Yet another wonderful day done and gone. Every day felt wonderful when I was with Jim. He made my days brighter; he made me see the good things in life.

I wasn't having thoughts about marriage and a family with him or anything. I guess you could say I was still in the puppy-love stage.

I ruffled my hair with a towel, feeling drops fall onto my back. I was ready for bed. Jim decided to stay over.

I told Amanda everything about Jim. She seemed happy for me at first, but then she started to get concerned. When I told her about him staying over, she thought it was too early to move onto such a serious level. I saw no problem with it, it didn't seem like that big of a step.

I stepped out of the bathroom to hear low chatter going on in the den room. My brows came together. Curious, I peeked into the living room. The TV was off. I saw Jim on his laptop, he was hunched over it. I crept closer, hearing the chatter I'd heard before. It sounded like a woman's voice.

Is he...cheating on me? I didn't want to believe the possibility, but part of me did. A piece of my heart was already breaking, and I didn't even know if it was true or not. If it was true, was there one woman or many?

I had to know.

I slunk into the den room, keeping silent. It was hard to see what was on Jim's screen; he was blocking the majority of it. From what I could see, he looked to be calling someone. He didn't have his webcam on; he had a box open so he could type.

The cheating theory began to seem true.

I couldn't hear what the woman was saying; her voice was too low for me to hear. I could barely see what she looked like. I was so close I was practically breathing on Jim's neck.

As I took another step, what I saw next made me freeze.

A red dot had briefly appeared on the woman's head. One second, she was alive, and the next, she collapsed in front of the camera, forehead down on the table. I covered my mouth with my hands, afraid to let out a squeak of terror.

I had just witnessed a murder. Jim had just witnessed a murder.

Afraid, I backed away, my eyes not leaving Jim or his laptop. I couldn't make sense of this. Was...was Jim responsible for the woman's death?

I bumped into the door frame of the bedroom. I squeaked before I could stop myself.

Jim whipped around, his brown eyes became huge. I froze on the spot, watching him.

"Rachel..." he said. His focus went from me, to the laptop, then back to me.

"What...What was that?" I forced out.

Jim closed the laptop, slamming it so hard I thought he broke it. He set it aside on the couch. "How much did you see?"

"Enough."

Jim rose. "I can explain—"

I whirled around and darted for the bedroom. I knew there was a phone on the nightstand near the bed. Jim was there with me in a flash, grabbing both of my wrists. He pulled me around to face him. I let out a petrified sob. "Are you going to kill me next?"

"What makes you think I would kill you, Rachel?" He looked appalled at my suggestion.

"Did you have anything to do with that woman's murder?" Surprisingly, my voice was stable.

Jim didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

"You...She's dead because of you." I struggled. "Who are you?"

"Rachel—"

"Is Jim Moriarty even your real name?"

"Yes, it is."

"That's probably the only real thing about you." I tried to fight for my wrists back.

"Stop. Listen to me," he pleaded. "I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you."

"You think I'm going to believe that after what I just saw? You're insane! You're a killer!"

"Stop it!" Jim put a hand over my mouth. "Do you want people to hear?"

"I do!" My voice was muffled but still audible. Cold ran through my veins. "This...This was all a scheme, wasn't it? You lured me into a trap." I blanched. "You were going to kill me in my sleep, weren't you?"

"What? No! Rachel, what we have, it's real. I care about you."

"Stop lying, we both know you are!"

The first chance I got, I ripped myself out of Jim's grasp. I wanted to get away from him before I became his next victim. Though he hadn't directly murdered the woman, I had a feeling he was involved somehow.

I had been falling for a psychopath, a killer. I'd give him one thing; he was a damn good actor. He had me fooled.

I darted for the door, but Jim got to me before I could even lay a finger on the knob. I fought back, clawing, tearing at him. This felt like my first night in London, the night I had met Jim for the first time, only he was the one attacking me this time and not some creep hiding in the dark of an alley.

Jim wasn't letting go. I stole a brief glance at his eyes. They were a bundle of emotions: outrage, despair, and panic. Of course he'd be pissed and panicked, I found out who he truly was. The despair was a harder thing to figure out.

I let out one tiny scream. That was enough for Jim to take action. He didn't pull out a knife or a gun to silence me; he forced me to the ground, straddling me. My pulse quickened.

I managed a strangled yell before Jim subdued me. He had me pinned to the floor, my arms trapped by his legs. He muffled my yells with one hand, while the other constricted my neck. My teeth gnashed together, hoping to pinch the skin on his palm. I needed my mouth free.

Every part of my body worked desperately to get out of this losing situation for me. My body bucked, but Jim was surprisingly strong. I felt my teeth connect with skin. Jim pulled his hand away, hissing. Before I could let out another shout, he backhanded me so hard my head snapped sideways on the floor. A surprised gasp came out of me.

Jim had never laid a hand on me before. Then again, this wasn't the Jim Moriarty I knew, the Jim Moriarty who had never existed to begin with. He was dead now, replaced by a monster.

In my daze, Jim took advantage. Both hands were cutting off my air now. All my screams were raspy, only heard by him. He loomed over me; a determined mask on his face. My eyes turned huge, pleading. I tried to reason with him, but I didn't have enough air to get the words out. Black spots invaded my vision. I was starting to go unconscious. No, I have to keep fighting. I need to fight!

As determined as my conscience sounded, my body wasn't as strong-willed. I was going to die on my vacation in London. These kinds of stories happened every now and again: a tourist who merely wanted to go someplace new ended up dead. I was going to be another body filed under that category.

Just when I thought I was a goner, the pressure was off—my throat, at least. I inhaled desperately; coughing like someone had shoved nasty medicine down my throat. Jim still had me straddled, his hands hovering over me still. I watched him with extreme wariness.

His eyes met mine, brown met green. My emotions were easier to see than his. His eyes were abysses, I couldn't pick out anything going on in his head.

Sobs threatened to burst from my throat. I wasn't sure if it was an appropriate time to cry right now. I was so confused; I didn't know how to react.

In one swift motion, Jim leapt lithely to his feet, taking me up by my hair. I screeched, but again, my mouth was covered by his hand. My body went into flight mode, ramming against his to try and break myself free.

Whilst I was thinking on the fly, Jim seemed to be one step ahead of me, like he had anticipated this to happen. My heart dropped. Had Jim intended to kill me tonight, whether or not I saw that woman shot over the internet?

With force, Jim shoved me into the wall. The back of my head smashed against it. I slumped to the floor, barely conscious. Everything was blurring together. Even my conscience that once pushed me to get up had fallen silent. It, like me, was defeated.

The last thing I remembered was Jim bending over me.

~*~

A loud screech brought me out of my nightmare memory.

I yelled, covering my mouth. I was glad I hadn't shouted as though I was being murdered; I'd give John and Sherlock a heart attack, and probably Mrs. Hudson too if I was loud enough. My throat faintly throbbed, remembering the cold, unforgiving hands that had once wrapped themselves around it.

I squinted as there was a light on in the apartment. I groaned, realizing Sherlock was up. It didn't surprise me; he was up most nights now ever since Moriarty became a free man last month.

I threw Sherlock a nasty glare. He'd made the awful noise with his violin. I knew he enjoyed bothering me. It probably had become a favorite pastime of his ever since I extended my stay here in 221B.

"You don't believe in peace, do you?" I growled, throwing an arm over my eyes.

"You were going to wake up eventually, I brought you out of your suffering."

"Suffering?"

"You were having a nightmare."

I was tempted to ask, "Why did you save me from it?" But instead I came out with, "How could you tell?"

"You tossed and turned. You were also muttering words under your breath. It wasn't hard to figure out."

"Did you catch any of the words?"

"No."

"Good." I could only imagine what I'd let slip in my sleep.

"It was about Moriarty, wasn't it?"

"That's really none of your business."

"As if finding your father is?"

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "You don't know what it's like, to have been betrayed by someone you thought you knew. Someone you were almost about to give your heart to." Okay, I was exaggerating on the whole "giving your heart to" bit. I was tired; my filter wasn't working in my brain at the moment.

"Ah, so that's how you ended up in his care. I figured as much, you were startled by the comment I made about him the first day you showed up here."

"Of course you would figure it out." I rubbed my eyes.

"And you're right; I don't know what it's like. I may never."

"You don't know that. You do have a heart; you care about John and Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure there are a few more I don't know about. There has to be room in there for someone special. Wait...would that special someone be—?"

"No, it isn't John. People have the tendency to assume the wrong things."

"Do you even have a preference?"

"Why are you prying?"

"I'm awake, I'm talking. What do you expect?"

"I consider myself married to my work."

I scoffed. "One of these days, I'll figure it out. Wait, why am I even discussing this with you? You're a psychopath detective."

"I'm not a psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath. If you're going to insult me, learn to do it correctly."

"No wonder some people hate you. You can come off as a dick."

"I liked you better when you were fretting in your sleep," Sherlock said.

"That's your fault," I sang. "Things are too quiet here. Something's bound to happen soon."

"You're like everyone else, always pointing out the obvious."

"Sorry if everybody isn't like you," I retorted. "We can't all be intelligent and figure out who a person is and what their life is like just by looking at them for a minute. God, I can't imagine if the world was full of people like you."

"Are you and John together?"

I gawked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You seem to get along really well."

"Wow. Um, no, we aren't dating. I don't think of him like that. And if you haven't already figured out in that brain of yours, I'm not looking for someone."

"Right, because you're afraid you'll find another psychopath."

"Moriarty's the psychopath, yet you're the sociopath?"

"There's a difference, Rachel. Look it up if you don't believe me."

"No, I'll take your word for it." My brows came together. "Why are you even talking to me? You've been against me from the moment I stepped into this apartment. Is John forcing you to play nice?"

"No, I'm doing this on my own account. After I realized you weren't working with Moriarty, I realized..." Sherlock closed his mouth.

My eyebrows rose. "You were wrong," I whispered. "You're admitting it." I let out a strangled laugh. "I don't believe it. Sherlock Holmes admits he's actually wrong for once!"

"Don't mention it to anyone."

"Don't worry; I'll keep your know-it-all reputation intact for you." I smiled thinly. "I won't mention it on one condition..."

"I'll look into finding your father."

"Do you promise?"

"You're not going to have me do something juvenile like a pinky swear, are you?" he droned, throwing his head back against his chair.

I snickered. "No, but that would be pretty humiliating for you if I did." I stretched along the length of the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Ugh, great, I won't be able to sleep now."

"If that's the case, you won't mind if I play a little, then?"

"You're asking permission?" I couldn't hold back the surprise in my voice. "Just don't make my ears bleed."

I turned over, my back facing Sherlock. He began to play softly, like I requested. The music wrapped around me, sending me comfort.

Maybe Sherlock and I were getting along a little better. I didn't sense a lot of tension between us compared to when we had first met for the second time.

I would rather have Sherlock as an ally than an enemy.  

**So, one of the questions on your mind right now might be the following:

Did Moriarty...rape Rachel?

I can happily say, no, my dears, he did not. Jim Moriarty is a many things, but I don't believe it to be in his nature to commit such a cruel act.

Now, maybe he'd hire someone to do that, but he wouldn't himself. (And no, he did not hire anyone to harm Rachel in that way.)

And this part, I realize, may be when the readers decided that Rachlock is a ship. While I do not mind the ship, let me just put this in perspective for you all: there is a big enough age gap between the two where I do not ship it as otp. I would consider it a blossoming brotp.**