The Bás I Caillteanas Project

Family Is All We've Got In The End

September 12th. It's been two weeks. Two weird weeks of living in Baker Street. I had my stuff moved in a few days ago and helped Sherlock tidy up. Well, I say tidy up -- he picked up a couple of biology books and then complained for the rest of the day.

Jim Moriarty hasn't shown up yet, which I'm grateful for, but Sherlock told me he must be planning something big. I'm terrified, utterly terrified. But of course I'll never tell him that, either of them.

I hadn't seen Greg for a while, not until he turned up on our doorstep one day. You'd never believe what had happened to him, unless you had heard of James Moriarty:

We were sitting in the main room. Sherlock was composing some music to help him think and I was reading Alice In Wonderland. His latest case was about some mysterious superheroes that apparently came to life.
Three young men had come to the flat to ask for Sherlock's help. Chris Melas was the ringleader of the little club, I think. They were obsessed - yes, obsessed - with a group of supernatural heroes called the Kratides. They were nice people to talk to, but I quickly learned that comic books aren't called comic books -- they're called graphic novels. Chris was rather vocal about that. Sherlock took the case, but was stumpted. He literally didn't know. Completely baffled. It was very entertaining to be honest. He spent a few days continuously in his mindpalace, which gave me some peace and quiet - although it was a bit lonely at times.

One morning I heard a scream coming from downstairs. I ran down and found Mrs Hudson kneeling beside a limp body - Greg's limp body. She looked up at me with distress.

"Oh, god." Was all I could say.

I scrambled towards him. His pulse was slow and breathing was unusual. Cuts and gashes littered his body.

"Get Sherlock!" I practically screamed at Mrs Hudson. She scurried to our flat.

I started examining him for wounds: there was a large gouge in his side, and it was bleeding heavily.

"Hey, Greg." I whispered in desperation. "You're okay now, you're safe."

He looked up at me and smiled weakly. I let go of his hand to run into Mrs Hudson's kitchen and to grab scissors, then messily cut up a long towel to make a bandage. I clambered back over to him and tightened the fabric around his blood-covered stomach. Tears were rolling down my cheeks uncontrollably. I knew who did this -- it could only be him.

Sherlock sprinted down the stairs. "What happened?!"

"I don't know!" I shouted through sobs. There was nothing else I could do to help, and I felt useless.

"Mrs Hudson! Call an ambulance! Quickly!" He shouted.

I wiped my eyes and cleared away all emotion, it only slowed me down.

"Greg, what did you see? Who did this?" Sherlock asked.

I glanced up at him. "You got his name right. The first time you got his name right and it had to be like this." I looked back towards Greg.

Greg chuckled quietly. "Yeah, first time you ever remember my name, and I'm dying."

"Don't say that." I whispered. "You're not."

His gaze locked on me. "I am, and you know it."

I stared at him as a tear left my eye. "I don't want you to."

"I know, me neither."

"Who did this?" Sherlock ordered.

"Moriarty, I think. A couple of men kidnapped me... on my lunch break yesterday. I was taken-" He flinched and held his wound. "I was taken and tortured." He chuckled humourlessly. "I couldn't get in touch with either of you, I'm sorry."