Emily's POV
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I stare at him for a minute, rapidly scanning through the files in my head, looking for a loophole, or a way out.
He's bought it. The whole building.
He glances around the room, taking in the general clutter and lack of order. It's strange; despite having been struck across the face only minutes ago, there's no redness. His usual pallor is unaffected. Pale skin, offset by dark eyes and hair. No difference.
And then everything crystallises.
It's so simple.
"No," I say, and he looks up, inquiring. "No. I don't have to deal with this."
He smiles, his head to one side.
"I'm afraid you do."
"No, I don't. You bought this apartment? Fine. Have it. I'm not staying here."
I turn around, and make my way towards the door. This isn't convenient, by any means: I'll have to stay at Baker Street for a while, until I sort out a new lodging. I will also have to increase my hours and broaden my clientele list, to fund the move, which means more late nights spent hacking governments and data bases and bank accounts.
But it's better than staying here, with him.
"I didn't want to threaten you, Emily."
I stop walking, my hand on the doorknob.
"Ok, I lied. I did."
I twist the handle, and hear him shift position behind me.
"How much do you value your friendship with Millie Shon?"
I pull open the door.
"Humour me. Answer the question."
I look over my shoulder at him:
"Don't talk to me about friendship."
He raises his eyebrows, the paragon of mock offence.
But then his body language changes. He takes his hands out of his pockets, his eyes get darker, and the shell of repartee falls away in it's entirety. Then he speaks, and his tone has dropped the taunting cadence:
"If you care for her as a person, you will listen to what I have to say very carefully."
I should walk away now.
I stay where I am. Unmoving, hand still poised on the door handle.
"Don't you think," he says, and his voice has taken on a sinister, pointed undertone: "That it's a bit strange, how you know next to nothing about Millie's history? You don't know about her family. Or her childhood. Or her previous...involvements."
"She knows nothing about my past. It doesn't affect anything."
He chuckles, leaning against the wall and watching me unwaveringly.
"She knows you have a sister. Had a sister."
My grip tightens on the handle.
"Is that still a sore topic? After all this time?"
"I don't see how this is relevant."
"You're right. Let's get to the point, shall we?"
This is the side of Jim Moriarty that scares me. The teasing, the provoking, the inflammatory remarks; I can take those. I can manage them. But this. This is the cold, calculating, almost business-like spectra of his personality. This is the consulting criminal who has a global reputation as the most dangerous mind the world has ever seen.
"Millie hasn't been entirely truthful with you. With any of you. What I am about to tell you is an indication of my position; if you leave now, you take Millie's secrecy with you. You step out that door, Emily, and Millie's tarnished history gets published on a global scale. And honey, when you hear about this, you're going to want to stay in this apartment."
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Millie's POV
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Emily's gone, when I wake up.
The sofa is empty, and the apocalyptic disarray of clothes, toiletries and computer essentials has been cleared up. There's a lingering smell of sharply sweet perfume, the remnants of her person, but that's it. Strange. I thought she'd say goodbye. I shrug it off, and put the kettle on for John, before commandeering Sherlock's armchair, newspaper in hand. I sit cross-legged, and leaf through the dry pages, yawning.
"Millie."
I look up at Sherlock, who's standing a few feet in front of me, disdainful.
"Yes...?"
He nods curtly at his occupied armchair. I sigh, unwilling to move:
"Can't you-"
"No."
I roll my eyes, but comply, pushing myself into a standing position. He sits down heavily in my place, flicking the tails of his navy dressing gown behind him and putting his feet up.
"Classy," I remark sarcastically, resuming my stance on the sofa.
He winks, with casual audacity. We sit in companionable silence for a while, as I continue inspecting the newspaper. And then he speaks, suddenly:
"Mary Morstan."
I frown, looking up from the condensed print:
"What about her?"
Sherlock rests his chin on steepled fingers, deep in thought. I wonder what has brought this up; this is unusual even for Sherlock- normally he keeps his musings to himself.
"I don't know... There's just something."
"Helpful."
He waves a hand in my direction, as if chasing away my curt remark to allow for further explanation.
"There's something about her. Unusual."
"I understand," I say, turning another page. "I saw her fingers, at the hospital. They were very..."
"Accurate?"
"Yes. It's odd. She's just a trainee nurse. Nothing in her field of work requires that much precision."
"She texts John a lot."
I suppress a smile at his tone: he's trying to pass it off as an indifferent statement, but I can tell that it bothers him. There's a small period of quiet. Then-
"Why does she need to text him so much? He's got us."
He sounds so thoroughly perplexed and petulant, I start to laugh. Suddenly, a door opens, and a sleep-ruffled John emerges, stretching as he shuffles into the corridor.
"Morning, everyone."
"Morning. Sleep well?"
"God, no. My bed's like a bloody rock after the mattress at Zermatt," he says, shaking his head wistfully. John looks around the room: "Where's Emily?"
"She was gone before I'd woken up."
"What? Why didn't she say goodbye?"
"I don't know, John."
"Has she called?"
I shake my head.
"Maybe you should call her instead, then. Make sure she got back safely."
"Ok. Kettle's just boiled. Help yourself."
"Thanks, Millie."
I nod, and make my way back into my bedroom, already too hot to be relaxed. I sit on the periphery of the bed, rifling through the contents of my suitcase until my fingers close around the thin metal edge of my phone. Sitting back, I dial Emily's number, listening to the empty ringing as I watch the dust motes in their solitary dance.
She still hasn't picked up by the fifth dial, and I'm about to cancel the call, when there's the muffled click of the receiver, and I hear her voice, strained and quiet:
"Hello?"
"Hi, Emily, it's Millie-"
"Can I call you back?"
I take the phone away from my ear, surprised and instantly concerned. Her voice is the personification of suppressed stress.
"Is everything alright..?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. I just...have a lot of work on at the moment."
"Already? You've only been back-"
"I've really got to go Millie, I'm sorry. I'll call this afternoon."
And she hangs up.
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Emily's POV
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He watches me as I hang up. I'm numb with shock. Genuine, stinging shock. It was hard, listening to her voice on the phone; softly spoken syllables, gently sloping intonation- it contradicts everything Moriarty has just told me.
But he didn't lie. I've seen the proof. His face at the moment is predatory, relishing my horror and revelling in the unaccountable, inescapable situation I have found myself in.
I don't have a choice. I have to stay here. With him. Because I can't let him publicise this new information. It would shatter Millie, and Sherlock, and everyone else in proximity. And I know that Moriarty is not the type of person to make vacant threats.
So for Millie's sake, I can't leave this apartment.
I am also very aware that this is a two-pronged attack. Moriarty couldn't care less if his presence was discovered- in fact, these circumstances can be used to his advantage. If Sherlock, or Millie, or John finds out that he is staying here, I might as well pack my bags and leave the country. The fluctuating friendship between us will be shredded, permanently. And I wouldn't even be able to tell them why I did it, because then I would be exposing Millie.
Moriarty nods, slowly, as if listening to my despairing thoughts and confirming each and every one of my fears.
I look at him, and then at the open door in front of me. I was so close. If only I had been quicker. I should have left before he had time to vocalise his threat. This is blackmail in it's purest, most manipulative form. I don't know why I'm surprised: he does this for a living.
I close the door. Locking me, Moriarty, and all the unspoken ultimatums inside. Without looking up, I address him, my voice hoarse and broken:
"Stay away from me. Don't talk to me, don't touch me, don't look at me. Have your meetings. Do whatever it is you came here for. But I don't want to be involved."
"You're not in a position to be bargaining with me, Emily Schott."
It's true.
And then he walks past me into my apartment, deliberately brushing against my shoulder, a barely-there smile toying with the corners of his mouth.
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