-Millie-
~~~~~~
"Any volunteers?"
The room remains grimly silent.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow and leans forwards, resting his elbows on the polished surface of his desk. He re-iterates the importance of the task at hand, explaining the situation in the dry hope we will reconsider and volunteer ourselves as living bait: James Moriarty was last seen at an airport terminal, and has not returned to the penthouse location since. They are attempting to track him on his international crime spree, to limited success, and the laptop retrieved has proved impossible to crack – its blockades exist as a wall of thickly-layered code; a numerical rib cage surrounding a trembling heart of illicit information.
Those trying to break past the barrier recognise it as Emily's work – and Emily's work can be de-coded only by Emily herself. Dredged footage shows her entering the penthouse with a memory stick on numerous occasions, typically clamped between her teeth or tucked precariously into her blazer pocket.
They believe the answer to unlocking the coded restraints lie within that mistreated memory stick.
She successfully discharged herself from hospital last week, much to Lestrade's horror and my private celebration. We chose to preserve her secrecy. I persuaded John to keep her identity from the police – who, upon finding her in a state of persistent unconsciousness, left her to regain her acuity with every intention of interviewing her the following week.
Emily, however, had other ideas.
The security cameras feature her two days later, leaving the building alone, bruised and limping but otherwise recovered.
The memory stick heist is a two person job, so we've been told. Jamie's genetics are invaluable; his external appearance is more effective than any key, and it is him who has been given the responsibility of entering the penthouse and preventing suspicion. The theft itself must be ruthlessly quick. Two individuals are to scour the location, with one searching the upper floors and the other – presumably Jamie – sifting through the contents of the ground floor. It has to be slick, fast-paced and thorough: if Emily, whose whereabouts are currently unknown, or Moriarty, whose return to the country is also unknown, were to enter mid-theft, those involved would be pronounced dead at the scene.
Mycroft leans back in his chair. "Very well. James will go alone."
Jamie sits beside me with his brother's visage and wearing a suit the colour of pale oak, his tie blue silk and fastened askew. He doesn't protest, but I can see the sick apprehension on his face; he closes his eyes, breathing shallowly, drumming his fingers on the back of his hand.
If he's a little edgy by default, he's a veritable wreck today.
"I'll go with him. They won't look twice if he's with me."
John and Sherlock look up. Mycroft pauses mid-speech.
"That's not a good idea," says John, after the silence becomes intolerable.
"Would you rather go with him?"
"Not particularly – but I'm not being stalked by an unnamed rapist."
Jamie flinches at the word. I will my expression not to betray the hot panic in my head at the mention of my merciless suitor. Sherlock sits up and turns to his brother, addressing him with curt, thinly-veiled urgency. "Send security with him instead. They can search as well as any of us."
"You don't think that would raise eyebrows? James Moriarty, walking into his apartment with a series of armed government officials?" I say, forcefully persuasive. "If they don't stop us, they'll report back to him. He'll work it out. That's Project Dioscuri rendered useless."
"Ms Shon," says Mycroft, coolly, "makes a cogent point."
"It's dangerous."
"Tracking a serial killer is dangerous. So was breaking into Baskerville's military core. And Magnussen's office."
"If she catches you–"
"She won't. Besides," I say, pressing my fingertips against the edge of Mycroft's desk. "It's Emily."
"Exactly," counteracts John. "It's Emily."
"Your transport will be arriving within the hour. I suggest you make a decision."
I look around at the serious faces – pale, like white thumbprints on black paper – and then at Jamie, who gives me a shy, albeit uneasy smile.
I turn to Mycroft Holmes in an uncharacteristic display of conviction.
"I've already made it."
~~~~~~
-Emily-
~~~~~~
I step out onto the rain-lashed pavement, shielding my laptop with the stack of legal documents my client insisted I read – a poorly-concealed threat, should my hacking fail to meet their standards. I don't think this individual quite grasped the nature of my business. The law no longer dictates what I can and cannot do.
That's the wonderful thing about crime. You stencil over the rules.
Orchestrating my premature departure from hospital was easier than initially anticipated. Jim, as it turns out, was behind Lestrade's delay – he'd blown up a car on the main motorway as means of distraction – and was long gone when Scotland Yard made their appearance. I was beyond the point of rousing, watching a sleep-induced dream-film comprising flickers; a flash of Jim's face, the arm in the alleyway, the sound of his voice in my ear, hushing me, faceless, tapping his tongue against his teeth in a tut, a glimpse of the sky before the lights went out, black and bearing pricked, white holes.
I thank my non-existent Lord for the bruising that concealed my identity.
When I woke again, Lestrade and his team had left, and I was informed by a nurse that they'd be back within the week to question me on my survival. By that evening I'd planned my escape, and by the following morning I'd limped my way from ward to lobby and from lobby to parking lot, where I promptly hailed a taxi and travelled back to the penthouse uninhibited.
In regards to Jim's "floral artist", all has been comparably quiet. No new murders. No horrific displays of affection. I've attempted some research, to no avail – Scotland Yard were pitifully correct in saying that all biological information was recorded with no name to match it with. The sites of body discovery vary, but continue to circle around Baker Street with sinister repetition. His victims fluctuate in age, too, with the youngest recorded just eight years old and the oldest at thirty-six. All female. There's no consistency in occupation; most have been scrounged from the streets, but a select few are corporate company high-fliers – a medic, a law student, an IT technician.
Progress is virtually impossible.
I haven't seen Jim since our conversation in the hospital room. I've received a couple of brief emails with instructions regarding clientele, but that's it. Moran made a rare appearance yesterday afternoon – he walked into the penthouse in brooding silence, took one look at me sitting in Jim's chaise longue and turned around, slamming the door with enough acrimony to shake the foundations. Whether Ivan has been in contact or not, I don't know; the police collected my phone as evidence, so I've had to buy myself a new model. I shouldn't risk a personal visit to inform him of the change – but then again, I've never been one to abide risk's restraints.
My new phone vibrates. I fish it from my pocket and squint at the screen through the rain – Jim's back in England, and will be at the penthouse within the next half an hour. I return the phone to my jacket pocket and, musing over the possibility of initiating contact with Ivan, climb into the awaiting taxi.
~~~~~~
-Millie-
~~~~~~
I can feel my heart – this cocaine-wearied muscle clenched like a red fist in my chest – beat hard at my rib cage as Jamie presses the key card to the recognition device.
He was silent for the entirety of our journey, sitting grim-faced in the back seat as we were driven from the safety of Mycroft's office to the building; an impossibly tall, curved piece of architecture with silent doors and an entourage of hired security at every entrance. As predicted, Jamie received no more than an acknowledging glance – I kept in his slipstream, avoiding the watchful gaze of security cameras and guards alike.
We step into the penthouse. Jamie closes the door with purposeful force, pressing a finger to his lips and motioning for me to keep back, out of sight. We strain for an indication of company.
All is mercifully silent.
"You start there," I say, my voice a shadow of itself. "I'll work my way upstairs."
My hunt becomes an exploration; I ascend the crystal staircase with wide-eyed awe, admiring the modernist's take on luxury – there is no shortage of visual satiation, here. From the cut-glass chandelier, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, to the rooms themselves with their window walls and vast beds; the minimalistic opulence is difficult to comprehend. Amongst it all are remnants of Emily Schott that twinge chords in my chest: a stray coffee mug balanced on a ledge, an abandoned shoe left outside what I presume is her new bedroom, loose papers piled haphazardly and the occasional smudge of dark, wine-tinted lipstick.
My observations are cut short by what sounds like the slam of a door within the complex.
I stop moving, and am met with further silence. With some difficulty, I coerce myself to slip out of the corridor and back down the stairs – Jamie is standing frozen in the corner of the room, clutching a discarded bottle like a lifeline.
We do not breathe.
Footsteps sound from the flat beneath us.
I allow myself to exhale. Jamie is the colour of greying parchment; I do not need a detailed knowledge of medical ailments to know that he is on the cusp of collapse. I ask if he would like to sit down. He doesn't move.
"Jamie...?"
"I can't do it," he says, more to himself than to me. "It's going to kill me. He's going to kill me."
I take a hesitant step in his direction. He looks on the verge of breakdown.
"Why do I keep doing this?" he asks, faintly hysterical.
"It's not for long–"
"It's for the rest of my life. Six months. Two weeks. Whatever's left of it." He looks at me, quite suddenly. "They won't let me stop."
"You're not their puppet," I say. "Insist you don't want to continue."
There is frenzy in his despair.
"And then what? I live my life under surveillance. I get mistaken for my brother and assaulted in the street. Those close to me are punishable by death. I can't do it."
I take Jamie by his suited shoulders and say, in a voice as firm as I can manage, "We're going to get this memory stick. I know Emily. She's not the secretive type. I'll keep looking – you stay here, just in case. We'll give it to Mycroft, and then you are going to decline further participation without consequence. I'm afraid I don't know much about politics, but I do know it's your constitutional right to privacy. You didn't commit those crimes. You're in no way affiliated with your brother. I'll speak to Sherlock. He'll help. We'll help."
Jamie looks at me strangely, then nods, quiet in his restlessness. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile, and turn to commence my investigation–
"Millie?"
I turn back around – only to be stopped and thoroughly startled by the soft sensation of his lips on mine.
I make a muffled noise of stifled surprise, too stunned to move from my rather graceless position by the staircase – one arm still half-outstretched, my torso twisted – and stay very still as his lips part and I feel his breath, sweet and hot, on my skin. He presses his mouth to mine once more, still with the same note of urgent, wild irrationality, while I stand, unmoving, unresponsive as I experience this unprecedented display of desperation and something else I'm not quite familiar with.
Jamie pulls away after a minute, blinking rapidly, cheeks flushed pink and eyes too bright.
I can only gape at him.
"I'm so sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't–"
There is a noise from the hallway, the sound of something small, compact and plastic hitting the marble – we both jump, violently, and spin around.
Emily is standing by the open door, the coveted memory stick at her feet, her face a curious combination of golden skin and mottled green and raw, raw purple. It bears an expression so genuinely horrified, so truly shocked, it could be considered comical if I were not aware of the thin line between that horror and homicidal rage.
She looks between Jamie and I, her hands still clasped as if holding her dropped memory stick. I try to register the emotions moving across the multi-coloured contours of her face. Primarily shock. Disbelief. Another response I do not recognise.
Jamie holds his breath beside me. I do not move.
We stand in mutual silence for two, excruciating minutes – and then, with a mechanical stiffness, she closes the door behind her. For a moment, I am deceived by the slowness of her actions; I misinterpret it as calm, as understanding. I think I see control.
My illusion disintegrates when she turns back around.
Cornered, vulnerable and guilty of a crime I did not commit, I am forced to watch as the tenuous thread of that control snaps in two.
Her expression is our death sentence.
~~~~~~