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

Chapter 59- Fight or Flight

Emily's POV

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Wasn't I supposed to have Sherlock and Millie round last night?

Crap.

The thought is enough to wake me up properly. I push back the sheets and stretch out, yawning and raking a hand through my unkempt hair. I completely forgot that John asked me to have them over. I swing my legs out over the hotel bed, and look down, momentarily suprised. I must have fallen asleep fully clothed. I sigh, and look around for my laptop, which I find kicked under the bed, still running. 

Last night was certainly eventful.

Gytrash responded immediately, confirming my offer. I couldn't possibly risk hacking the Ministry of Defence's database from my apartment; not now that I'm on court records. So, I packed up and booked into the first hotel I could find.

It was a difficult procedure- I was very nearly traced, and, at one point, I almost had to back out and face the consequences, as the security software got alarmingly close to crashing my offensive code.

But I did it, after four hours of solid command-typing.

I bend down to retrieve my laptop, and turn it over, swearing loudly. The screen is cracked across the middle. I'm going to have to buy a new one. Why did I offer to hack that for free? I prise open the back compartment, and remove the condensed motherboard- the bit containing all the information on my recent activities.

As long as I have this metal chip, the actual laptop is useless, and it can't be used against me as evidence. I pocket my phone and credit card, grab my jacket, and close the door to both my hotel room and broken laptop. I sign the checkout book under a false name, and slip out unnoticed.

I'm halfway down the road when I see them.

I freeze.

Moran and Moriarty are a few paces ahead of me, arguing.

Well, Moriarty is walking in front of Moran, irritated, his dark sunglasses obscuring most of his expression. Moran is  protesting loudly; too angry to keep whatever he's fuming about inside, but still too fearful of Moriarty to stop him walking physically. This continues until Moriarty loses his patience, and whips around, saying something that simultaneously shocks and silences Moran. Moran slowly nods his head, and Moriarty walks away, leaving him standing in the street, alone, furious and genuinely scared.

And then he turns around.

I can only look at him; I can't hide, or pretend I didn't see them. Moran's face twists in cold anger, and I start to back away- I don't want to risk another fight, not now, anyway. This just seems to agitate him further. He looks behind him, checking to see if anyone is in visible proximity, and then reaches into his jacket pocket.

He pulls out a gun.

Moran checks again, in the same direction, and I realise that he's not looking around for potential witnesses- he's looking for Moriarty. He turns back, satisfied, a bitter, vengeful smile contorting his features.

I have three seconds.

I turn around, and I run.

In the moments it takes for me to move, I hear the gunshot fire. It misses me by what can only be described as a millimetre. I feel the bullet tear through my jacket, fractions away from embedding itself in my side. And then I turn the corner. I don't stop running; I might not be used to choosing flight over fight, but I am fast- as long as I don't stop, I can put enough distance between me and Moran for the impulsive anger to die down. I have no idea where I'm going, I just twist and turn violently down backstreets and deserted pathways, weaving my way through the capillaries of early morning London.