I stood there, my back pressed to the cold stone wall behind me, not moving. Shock had stunned me for a second, or maybe it was a few seconds.

I was frozen, vaguely aware that Moriarty had continued to kiss me. Numbness coated my nerves, as I stood there, eyes wide.

My eyes started to burn from staying open so long, so I blinked a few times, which brought me back to my normal self. All of a sudden, I could feel everything- his body heat crashing into mine, the roughness of the wall that sandwiched me between it and Moriarty, his mouth connecting to my mouth, my hands pressed against the very solid rock, and my brain went into panic mode.

I sucked in a quick breath through my nose before using both hands to push him off me. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see his reaction, and felt a slightly sped up heartbeat underneath my right hand, just for a second.

Telling myself I was just imagining things, I turned in some direction, and started sprinting for my life. I wasn't sure which way I had begun to run in, I just knew that it was away from that wall and away from Jim.

I ran. And ran. And ran. I ran as if I was running from my worst nightmare, desperately gasping for air, oxygen to keep myself going.

I skidded to a stop about a minute later, chest heaving as I wheezed, taking in as much of the chilly night London air as I possibly could. Holding my stomach with one hand and my other against a lamppost, I attempted to decipher my surroundings.

It was in a completely unrecognizable area that my feet had stopped, and the only landmark I could find was an apartment complex with a grey lettering displaying the name on the front door.

"Fairport Apartment Complex"

Searching my semi-tight jeans for my phone, I realized that I had left the most important thing I had in my possession back at my flat. Now I had nothing to help me find my way to a familiar place.

So I turned in the direction I had come, crossed my arms over my chest, and set my face into a hard glare.

A shiver passed over me, not only because of the temperature, but because I could still feel the ghost of Moriarty's hands on either side of my cheeks. It felt as if his handprints had been branded onto either side of my face by red-hot metal, permanently imprinted on the sensitive skin on either side of my face.

I walked.

And I walked.

And I walked some more.

Finally, I got past the seemingly hundreds of grey or black buildings with sleek windows and came to stop as I watched a bar come into view across the street. The neon sign emblazoned across the front cast pink and blue light all the way to the other side of the street. It sliced the night's shadowy darkness like a knife, the only other beacon of light being the dim street-lamps.

Gathering my dignity and pushing how bad I probably looked into the back of my mind, I took a glance behind me and stepped into the street.

Along with entering the bar came a nearly overwhelming whiff of alcohol, the heat of the crowd inside coming with it. It was like St. Patrick's day, except the volume was significantly less.

Every person talked in a normal speaking volume to the people at their table/next to them at the bar. On top of that, the four that were alone, two men and two women, all sat staring moodily at the wall or some other inanimate object. It was hard to tell whether they were deep in thought or just annoyed, or possibly even a combination of both.

Strolling up the the bar, I took a seat next to a young man, one of the four. He took another swig of some unknown form of alcohol, and continued staring at the clock.

Mentally preparing myself in case he was overly drunk, I turned to him and curtly said, "Excuse me." No more, no less, no reason for him to be offended or disturbed, and I high fived myself in my head as he set down the mysterious liquid and turned his head to face me.

Thankfully, he was not anywhere near drunk or even tipsy. Without skipping a beat, he asked in an authentically American accent, "How can I help you?"

I smiled, untensing as I made an attempt to place his accent. Kansas, in America. It had to be.

Holding out my hand for him to shake, I replied with, "Bella Warren."

Looking down at my hand, then up at me, he took my hand and shook it, the fact that he was unsure clear in his green eyes. "Dean."

I questioned his lack of a last name for a second, but I understood why he wouldn't trust me. Being in a different country, I wouldn't give my delicate trust to anyone either.

--

An hour had passed, and I sighed as I stepped over the threshold and into my flat, sinking onto the couch. Dean had happily not only let me use his phone to figure out where I was, but proceeded to give me a ride home.

His car was blatantly American though, a, as he lovingly called it, "67' Chevy Impala".

I rolled my eyes at the memory. My muscles finally relaxed, as my body finally registered that I was safe.

For now, I decided sleep would be a golden idea, preferably a tranquil, dreamless sleep.

I shifted so I was laying on my couch, and I slowly but surely drifted into peaceful unconsciousness.

--

My eyes shot open, and I sat straight up, desperately taking in my surroundings while trying to squint though the seemingly blinding light that surrounded me.

I took me a second, but then I realised what was going on.

Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees was blasting through my flat.

~

Sorry for the short/filler chapter! Thanks again for the overwhelming support! <3

-Clara Pond