I knew this was his doing. If only he had never existed in this world to begin with, then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't have died.

I rested my forearms and forehead against the wall opposite my cell door. I'd been in here for two months, ever since the police had come to the conclusion that I was her killer. I had never touched her; I had been away when it happened! Unfortunately for me, he had executed his plan well.

He got what he wanted. He was ruining my life, just like he said he would.

I licked my lips, thinking back to the night the police had stormed into my parents' house demanding I be taken from home, as I was under arrest for murder. Even in America, he could ruin me. He had lots of minions to do the job; he didn't have to do it himself. If he had really wanted to, he most certainly would have murdered her. But that would mean he got his hands dirty.

If there was one thing I knew for certain about him, it was that he never got his hands dirty.

My nails scratched the rough brick wall in front of me. I wished I was running my claws across his face. I wished he was thrown in with me so I could tear him apart and make him pay.

The faint jingle of keys and loud footsteps alerted me to company. I snorted, wishing the guard away. He had the night shift, unlucky bastard.

Though everyone was silent, that was when they were at their most dangerous. Silence meant they were plotting.

The guard tsked behind me. I grimaced.

"Such a shame. A pretty girl like you doesn't deserve this. Oh wait..."

I raised my head, now recognizing the voice. Slowly, I turned around. The moonlight from down the hall barely gave me enough light to see him.

My hands went into fists. "You." My voice was lathered in venom.

He stepped forward, closer towards my cell door. A stupid smirk was on his face. "Me."

I scoffed. "Hats aren't your thing." I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Eh, you're right." He removed the guard hat from his head, giving his dark hair a ruffled appearance. "I can see jail time is treating you nicely, Rachel. The clothes also suit you, too."

I briefly glanced down at my orange attire. I looked back up at him, approaching the door. I remembered the time I thought I had seen a trace of fear in his dark pits he called eyes. But what did he have to fear? He was a psychopath, a "consulting criminal" as Sherlock had deemed him. He was at the top of the criminal world, a lethal mastermind. Nobody could touch him.

Well, I could, if I caught him off guard. No pun intended.

"You came to gloat." It wasn't a question.

"I came to check on you. I told you I would come for you next, kitten." He grinned impishly. "Did you think I lied?"

"No." My voice was low. "You could have framed me for anything: robbery, fraud, anything. Yet, the one thing you pick is murder." I shook my head. "And to make it even worse, you framed me for the murder of my best friend." My lower lip quivered.

Yes, Moriarty had taken out Amanda. Amanda, who had known everything. Amanda, who I could tell anything and she would listen and not judge me.

The closest person I had to a sister was dead, and apparently, thanks to the setup, I was to blame for her death.

"This won't settle with my parents, or my friends," I said. "They'll find a way to disprove the evidence." When the news had broken to Darien, Kendal, and Madison, they couldn't believe any of it.

Moriarty chortled. "They can try their hardest, but they'll never get anywhere. They'll never let you walk."

I rolled my neck. "If you threaten any of them..."

"You won't be able to do anything about it, Rachel. You're stuck on the wrong end of the bars." To emphasize his point, he wrapped his hands around a few bars of the door. "You should have left London when I had told you to. You wouldn't be here if you had listened to me."

"You probably would have hunted me down and had me killed. I bet you would have sent a sniper after me, and I bet it'd be the same one who had shot me the first time." A faint throb in my left shoulder reminded me of that night at the pool. It also reminded me of John and Sherlock.

"Nobody can help you, Rachel, not even Sherlock Holmes."

I reached through the openings in the bars, pulling Moriarty to smash his face against the door. My face contorted into an angry expression. For a smart man, he was being pretty stupid tonight.

"You think you can intimidate me, darling?" he cooed. "You think you have any power over me?" He snickered. "I could let this all happen. I could let you be convicted of murder, let you be locked up for life—or maybe get the death penalty. I could let you suffer and visit you to see you suffer. But, I did make you one teeny promise..."

Before I understood what happened, sharp pain exploded in my gut. The breath escaped me. A sick smile twisted onto Moriarty's face. The pain intensified. I would have screamed, but Moriarty grabbed my throat, cutting off my air.

As my hands fumbled to get his off, I repeatedly felt the sharp pain. I stumbled back as he suddenly let me go. I let out strangled, stunned breaths as I looked down to see a small knife hilt sticking out of me. Blood seeped through my orange jumpsuit.

Before I could scream, I saw Moriarty scamper off.

"Come back, you son of a bitch!" I roared. A scream was cut off as my legs buckled under me.

I heard rushing feet come my way. I collapsed on my back, my trembling fingers wishing to get the knife out of me. I glared up at the ceiling, feeling a huge, ever-increasing wet spot in my clothes.

The cell door creaked open, and before I knew it, several guards were hovering over me. Among them was a paramedic or two.

"She's bleeding out," a woman's voice said urgently. "Get her on here; she can't be treated in here."

I was sputtering for breath; I forced my eyes to stay open.

"How did she get a knife?" a guard asked.

"Who knows? She probably snuck it by us somehow."

"So she could stab herself? She doesn't seem like one to harm herself."

"Then what do you think happened? She's alone in here! Nobody could have come along and stabbed her."

"Regardless of what really happened, we have to start doing checks."

"Keep awake, Simpson."

I was trying to comply with the request, but I wasn't managing very well. Tears welled in my eyes. Moriarty would probably get what he wanted in the end. By the time all these people got me out of here and to some other place, I'd probably be dead from blood loss. I could hear his triumphant, sadistic laughter in my head.

Moriarty could possibly beat me tonight.

***

I didn't wake with a jolt; I opened my eyes calmly. I squinted from the lights on the ceiling. My hands felt cold tile. I lolled my head to both sides before realizing I had fallen asleep on the laboratory floor. Groaning, I sat up, rubbing my back.

"You had another one, didn't you?"

I jumped, realizing Sherlock was sitting behind me. "Does it really matter to you?"

He didn't answer.

"So what if I did?"

"Was it the same one?"

"No, but it involved the same person."

I began to open my mouth and ask for the time, but Sherlock knew what I was going to ask: "It's dawn."

I yelped as someone's phone blared in the lab. John, who was asleep on a stool near a nearby bench, heard the noise too. He didn't jump awake; he lifted his head tiredly, blinking the goop out of his eyes. I watched as he answered the phone.

"Yeah, speaking," he muttered. I strained my hearing, but I couldn't hear who was on the other line. "Er, what?" Something changed in John's voice. Shock?

He got to his feet. I got to mine. I threw a look at Sherlock, who didn't seem very concerned at the moment.

"What happened? Is she okay?" John asked. She? "Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming." He shut the phone off.

"Well?" I pressed, yawning.

"What is it?" Sherlock added.

"Paramedics," John answered us. "Mrs. Hudson—she's been shot."

My stomach knotted. Who would want to dare hurt her?

One name instantly came to mind.

"What? How?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract..." John's voice was quick and panicky. "Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." He started to head for the door. Without a word from me, I began to tail John.

"You and Rachel go," Sherlock said. "I'm busy."

I stopped in my tracks, exchanging a look with John. We both looked at Sherlock, horror crossing our faces.

"Busy?" I snapped.

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you?" John snapped. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

I swallowed. I was trying to picture Sherlock doing the said thing John mentioned.

Oh, yeah, I could totally see it.

Sherlock just shrugged. "She's my landlady."

"She's dying," I pressed heatedly. I felt sick just thinking about the little old lady. She had been so sweet to me ever since I came to London, ever since I had been staying in 221B. She had become like a grandmother to me.

"You machine," John growled. "Sod this. Sod this." He continued to head for the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own. Come on, Rachel."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," Sherlock muttered.

John opened the door, gesturing for me to go first. "No. Friends protect people."

I waited for John to take the lead as we headed for the exit of St. Bart's. If I hadn't been so worried about Mrs. Hudson, I probably would have hung around long enough to give Sherlock a nice, big slap across the face for being such a dick. The situation irked me, he irked me. How could he not come with us to visit a dying old lady who had probably gotten stuck in the crossfire of Moriarty's game?

But it doesn't make sense. If Sherlock cares for Mrs. Hudson like John claims, then why is he choosing to stay behind? Why did he suddenly act as though he never cared for her?

I stopped in the middle of a mostly-vacant hallway. John's feet still echoed on the floor. It didn't take him too long to realize that I wasn't following. He looked at me impatiently.

"Don't tell me you're busy now, too," he barked.

"N-no." I looked back down the hallway. "You don't think something is off about Sherlock?"

"Look, Rachel, I can't stand here all bloody day with you discussing if something is wrong with him while Mrs. Hudson is dying. Besides, we both know he's not right in the head to begin with. Either you're coming with me or you're staying behind."

I blew out a breath. "Go, then. Just—just let me know if anything happens, immediately, all right? And—and if she's still...breathing, when you get there, tell her I'll come and see her soon."

John's furious stance relaxed. "I will."

With a nod of acknowledgement, I watched as John Watson continued to leave St. Bart's. Mrs. Hudson was now consuming my thoughts. If she ended up dead because of Moriarty...

I didn't care if he threatened to deal me with after Sherlock, he and I were going to have a good talk.

Mrs. Hudson had found her way into my heart, and I wouldn't let Moriarty get away with taking her out of it.