Emily's POV
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"Don't get me wrong, I loved the Swiss luxury- but it's good to be home," says John, stepping into the familiar, dust-softened apartment of 221B and breathing in the motes with purposeful exaggeration.
We're all exhausted. The journey was a nightmare. Mycroft decided that we didn't deserve an opulent flight back, so we spent the duration being tossed around by turbulence, crammed in next to strangers who should really learn the etiquette of personal hygiene. We were escorted into taxis, and driven back to Baker Street in silence. John realised that he'd misplaced his suitcase when we were halfway down the M25, so we had to turn back. And then, just after we'd staggered out of the vehicle, we were ambushed by Mrs. Hudson, in a rush of flour and angora jumpers; hugged relentlessly and kissed unwillingly. We're all bearing lipstick-shaded war wounds on our cheeks, that refuse to shift even with the most persistent of rubbing.
I'm staying here for the night, because I'm too drained to make the trek across suburban London back to my apartment. Sherlock is the only one of us who doesn't seem to be on the brink of collapse. He hasn't said much since we left Switzerland. John spent the flight texting Mary, who, after their rushed exchange of numbers, has been in constant contact. Sherlock just stared broodingly out the window. I was forced to sit next to a man with an astoundingly low mental capacity, who kept trying to make conversation about the cost of avocados. Eventually, I stopped trying to preserve my integrity, and amused myself by picturing the different ways that I could end his life in my head.
There's a heatwave in London, at the moment. It's the beginning of May, and so uncharacteristically hot it's verging on uncomfortable. Especially considering that we have just returned from the land of constant snowfall and sub-zero temperatures. It's late evening now. The air is so dense with heat and suspended water, it's like inhaling liquid. Everyone has retreated to their bedrooms, and I've taken over the main sofa, curled up against the cracked leather. The apartment of 221B has always struck me as haphazardly cosy; a combination of frosted test tubes, heavy curtains, and stacks of precariously piled books, all contained within walls pasted with mismatching patterns. My apartment in comparison is very bleak: the empty spaces furnished purely for the sake of necessity.
I fall asleep feeling unusually content, a state of mind that rarely graces me with it's presence.
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I'm awake before the others. My internal body clock has been sufficiently shaken, set back a good couple of hours, so it's just beginning to get light outside; chinks of a reluctant, smog-streaked sun shifting gently between the parted curtains. However, I am aware that this is deceptive. It might look cold outside, but past experience and the dry heat of yesterday tells me that today is going to be another scorching twelve hours to endure.
I get dressed, and retrieve my scattered belongings from the surrounding area. I won't wake them up. I'm sure they'd favour the extra sleep over a chance to say goodbye to me. Besides, it won't be long before I see them again.
I descend the stairs, as quietly as I can, and unlock the door, stepping out into the morning. I was right. Even at this temperature, the unrelenting heat is clawing it's way through the starved air, coiling around concrete and making the road ahead of me shimmer.
As I sit in the back of the taxi, I find my mind wandering back to Moran, and the events at Zermatt. He's like me, in many respects. It's all about impulse. True, he did meticulously plan the kidnapping, and manage to lure us out to Switzerland, but when it comes down to it, he will always be the type of man who relies on instinct, and instinct alone. Sherlock and Moriarty are the calculators; the minds behind the crime, whether it be solving it or causing it. Millie slots nicely between the two extremes, and perhaps that is why she's the most stable out of us all.
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.
I collide with him at the doorway.
"And there I was thinking you wouldn't fall for it."
Something inside me snaps.
The sound of his voice, taunting to the brink of dangerous, sends a series of memories flickering across my cerebral screen. Whiskey. Pain. Heat. Snow. Noise. Hospitals.
Millie.
Millie, hooked up to monitors, crossing the fragile line between normality and life-altering change. Sherlock's expression. John's raw, bracing sadness.
Fear.
And I can't take it anymore. I can't take him anymore.
I'm not aware of the movement. Not really. It's only when I have him pinned to the wall, arms pressed behind him, do I mentally rouse myself. He doesn't look particularly surprised, or alarmed. Unreactive. Bored. I wrench his head back, and press my forearm to his neck, forcing the air from his lungs and blocking it from re-entering. I know from experience just how painful this is; a blunt, constricting weight across the airway is agony. But still he doesn't react. Slowly, I remove my arm, but don't relax my stance. I wait, silently expecting.
"Are you done?"
"Why?" I hiss at him, wrestling with control.
"Why am I here?"
"No. Why now."
He laughs, apparently having forgotten our last encounter.
"Because now is important, Emily. Another time loses it's relevance."
I don't say anything.
"You don't look like you're in the mood for riddles and ambiguity. I'll simplify it for you. I'm here, because Sebastian wants me dead."
I tighten my grip on his collar, moments away from disconnecting the base of his skull from his spine.
"He's been a very clever boy, I must admit; doing what Sherlock couldn't. He's dismantling my network from the inside out. Paying off partners, bribing business men. Getting them to turn against me," he says, shaking his head and tutting. "And it's working, too. Money does that to people. It temporarily overrides fear. It's salvageable, though. Sebastian doesn't quite have my flair when it comes to threats. I just need to have a few chats with some very specific individuals to regain my position. Break people. Sway others. More money, more meetings. Only I can't do all that if I'm flitting from hotel to hotel, can I? Which is where you come in, Emily."
"You tried to kill me."
"I'm aware of that, yes. It's a shame really, that Millie found you when she did. You would have made a lovely firework display."
"You put us all in hospital. You're insane. You're manipulative. You want me dead. And now, just because you've managed to piss off your sniper and your precious network's betrayed you, you're coming to me?!" I say, laughing incredulously.
"Don't flatter yourself."
I hit him then, hard across the face, because if I don't have some form of physical outlet, I will kill him. And I don't want him dead, not yet. I want him alive, and suffering. His head twists sideways with the impact of the blow, but he turns it back to face me, slowly. He's smiling.
I can't seem to make a dent in his polished exterior. Violence is useless. Threats will always be empty. I can feel my willpower draining as my anger fades to weariness. I pull him forwards by the lapels of his suit, and slam him back against the wall, listening to the dull crack of his head against the plaster with simple satisfaction.
Then I let go, turning away.
"Get out of my apartment."
He doesn't answer, at first. He adjusts his tie, sliding the knot upwards, and brushes the creases from his jacket. For all his dark and sinister motives, his apparent desire to retain an unmarred appearance has always seemed distinctly out of place.
"It's not your apartment."
I hesitate on my way out. Something about his tone is triumphant.
"It's mine."
I freeze. Without looking away from the door that is so blatantly flaunting reprieve, I address him, trying to keep my voice steady:
"What?"
His grin widens, predacious in it's intensity.
"Thing is, Emily, when you're a consulting criminal, money is abundant. I anticipated you'd be less than willing to comply. So, I've invested in some property."
I think the room constricts; the walls narrowing to improbable proportions. An icy realisation begins to trace the outline of my capillaries. He continues-
"All it took was two million quid and a meeting with the landlord. I'm a proprietor, now. This room, this floor, this building-"
He breaks off, his face rapt as he savours my expression:
"I own it all."
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