Father Dear (Moriarty's daughter)

Chapter VII: Home..

She was a diamond, nothing that could break her.

Slowly, consciousness returned to her like a distant echo, gradually pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness into the harsh reality of the present. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with grogginess, and she found herself bathed in the sterile glow of the hospital room.

The steady beep of monitors filled the air, their rhythmic cadence a constant reminder of the fragility of life. With each breath, she felt a dull ache radiating from her shoulder, a persistent throb that served as a grim testament to the events that had transpired.

As her senses gradually sharpened, she became aware of the weight of bandages wrapped tightly around her wounded shoulder, their presence a stark reminder of the bullet that had torn through flesh and bone. With a trembling hand, she reached up to gingerly touch the bandages, wincing as pain flared anew with the slightest movement.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as the memories of that fateful night flooded back, each moment etched into her mind with painful clarity. The gunshot, the searing pain, Mycroft's frantic efforts to save her– it all felt like fragments of a nightmare from which she could not escape.

A creaking sound drew her attention, and she slowly turned my head to see the door to the hospital room slowly swinging open. A familiar figure stepped through the doorway, his expression etched with concern and relief.

"Mycroft," She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, the sound hoarse and raspy from disuse.

His gaze met hers, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes before he stepped closer to her bedside. With gentle hands, he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch a soothing balm against the chaos that raged within her.

"Violet," he whispered, his voice soft yet filled with an undercurrent of emotion, "You're awake."

She nodded weakly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite the pain that still coursed through her body. In that moment, the weight of everything they had endured seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of gratitude for the simple blessing of being alive.

"Did she get away?" She murmured, referring to Irene. She could see Mycroft sigh as he sat down on the bed next to her bruised body. "She did." He sighed, his hand on her leg on top of the blanket. "What about the man that shot me?"

"Dead." Mycroft stated, a little flickering flame behind is eyes as he said it. "How's the pain?" He asked her, she sighed. "I feel like I'm being pulled apart, but they won't give me any more morphine through the IV." She answered, pointing up to the IV with her good arm though even that movement stung her shoulder too.

Mycroft smirked and lifted from the bed, walking over to the IV pole. "Let me see." She could see him starting to turn one of the levers on the IV bag, allowing more morphine to flow through the IV into her arm. She smirked at Mycroft's miscievous behaviour, completely against his own principles. "Just don't tell the nurses." He whispered before he leaned down and placed a kiss on the crown of her head. "I'll leave you to sleep, let the morphine do it's work. I'll be back to check on you tonight."

"Alright, thanks for coming."

"Always." He answered as he took his umbrella, twisted it in his hand and closed the door behind him. 

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The sterile white walls of the hospital room seemed to close in around Violet as she lay in the crisp white sheets, her body still throbbing with pain from the gunshot wound. Every breath sent a lance of agony through her side, a constant reminder of the harrowing events that had led her here.