crimson writings ➝ sherlock

chapter seven

the letters were strewn across sherlock's bedroom floor.

just moments ago, he had been wanting to read each and every letter for as long as he could. but now, he didn't even want to touch them.

she had fed moriarty information about him.

those few months before her death, she had been giving bits of him away, slowly allowing the consulting criminal to dismantle his life.

he had had her all wrong.

but at the same time, he had had her right.

he remembered, on their first lunch date, he had deduced there was both good and bad in her.

for a while, he had been doubtful of any bad in her at all, save for her trouble with commitment. but now - she had consorted with the devil, and he felt ill at the thought.

✦✦✦

may, 2012

valeria couldn't believe that she had had complaints about her life before him.

she would have gladly taken a month of full time night shifts over this.

she hadn't been home in three months. he had assured her that sam was being taken care of, but the prospect was subjective. her cat could be eating scraps for his dinner, or be sleeping on a cushion with his favourite catnip.

her optimism was depleting rapidly by this point. it was most likely the former.

but still, she had more things to worry about.

moriarty never physically harmed her. it was all about her mind.

he'd give her no means of escape, and slowly home in on her insecurities, traumas and past. he either just knew, or he gradually drew it out of her over many, many days. no matter how hard she tried to hide them from him, he always found more things to torment her with. her issues with commitment, her trouble with her family, her loneliness that had plagued her her entire life - they were just a select few.

the worst of it was when he asked about sherlock. where he lived, his family, his pressure points... and valeria told him the answers every time, in fear of her life. and every time, it increased that weight on her shoulders.

her body was bleak, aching, empty. her eyes were surrounded with shadow. her skin was morbidly pale. she barely felt anymore. she had never been this low before.

yet, the hardest part wasn't enduring moriarty.

it was plastering on makeup to hide the dark circles around her eyes. it was crafting a smile out of anything but happiness and trying to make it seem real. it was seeing sherlock and john, and pretending everything was alright, that she wasn't practically handing them over to moriarty behind their backs.

and oddly, sherlock never noticed.

that was something she had realised about him. for all his deductive powers, he could never tell was what right before his eyes.

and valeria couldn't make him see, or moriarty would know.

and kill her without a thought.

so she suffered silently, praying for it all to end.