
John shook his head, at a loss for an explanation but helped to search anyway.
"Cameras." He explained as he searched the first bookshelf, "We're being watched."
"What? Cameras?" The landlady cringed at the thought, "Here? I’m in my nightie!"
The doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson disappeared downstairs to answer it, lucky enough to be saved by the bell. To think someone had been watching them the whole time. The detective stepped on his chair, now peering analytically at the second bookcase. One green book looked awfully suspicious and so he slid the book back.
It was then that he found the little black camera. He reached up to take it down.
At hearing the footsteps behind him, he spoke, "No, Inspector."
"What?"
"The answer’s no." Sherlock said, jumping down from his chair.
"But you haven’t heard the question!"
Sherlock walked towards Lestrade and John, "You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking."
"Sherlock - "
"The scream?"
"Yeah." Greg sighed.
"Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head; that little nagging sensation. You’re going to have to be strong to resist. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home there." Sherlock tapped the centre of Lestrade's forehead before walking away from him again.
No. You can't kill a thought, can you? Perhaps that was Moriarty's plan with me too? He liked me, wanted to keep me, his little Lizzie, never wanted to hurt me - well, maybe a bit - but he certainly wanted to hurt you.
"Will you come?" The inspector asked.
Sherlock took a seat at the desk again, "One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." He looked up at the inspector, "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."
With a sigh, Greg looked at John, clearly reluctant to go back down without him but went back down the stairs anyway. A warrant would be needed then. John watched Greg leave, looking back at Sherlock who proceeded to hack into the surveillance camera.
I did teach you a thing or two then?
John wandered over to the window, peeking out to see Greg and Sally drive away. The detective looked up at him.
"He'll be deciding."
"Deciding?"
"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."
"You think?" John looked over, not really believing it would happen.
"Standard procedure."
"Should have gone with him. People'll think..."
"I don’t care what people think."
"You’d care if they thought you were stupid or wrong."
And you are wrong about one thing. You just need to put your ego aside so that you can listen to the truth.
"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."
John raised his voice now, "Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you're..."
"That I am what?" He practically dared his friend to continue.
"A fraud."
"You're worried they’re right."
"What?"
"You're worried they're right about me."
"No."
You were worried that Mycroft was right about me but the second you had evidence to back up what your brother was saying, you stopped listening. You are afraid of being wrong again but if you could just listen, then maybe it would ease your own worries.
Sherlock continued to ignore that little, nagging voice in his head, "That's why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."
"No, I’m not."
The detective leant over the table, "Moriarty is playing with your mind too." He slammed his fist on the wood as he yelled, "Can’t you see what’s going on?!"
"No, I know you're for real." John said, strongly assured in his opinion.
"A hundred percent?"
"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."
The corners of both their lips turned up slightly. John looked out of the window again, keeping watch for any officers. Across from Sherlock appeared Elizabeth in her catsuit again, her face full of sincerity.
I couldn't fake that amount of love for you all the time so you know it must have been real. It wasn't all a lie.
* * * * * * *
Some time later, when the world grew quieter as more members of the society headed into their homes and beds, John had recieved a call. He had closed the door to the flat as he took it, sharing a look with Sherlock, who sat in his own chair, every so often.
Is it better to have loved and lost or to have never loved at all?
If one had never loved at all, perhaps one wouldn't go through such pain as this rift had caused for Sherlock and Elizabeth. He could do without the pain. Preferred it. So perhaps he preferred the latter.
But you can't go back now.
No. He couldn't. And that added to the hurt.
John hung up the phone, "So, still got some friends on the Force. It’s Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."
"Yoo hoo!" Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, entering, "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" She continued anyway, handing John a beige envelope with a red wax seal, "Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked 'perishable' – I had to sign for it. Funny name. German, like the fairytales."
The detective stood, approaching John who opened the envelope, pulling out a charred gingerbread man. He heard the sirens approaching - they didn't have much time.
"Burnt to a crisp."
"What does it mean?" John asked.
That I'm not the only criminal! Alright, well, you haven't done anything wrong...yet.
The doorbell shrieked and a heavy fist pounded on the front door, "Police!"
"I’ll go." Mrs Hudson said, turning to leave down the stairs.
From then on, Sherlock simply listened to the conversation that took place as he slowly put on his scarf and coat.
Donovan called up the stairs, "Sherlock!"
"Evening, Mrs Hudson." Greg greeted the landlady kindly.
"We need to talk to you!" The sergeant yelled.
Getting cuffed isn't that bad.
Mrs Hudson's distress could be heard clearly too, "Don’t barge in like that!"
"Have you got a warrant?" John stood on the half-way landing of the stairs, "Have you?"
I kind of like it sometimes depending on what the officer looks like but...I never said that.
Sherlock smiled at this, turning to face the imaginary thief.
"Leave it, John." Greg warned.
"Really! Manners!" Mrs Hudson despaired.
Surprised Mrs H hasn't pushed one of them down the stairs yet.
This he laughed at. And to think he almost drugged a poor man to keep Elizabeth to himself.
The smile dissipated quickly though as Lestrade and the officers burst into the room, one of them taking out their handcuffs as the inspector spoke to the consulting detective. Calmly, he held his hands out behind him for the officer to cuff him and looked at Lestrade patiently.
"Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."
"He's not resisting." John argued.
"It's all right, John." Sherlock reassured.
But his friend was furious, "He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."
"Get him downstairs now." Lestrade instructed the officer.
But John still tried to appeal to Greg, "You know you don’t have to do - "
"Don’t try to interfere," Lestrade warned again, wagging his finger in John's face, before leaving, "Or I shall arrest you too."
John was silent until the inspector left and his gaze landed on Sally, "You done?"
"Oh, I said it."
"Mm-hm?"
"First time we met."
"Don’t bother."
But Donovan continued, "'Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line.' Now, ask yourself: what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"
The chief superintendent walked in, his attention resting on the sergeant, "Donovan."
"Sir."
"Got our man?"
"Er, yes, sir."
The superintendent looked around the flat, "Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me."
John stood off to the side, gazing at the chief with silent vexation.
"Often are, these vigilante types." The superintendent finally saw John staring at him, "What are you looking at?"
Did John want to go to lock up? Not really. Was John sick of hearing people verbally assault his best friend? Of course, who wouldn't be? But did John desperately want to punch the lights out of the superintendent? Oh, you bet he did.
And he did.
* * * * * * *
John grunted as he was shoved up against the police car next to Sherlock. The officers cuffed them together.
"Joining me?" Sherlock asked casually.
"Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendant."
"Hm." He smiled, peering around to see the chief holding his bloody nose, "Bit awkward, this."
"No-one to bail us."
"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape." Sherlock eyed the police car radio.
"What?"
In a flash, Sherlock had reached his cuffed hand over to the radio, clicking a button that made a shrill ring pierce the ears of all the officers. While this distraction ensued, he pickpocketed a gun from one of the armed officers, proceeding to point it at all of the force present.
Well, it's always fun to pick a pocket or two.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock yelled, "Will you all please get on your knees?"
As they all continued to stand, Sherlock aimed the gun upwards and fired. Everyone flinched.
"NOW would be good!"
Lestrade shook his head, commanding everyone to oblige, "Do as he says!"
"Just - just so you’re aware," John added, "The gun is his idea. I’m just a...you know..."
"My hostage!" Sherlock yelled, pointing the gun at his friend.
Unless you're as bad a shot as I was, I'd keep your finger off that trigger, Sherlock.
"Hostage!" John breathed, "Yes, that works – that works...so what now?"
As they continued to back away from the scene, Sherlock muttered, "Doing what Moriarty wants. I’m becoming a fugitive. Run."
And together they bolted down the streets.
"Take my hand!"
John panted, "Now people will definitely talk."
Indeed they will. Running though, it's fun this. Pity I can't be here for real. Might have been able to get you up to the roofs.
Sherlock flung the gun away as he pelted into an alley with John.
"The gun!"
"Leave it!"
The alley was gated off but being as spry as the detective was, he leapt on the bins and hopped over the fence.
Forgetting something?
"Sherlock, wait!" John stopped him from running, grabbing hid coat and pulling him close, "We’re going to need to coordinate."
To his right. He's short like me so he'll most definitely need the bin.
"Go to your right." Sherlock instructed.
"Huh?"
"Go to your right!"
Nice to know you're starting to listen to me again.
The two continued sprinting through the back alleys, backing up against a wall as they saw a police car sail on by the exit to one alley. They both took a moment to catch their breath again.
"Everybody wants to believe it," Sherlock started to explain during this short grace period, "That’s what makes it so clever. A lie that’s preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No-one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."
"What about Mycroft?" John suggested as Sherlock pulled him to another wall, "He could help us."
"A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment."
There's Bart's though. Everyone thinks you're so hellbent on hating me now well...why would anyone suspect you going there? Why would you hide in the same building as the woman who broke your heart?
"Sher - Sherlock." John hissed, spotting a mysterious man at the end of the alley, "We're being followed. I knew we couldn’t outrun the police."
"That's not the police. It's one of my new neighbours from Baker Street. Let's see if he can give us some answers." Sherlock sprinted to the exit of the alley with his friend, looking out into the street in search of traffic, spotting an oncoming bus.
"Where are we going?"
"We're going to jump in front of that bus."
"What?!"
Okay, hear me out but family can't reconcile if one of them is plastered across a road?!
He understood her point but he was certain they would live to tell the tale. As he and John spread their arms out, waiting for the impact of the bus, they found it never came as the assassin rugby-tackled them out of the way.
Snatching the man's gun, Sherlock aimed it at him as the three lay on the floor, "Tell me what you want from me. Tell me!"
"He...left it at your flat."
"Who?"
"Moriarty."
"What?"
"The computer keycode."
Slowly, carefully, the pair and the assassin stood, none of them daring to make any sudden movements, especially not when Sherlock was pointing a gun at the new Baker Street resident. Things began to click for Sherlock.
"Of course. He’s selling it: the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around."
Several shots echoed and the pair leapt back, staring at the fallen assassin before them. Looking around, and seeing some people peek out of their windows, they realised they couldn't stay. So they bolted from the scene once again, running into another alley and finding a brief haven in a doorway.
"It’s a game-changer." Sherlock explained, "It’s a key – it can break into any system and it’s sitting in our flat right now. That’s why he left that message telling everyone where to come. 'Get Sherlock'. We need to get back into the flat and search."
"CID'll be camped out." John said, "Why plant it on you?"
"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm 'best pals' with all those criminals."
John noticed a stack of newspapers beside Sherlock and picked one up, showing it to his fellow fugitive, "Yeah, well, have you seen this? A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook. Who is he?"
Sherlock didn't recognise the name of the man but he certainly recognised the name of the journalist: Kitty Riley.
* * * * * *
Before Bart's, John and Sherlock headed to Kitty's place of residence. Luckily enough for them, she wasn't home at the time to call the police on them. Unluckily enough for her, she had left a window open, of which the pair managed to get through and proceeded to sit in her lounge in the dark. John had suggested turning the light on but Sherlock argued that she would then know something was up before she got inside. So the light remained off.
They didn't have to wait too long though.
The sound of the clicking lock at the front door was music to their ears and within a minute, Kitty had flicked on the light in her living room.
"Too late to go on the record?" Sherlock asked, both he and John looking up at her.
Minutes later, when Kitty had brought them a hair pin and Sherlock was trying to lockpick the cuffs that kept he and John together, they opened a discussion; one about her big scoop.
"Congratulations." The detective said as he freed he and John from the cuffs, "The truth about Sherlock Holmes. The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. Bravo!"
"I gave you your opportunity." Kitty defended herself as she watched him pace, "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so..."
"And then, lo and behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?"
She shook her head - her lips were sealed.
"Oh, come on, Kitty." Sherlock almost growled at her, "No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés, those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"
The sound of the door unlocking again drew their attention away.
"Darling," Came a soft Irish voice, "They didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal..."
Sherlock had to do a double-take, even John did as they both set eyes on Moriarty: his hair was dishevelled, his expression was one of alarm and, rather than his fancy Westwood suit, he wore jeans and a t-shirt with a thin cardigan over the top. Jim looked between the two men, backing himself up against the wall, raising a hand in defence, and then looked at Kitty.
"You said that they wouldn’t find me here. You said that I'd be safe here."
"You are safe, Richard." Kitty spoke calmly, "I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."
"So that’s your source?" John just couldn't believe his eyes, "Moriarty is Richard Brook?!"
"Of course he’s Richard Brook." The journalist said, "There is no Moriarty. There never has been."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look him up." She insisted to the army doctor, "Rich Brook – an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."
Sherlock stared intensely at this supposed 'Rich Brook' that he had supposedly hired. He was speechless. Moriarty continued his act, now trying to get John onto his side.
Well, now you know where I got my acting skills from.
"Doctor Watson," 'Richard' tried to appeal to John, "I know you're a good man. Don't - don't hu - don't hurt me."
"No, you are Moriarty!" John roared, refusing this act still, "He's Moriarty! We’ve met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"
Jim ran his hands over his face, "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He paid me. I needed the work. I’m an actor. I was out of work. I’m sorry, okay?"
"Sherlock, you’d better...explain...because I am not getting this." John looked at his friend, desperate for a logical explanation.
"Oh I’ll be doing the explaining – in print. It’s all here. Conclusive proof." Kitty said handing John a sample article, before turning to face Sherlock, "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."
John questioned, "Invented him?"
"Mmm-hmm." Kitty nodded, "Invented all the crimes, actually and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."
"Oh, don’t be ridiculous!"
"Ask him." Kitty pointed at Jim as she looked at John, "He’s right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."
"Look, for God’s sake, this man was on trial!"
"Yes," The journalist agreed, now pointing at Sherlock, "And you paid him, paid him to take the rap. Promised you’d rig the jury. Not exactly a West End role, but I’ll bet the money was good. But not so good he didn’t want to sell his story." She approached the frantic-looking man again, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
I always joked that Jim should go into acting full time. Imagine how different he would be if he did. No violence, no murders, no crime...
"I am sorry." Jim said this gently, not in true Moriarty fashion at all, "I am, I am sorry."
"So - so this is the story that you’re gonna publish. The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty’s an actor?!" John's incredulity knew no bounds.
"He knows I am." Jim pointed at Sherlock, "I have proof. I have proof. Show him, Kitty! Show him something!"
"Yeah, show me something."
John watched as Kitty went to fetch her research file. And while she did, Moriarty ran his hand over his face, stretching his skin back slightly and looked over at Sherlock, his classic Moriarty amusement twinkling in his eyes. But it disappeared like the snap of someone's fingers as Kitty turned back around with 'evidence' of his acting career.
"I’m on TV. I’m on kids' TV. I’m The Storyteller. I’m - I’m The Storyteller. It’s on DVD." Jim dry washed his hands as he looked at Sherlock, all desperate and on edge, "Just tell him. It’s all coming out now. It’s all over. Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him! It’s all over now - "
Sherlock grew more aggravated by the second and took a step towards him.
"NO!" He yelled, backing away and up the small staircase, "Don’t you touch me! Don’t you lay a finger on me!"
"Stop it." Sherlock tried to keep his cool but failed as he roared, "Stop it NOW!"
"Don’t hurt me!" Jim whimpered, racing up the stairs.
"Don’t let him get away!" John yelled as he and Sherlock darted after the clever criminal.
Kitty pleaded behind them, "Leave him alone!"
They chased him into the bathroom but he locked the door and by the time Sherlock had forced it open, Moriarty had escaped through the window.
"No, no, no." The detective turned to John as he headed back out, "He’ll have back-up."
"D’you know what, Sherlock Holmes?" Kitty said as she walked backwards down the stairs, stopping at the bottom, "I look at you now and I can read you." She smirked, "And you. Repel. Me."
Sherlock didn't care to stay, didn't care to have his own words handed back to him, simply left with John following behind. What was he planning? What was his endgame?
He said what it was. He said he would burn you.
"Can he do that?" John asked, filled with frustration, "Completely change his identity, make you the criminal?"
"He’s got my whole life story." He said, stopping to pace in the middle of the road, "That’s what you do when you sell a big lie, you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."
"Your word against his." John said, still trying to comprehend all of the research on Richard Brook that Kitty had handed to him.
"He’s been sowing doubt into people’s minds for the last twenty-four hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that’s to - "
Burn you. Burn your career. Burn your life. Burn your mind. Burn your heart. But it's too easy for Jim to do it himself.
"Sherlock?"
"There's something I need to do."
"What? Can I help?"
You know he can't.
"No – on my own."
* * * * * *
Molly was finishing up in the lab, locking up, getting ready to leave for the evening after a long day. Her bed was calling and she couldn't wait to get there.
But Sherlock had waited for her to finish. Just waited with his imaginary version of Elizabeth, both himself and her quiet, just keeping each other company in the dark. Of course, he could visit her but he didn't know if he was ready for that yet. Not when he had a favour to ask first.
Tell her. She's your friend.
"You’re wrong, you know." Sherlock spoke up, just before she opened the doors to leave, startling her, "You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you." He looked at her, "But you were right. I’m not okay."
"Tell me what’s wrong."
"Molly, I think I’m going to die." He said, letting his true feelings be heard by the tone of his voice.
"What do you need?"
He approached her, "If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"
"What do you need?" She asked again.
"You."
* * * * * *
The streetlights illuminated the darkness outside in a soft, amber glow.
Elizabeth could never truly fall asleep. Between the beeping of the heart monitor and the pain and the nurses constantly coming in to check up on her, it made for a very disruptive atmosphere. She always ended up in this half-awake, half-asleep weary, weak consciousness. She wished she could stand on her own. Actually, she could; they had tried to help her stand but the pain was frightful.
On cue, a nurse with a bob of black hair backed her way into the room, pulling a medicine trolley with her.
"Could I have some more water please?" She croaked.
"Just a moment." She said in an awfully strained voice as she organised the pills.
"You haven't caught a bug, have you? Your voice - "
As the nurse turned around, Elizabeth's mouth fell agape. If she could run, she would have but she couldn't. So there she lay in the bed, her throat dry, gulping for some kind of moisture as Moriarty stared back at her with a cheesy grin, pulling off the black haired wig.
"Hullo, Lizzie."
"Get out. I'll scream."
"No, you won't, and even if you did, it wouldn't help." He shrugged as he strolled over to her, "It's so easy for me to just clear a ward, you know, of the staff anyway. "
"Tell me you haven't hurt anyone."
"Maybe the guard. Everyone else is just... peacefully sleeping." He stood to the side her now, looking down at her, admiring her, "My Lizzie."
"What do you want?"
"To help you."
"Why? Why can't you just let me go?"
"I am. I will. But I needed you back first."
"You took everything away from me. I loved - "
"Loved-shmuved." He rolled his eyes, "You can find love again but not here. Sherlock Holmes hates your guts."
"No thanks to you."
"I'm an overprotective carer, what can I say?" He paused, "Listen, this doesn't have to be a long conversation but...I don't think I'm going to be around much longer."
"Plan to die by a policeman's gun then, do you?" There was a shine in her eyes.
"Mm...no." He noticed her tears and smiled, "Look at how you still care for me."
"You still raised me."
"Yes. We're familia." Jim gently stroked her hair, "I remember plaiting this mop of yours when you were only yay-high." He gestured a smaller height beside him.
"What are you planning, Jim?"
"Well, seeing as I'm not going to see you again," He sat on her bed and held her hand, "I'm still planning to burn him."
"But you don't have to."
"I do. I really do. If I'm going out, I'm taking Holmes with me. 'Course, there's still a chance I'll live but..." He shrugged, not really that optimistic.
"Please don't."
Jim sighed, "I understand your care for me but he hates you, why do you care what happens to him or not?"
"I can't just turn it on and off."
"Learn to. Life is so much easier once you can."
"Maybe I don't want to."
"You're not getting him back. Don't you think that if Dr Watson had been able to get through to him, he would be here by now?"
She looked away from him a tear spilling, her lips quivering.
"Oh, Lizzie, don't do that. You make my teeny-tiny, little heart hurt when you do." He paused, watching her look out of the window at the London night, "You still mean everything to me."
"You're a psychopath. I mean nothing to you whether I live or die. In fact, a number of times you almost let me die."
"The key word here is 'almost'."
Elizabeth just glared at him.
"Look, I've transferred everything I have to this." He held up a plastic wallet with a new bank card, ID and passport inside of it, "Remember those imaginary games you used to play? You never liked to change your name too much so you shortened it and changed your last name instead - though you say you hate nicknames now, but I always liked your alias of Eliza Parton. Remember you picked that last name because of Dolly? Fancied yourself a country singer for a while?"
"Jim - "
"Before I go, I want to help you, one last time. I want to help you get away. Start afresh. Without me. Without all this...baggage that the detective's given you and totally not me."
"You could just not do anything." The thief tried to reason with him.
"If you stay, you'll be put in prison." Jim began to pull the strings, "That Mycroft Holmes has been dying for a chance to put you away and now he has the perfect reason. And Sherlock? We both already know he isn't coming back for you because he hates you with a fiery passion. And Dr Watson? Do you really think he wants to spend the rest of his life visiting a thief like you, who hurt him, nay not once but twice? And the second time more seriously?"
"John forgives me - "
"Alright but still. Would you want to spend the rest of your life visiting someone in prison?"
Her honest to God answer was no. Elizabeth would rather live her life and so wished that upon John too. Perhaps she would just be a chore to him if she did stay? Friend or not...
"You wouldn't, would you?"
The thief gave a little shake of her head.
"Lizzie, you have nothing here, nothing keeping you here. I'll go, you'll have no one to bail you out of prison and the rest of your life will be lived in a little, cold, grey cell with the most miniscule window you have ever known. You don't want that do you?"
She shook her head.
"So go." He stood up from the bed and turned to wave her next clean slate at her, "Go while I can still help you."
"I can barely move."
"Don't worry about that. I'll get you out, but you have to ask." He gave her a genuine caring smile.
Elizabeth stared at him and thought back to the conversation she had had with Irene so long ago. Jim had been obsessed with getting her back but now? Now, he was trying to help her escape. Perhaps the psychopath did respect her enough to let her go - albeit on his own terms considering the situation she found herself in now. She thought about Sherlock, thought about John and Mrs Hudson, thought about the family she had gained and lost. Elizabeth would miss them terribly, of course, especially Sherlock, regardless of him hating her.
She had earned John's forgiveness, no doubt had she earned the landlady's forgiveness too seeing as she was such a gentle soul, and perhaps that was enough.
Perhaps in this situation, she did just have to move on for her own and John's good.
"Please...get me out..."
* * * * * * *
Jim looked at her softly as he had left her room with the trolley, his black bob back on top of his head, shutting the door behind him and approached the security guard. The second he was out of her line of sight, that gentle smile was gone, replaced with the natural, dangerous, arctic expression he tended to carry by default.
"Moran. Thank you." Jim stopped by the security guard, pulling a letter out of his nurse's uniform, "If she ever comes back - back to the UK - send this letter to her."
Sebastian shared a look with the psychopath and in it was what you could call love. A love that spoke a wordless goodbye. He nodded, taking the letter, reading what it said on the front as the faux nurse strolled away with his medicine trolley:
For my Sophia...