Side of the Angels ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book II} *UNDER EDITING*

Chapter 7- Jackets and Questions

Millie's POV

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The atmosphere is decidedly frosty. 

I'm trying hard to act as I normally do. John is trying hard to act like nothing is wrong. Sherlock isn't acting at all.

Inside, I'm seething. I don't trust easily, so, on the rare occasion I do let people into my life, I expect them to value me as a person.

And not forget about me.

I wonder if Sherlock is as oblivious to my feelings as he makes out to be. I think that he knows he's hurt me, but he's covering up by being as particularly obnoxious. 

I'm mindlessly flicking through magazines when the text comes through. We know something is wrong, imminently, because we all get a notification at exactly the same time.

My breath catches in my throat. One word, one name, is circling silently through the room. For a second, I forget that my best friends have abandoned me for a criminal hacker, and the excitement  of another possible mystery drums adrenaline through my veins. I've missed this.

We reach for our phones. 

The text is identical: She's certainly not boring. I'm not sure I want to give her back. -JM

I look up, confused. John's face mirrors my expression.

Sherlock continues to watch the screen, and says-

"Emily."

I look down again. 

He taps out a reply, and then leans back into his chair, thinking.

Silence.

"You want to tell us what you said?" asks John, sarcastically.

"No."

"Sorry I asked," he mutters, raising his eyebrows slightly and reabsorbing himself in the television.

I don't say anything.

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Emily's POV

I come round, lying on a plastic coated mattress, on a bed, in a strange room. I sit up slowly, only to be knocked down again by the remnants of the drug in my system. My elbow hurts, and I've got bruises along my arms. I wait a few minutes, then try again, taking in my surroundings. This looks like a flat, but not a home. There's no indication of anyone living here; no personal touches, no clutter.

However, I know this is no coincidence. 

There's a computer system set up in the corner of the room.

I stand up, and walk quickly, albeit shakily, towards it, before pulling out the plastic stool and sitting down. I turn it on, feeling the familiar hum of electronics beneath my fingertips.

"Good to see you don't waste time," says a familiar voice behind me.

I don't look round. Instead, I open up a new tab, experimenting.

"You can't say you're not curious," he says, and he's right, so I turn around on the stool.

Hm. Not what I expected. I was anticipating a greasy business man, intent on running his crimes like a company. What I get it an immaculately and expensively dressed Irishman, with slicked back hair and a shark like grin.

He senses me analysing, and his smile widens, although it doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a hand out of his pocket, and holds it out in front of him.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

I ignore the gesture.

He pretends to be offended, the returns his hand to his pocket, observing me with casual indifference.

"So," I begin, my voice still rough from the chloroform, "Jim Moriarty, why am I here?"

He regards me silently for a minute, before taking a few steps forwards and saying-

"Well, primarily, because you tried to hack my database. Not that there's anything of importance on there- I'm not stupid. Computers can be cracked. I store everything up here," he says lightly, tapping his head, "And secondly, because I'm curious."

"How so?"

"I want to know how good you are. You see, I've worked with a lot of intelligence hackers in my lifetime. And my clients sing your praises. So, I wanted to see it for myself. A test, if you will," he says pleasantly.

I raise an eyebrow. I'm trying to imitate his amiable persona, but, the truth is, he radiates danger. It's making me edgy. 

"Go on," he says, nodding to the screen.

I turn around slowly. There's a mock security system. Nothing too difficult. Two minutes later, and it's cracked. Then another one pops up. A bit harder this time. But still, relatively boring. And another one. I'm sensing a pattern. I'm also very aware of Moriarty standing behind me, watching. 

Half an hour later, and the final problem flickers into view.

It's different. It's frighteningly simple, in fact, I wouldn't call it a security system at all. It's a heavy paragraph. A word problem. I scan the letters; I can't believe this.

It's a question.

A question about sentimental values. It's giving me a situation: it's asking me, in brief, what would I do when faced with the decision of choosing between the people I most care about. I frown slightly. This isn't applicable to me. I don't have anyone left to care about. Not after-

No.

I clench my jaw, and type out an answer. It's harsh, but true. I enter the text, then sit back in my chair.

"Am I done here?" 

There's an unnerving silence. I look around. He's doing it again. Watching me. Casual interest. I don't want him to be interested in my work. Sherlock was right. This man is beyond my capabilities. 

"Yes. I suppose you are."

"Great. And I can just walk out? I'm not going to be outnumbered and knocked out with chemicals?"

He smiles humourlessly.

"Yes. Although, I think you could handle yourself," he says, his eyes resting on the bruise on my elbow. I took off my jacket to gag the man, so I'm in my old t-shirt. I don't like him looking at my exposed skin, it makes me feel vulnerable.

I'm not a vulnerable person. 

I nod sharply, and stand up. I'm almost his height, a couple of centimetres shorter. This is reassuring. I decide to return his calculating scan, and regard him coolly. We're silent for a few minutes, and then I push past him, out of the door. It's still light outside. I hail a taxi, and ask to be taken on a detour, before I return home. 

I lean back into the leather seat, and feel my pocket- I've still got my phone.

I send a text to the number I memorised-

You owe me a new jacket -ES

The reply is imminent.

You still owe me a favour, remember? -JM

I scowl ferociously, and text Sherlock.

I'm coming over. Don't bother with tea- ES

Then I sit back and watch London flash past the grubby window.

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