Lucy arranged herself, intertwining her hands and putting them in her lap. "So what do you want from me today, little miss 'more important than everyone else'?" Lucy was the only one who ever dared use that kind of sarcastic, highly offensive tone around me, and considering the mood I was in, I wasn't going to even attempt to deal with her.

My only goal was to find where 221B Baker Street was, and who lived there. Looking at the 'B', it was a part of a building or complex. 

What if it's where Moriarty lives?

It didn't seem like he would give up his location so easily though, as no sane criminal would. Besides, if it was where he lived at the moment, making the decision to go there could put me in a very compromising position. He would have the upper hand, being surrounded by familiar turf, and there was no way I was having that.

"Bella?" Lucy asked again, the mimicking way she talked starting a dull throb in the back of my head. "See, this is exactly what I mean."

I continued to ignore her, but now, instead of staring into the distance, drowning in my own thought, I pulled out my phone and started typing. She didn't realise it, but to be honest, she was making me angry. Anger for me, no matter the situation or how hard I attempt to control it, gives me a strong irrationality, and I do things I quite often regret. 

I double checked the message I had just typed, to the same person who had orchestrated the unlucky demise of Ludwig. 

Steal her cat. Don't harm it.

-M

That was my little revenge on her for making my day ever so slightly more tedious, more than it already was. Besides, I didn't plan on hurting or causing the cat any grief - I was above harming innocent animals. 

Her cat was just going on a bit of a vacation, and vacations, by definition, were generally relaxing.

I didn't want to deal with her burning stare at me, but also her chatter about how unimportant she was in comparison to me, and how she was blessed to even be in the same room as me, much less at the same table. It was not only laced with sarcasm, but was like a fly buzzing around my head - annoying, repetitive, and seemingly never ending. 

Standing up and brushing myself off, I stopped her remark about how anyone would be beyond honored to meet me. "I hate to fulfill your silly little stereotypes, but you're boring." When she just blinked at me, surprised, my irritation just flared up even more. "Dull. Monotonous. Uninteresting. Lackluster. Te-"

"I understood what you said, the first time, thank you," she bounced back, the surprise from my response slowly dissipating. The scorn in her voice had somewhat lowered, but it was still present, and I could tell she knew that I was on edge from her snide remarks. Lucy's eyes flickered down to the card that I was clutching, my knuckles turning white, and then back up to my icy expression.

She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly closed it, deciding against any more comments. 

I smiled at her, leaving her to wonder what I meant by it, and then held my head high and marched out of the cafe.

--

Back at my flat, I opened my laptop and typed in the string of random numbers and letters that as had set as my password. Personally, I thought it was pretentious and useless to have a fingerprint scanner. People can obtain your fingerprint, but extract a password from your brain? That was, as far as I knew, impossible.

Excepting torture, of course, but I didn't see myself cracking and giving up possibly the most important piece of information I had stored in my brain.

My computer hummed, as it started up, and I opened a web browser.

There was a notification in the corner of the screen, its blaringly red colour catching my eye. I clicked on it, and it took me to my email.

It had only been around a day or two since I had checked it, but there were 59 new emails.

I clicked on one that had a subject line of "M.N."

M.N. was code for 'murder needed'. That was only one of many other acronyms used for emails, like F. N. I. for 'framing needed immediately". 

--

Around 7 hours, 46 emails, and more than a few cilents satisfied later, I could no longer ignore the persistent rumbling in my stomach. I hadn't eaten all day, and my body simply wasn't accepting the lack of food.

Taking one last longing look at my still cluttered inbox, I swiftly stopped typing and shut my laptop in one fluid motion.

I looked up at the metal minimalist clock that hung on the wall across from me, which displayed 8:06. 

Standing up and stretching, my semi-dazed brain struggled to remember what I was supposed to do.

I knew that I had to be doing something, but the fog of sleep deprivation coated my brain and slowed my blinking. 

As I walked over to the kitchen to look for some food, any food, a little, mousy voice came from somewhere inside my brain, squealing, "Moriarty!" 

It said the word a few more times before I stopped in the midst of digging around for some cereal.

Wait.

Moriarty?

Then it hit me like a bus- I was supposed to be at the place Moriarty had told me about in 20 minutes, and here I was, my hair messed up, my makeup probably making me look like a wild animal of sorts, scavenging for food.

I cursed before pretty much sprinting into my room to make myself look somewhat presentable.

Around 15 minutes later, I had gotten myself to look something like my normal self- my makeup cleaned up, my wrinkled clothes replaced by clean, freshly ironed ones, my hair brushed out, if nothing else. 

The battle scars of not bothering to sleep still haunted me, ghastly purplish-blue circles that ringed my otherwise lively green eyes.

But with the time I had, there was nothing I could do about those for the moment.

I took one last look in the mirror, continuing to outright ignore the groans of protest my empty stomach made. 

--

A few minutes later, the taxi pulled up to 221B Baker Street. I paid, and got out, trying to look as normal as possible as I approached the black door.

I hadn't known what to bring with me, so just for safety purposes, I had concealed a knife in my right shoe. I didn't trust Moriarty, not one bit. Unlike most people, he wasn't predictable. I could never tell exactly what he was going to do, and it gave me a feeling of insecurity, which I hated. At the same time, however, the danger was addictive in the strangest way.

I hadn't arrived at this mysterious place just because I knew he would threaten me if I didn't; I wanted to see what would happen, try to get more clues on how he worked.

Besides, if nothing else, it was entertainment.

I took a deep breath, and slowly rose my hand until I knocked on the door.

Nothing.

I waited a few seconds before turning the handle and opening the door ever so slightly, peering through the small crack.

I don't know what I expected, but what met my eyes was not something I had anticipated.

Men with guns? Yes. A tripwire? Maybe. Moriarty, even? Yes.

But in front of my eyes, through a window by a door, I could see an old lady doing sit-ups. That doesn't sound very odd, but every time she finished one, she would take a swig from a particularly mysterious looking bottle.

Looking away from the strange sight that had first greeted me, I was faced with a flight of stairs.

As I ascended them, two male voices became clearer and clearer.

No, wait. Three. Three voices, all male, one of them obviously the man who had invited me here. His Irish accent and flirty way of speaking gave him away, even though I was nowhere near him. I couldn't tell who the other two were, but I didn't bother trying - they were probably just some clients of his.

When I got to the top, I saw that the door was half closed, but ajar enough that I could see inside. Yellowish light poured out, illuminating the otherwise dim area I stood in. 

"Ooh. . .are you sure you want to do that? Because that could, oh, I don't know, come back to hit you in the head with a tree." Moriarty, who I could see was sitting in a chair facing the door, was playing his usual acting role.

I stood there as the other two men were silent. The doorway only allowed to me to view Jim, so I was forced to assume that the other two were contemplating what to retaliate with.

His eyes slid from the first man to the other, back and forth, until they went a bit too far to the left, and we locked eyes.

My heart started beating faster than I was aware it could as a blood curdling smile spread across his face.

"Beautiful as always, Bella. Join us?" He looked bored, as he often did, and he watched me as I raised an eyebrow and then stepped inside the living room. 

A quiet gasp suddenly turned into a coughing fit, coming from one of the other two men in the room.

"Was that a compliment I heard? Because I don't think. . ." I stopped my sarcastic remark as my eyes took in a hacking blond man and an expressionless raven-haired detective.

Even Sherlock looked a bit surprised to see me, although he hid it quite well. John had wide eyes, not even bothering to hide how taken aback he was.

"You know Moriarty?" he blurted out, not able to contain himself. "And did he just call you. . ." John looked at the man who still sat a mere five feet away from him, disgust covering his features.

I said nothing. I wasn't going to let them use the "anything you say can and will be held against you" card. 

Jim stood, pulling a piece of chewing gum out of his pocket and delicately placing it on his tongue, looking vaguely disinterested.

Looking down at the ground and beginning to pace, he said, "I suppose I should probably get on with it."

Sherlock and I both raised an eyebrow at nearly the exact same time.

"Get on with what?" Sherlock's low voice rumbled, sounding like bottled thunder.

Moriarty stopped his pacing and looked up at us, his eyes flickering between Sherlock and me. He ignored John, who was standing somewhat behind the detective, so full of distaste and annoyance that he was speechless at the moment, glaring at the man with the chewing gum.

"Inside this flat, there is a bomb. This bomb has the capability to completely obliterate only this flat and everything - and everyone - inside it. "

Well, a knife definitely wasn't going to be of any use.

He continued, grinning now, "Bella, you can either stay here and try to search for the bomb with these two, or you can come with me."

Moriarty paused for effect. "If and when you find it, however, there's no guarantee," he cringed, "you'll be able to dismantle it." 

The expression on Sherlock's face was unreadable, while John's, if it was even possible, held even more contempt than it did before.

On a primal, survival level, the choice was obvious - going with Jim. However, if I went with him, things could end on an odd note, to say the least.

I understood what Moriarty was getting at. It was a game of loyalty, to see who I would side with. It was evident that he had the safer option (and knew he had the safer option).

All three people in the room looked to me for an answer. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, and said, "What if I just leave right now?" 

Moriarty looked skeptical. "You wouldn't," he whined, "because that would hurt my feelings."

I wasn't going to play his little game.

In an act of defiance, I turned and walked out of the flat, then down the stairs, then past the weird sit-up lady, and then out the door of 221B Baker Street. 

 As I walked along the pavement, I watched the light of the streetlamps reflecting off the small pools of water that had settled in the ground from the earlier rain. It was actually quite beautiful, and I enjoyed just looking as they passed under me.

I was strolling along, not really sure if I was actually heading home or not, when I heard footsteps behind me. I tensed, hearing them quicken, as the person attempted to catch up to me.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I whipped around, smacking the hand off of me. 

In front of me stood a horrendously drunk man, who blinked up at me, a dumb smile on his face. "Hey, darling," he slurred, "you-" 

I cut him off with a hard punch to the face, the crack resounding through the air when my balled-up fist made contact with his stubble-y skin.

Even though he had stumbled, he still stood his ground, one hand now holding the side of his face where a bright red spot showed.

That was going to be a bad bruise.

"Hey, I don't mind-" he continued, but I punched him again, this time on the other side of the face, and he crumpled to the ground.

A small hint of empathy glimmered inside me for this poor man, so I rolled him onto his side so when he vomited, he wouldn't suffocate.

I at least didn't want him to go out like that, considering the golden wedding ring that shone on his left hand.

I bent down, trying to avoid the reek of too much alcohol, and pushed him into the nearest alley, somewhat out of harm's way.

I held my breath, standing up and taking a step backwards when I ran into another body.

I whipped around to find (who else?) the one and only Jim Moriarty.

Opening my mouth to make some snide remark, I was quickly stopped as I realised his lips were making contact with mine.

A/N:

Thank you guys for all the support! It's amazing to think that people actually read this. And, if you enjoyed this chapter, please remember to vote! Thanks! <3

-Clara Pond