You Can't Choose Your Friends

My Hero

I sit in the corner of a room, hair tangled, some blood splattered over my shirt and face. Bruises scattered across my cheeks. The same question is asked every time and I give them the same answer.

"Sherlock doesn't actually like murder."

I'm so funny. My brothers sweater is my bed and my gray tank top is ripped over my black camisole. And then there are my pajama pants which I never changed out of. Ripped, bloody, and so not fuzzy anymore. The print was smeared and they were uncomfortable.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite patient." Moriarty opens the medal door. I stand and grin weakly. "If you just answer this'll all go away." Moriarty kneels down, "How was I gullible?"

"How are you gullible, is the correct question. You see, you're still thinking the same thing. No matter what you do, or what you say, you'll never believe me." I lie. I thought Sherlock didn't care, so until I find a good story, I've got to keep up the good work.

"How am I gullible?" Moriarty scowls.

"Sherlock doesn't actually like murder." A slap stings my face. I fall to the floor. "Not again." I groan, "Don't you have more creative torture?"

"You're a child." Moriarty picks me up by my jaw, "You'd die in a second. Then I wouldn't know I don't like not knowing." And he leaves. Another day gone. Another bruise acquired. Why does it have to be so hard to sleep? I just want sleep. The door opens.

"Crap." I mutter. There has never been two visits. Of course, it's only been three days. Or maybe four, I lost count of how many times Moriarty has been in here. A man walks in. I don't see his face, but he looks vaguely familiar.

"The boss needs to see you." He says. No! Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are you doing here? I stand, scowling.

"If the boss needs me he can get his ass in here." I snap. Might as well go along with it.

"Come." Sherlock grabs my arms and shoves me out of my room. I yelp in pain. I start to make a run for it but another one just stops me, shoving me back into Sherlock. He drags me up the stairs I was carried down days ago. He shoves me into a taxi car and we peel away.

"How's John?" I ask, my voice raspy and dry. Sherlock hands me water.

"Alive. Awake." Sherlock looks me over, "Which is more than I can say for you. You've lost a bit of weight. Did they feed you? No, of course not. Why were they holding you? Oh, you didn't."

"Say it aloud for everyone to hear, genius." I demand.

"Did you really say something the antagonized James Moriarty? Alison, I expect more from you." Sherlock shakes his head.

"And I expect more from you, bloody idiot!" I shout, "oh god, I'm turning British."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asks.

"For being so incredibly smart you're a total idiot." I snap, "That was reckless. You're so damn reckless."

"Will you two shut up?" Lestrade snaps from the drivers seat, "I'm trying to drive here and make it look like I'm some criminal." I ignore him.

"I don't mean much." I tell Sherlock, "I, by the way, could've gotten out of there. I had the situation under control. How'd you know I was dead?"

"I knew you wouldn't let Moriarty kill you. Not with your brother on the line." Sherlock laughs.

"No!" I whisper, horrified, "Drew."

"What?" Sherlock looks over at me, eyebrows arched in concern.