Making the decision to live at 221B instead of a hotel was a much better idea.

A payment was settled. Sherlock had continuously insisted that I sign some sort of contract. Thankfully, John didn't deem it necessary. Even though I would pay for staying at the apartment, Sherlock wasn't happy.

Nothing was ever going to make that man happy.

The loveseat turned out to be a good bed. I was lent a few pillows and blankets courtesy of John. He was being a much better host compared to his counterpart, like I had expected. The first night I didn't really sleep, not because of Moriarty's capture, but because I was paranoid that Sherlock would fire at the wall above my head while I was sleeping. Luckily for me, that didn't happen.

I didn't get a good night's sleep, not with the consulting detective being an insomniac. I was sure he purposely stayed up late at night while I was trying to rest just so he could make my life hell and try to oust me from the apartment. He would pace in the den room, mumbling to himself loud enough for me to hear. There were even a few nights he decided to play his "lovely" violin in the most ungodly hours of the night. It was those nights that I regretted not taking John's offer on taking his bedroom instead.

Once the media got a hold of Moriarty's arrest and what he had done to get himself there, everything exploded. Newspapers made the story headlines for weeks, on TV and the Internet that's mainly what you saw. I still remembered some headlines: "Crime of the Century?" "Amateur detective to be called as expert witness."

This thing was spiraling way out of control.

Almost a month had passed since Moriarty's arrest. You would think that being that it was old news, his arrest would disappear. That definitely wasn't the case. Now that the trial was approaching, buzz was going up again.

No matter how much I tried to get Moriarty out of my head, he kept coming back like a nasty cold. Thinking about him wasn't helping me sleep; he made all my dreams turn bad. If there was any way to keep my thoughts from shifting to Jim Moriarty, I would have used it many times.

Today was going to be another bland, Moriarty-filled day in London. Even at whatever time I was consciously awake, traffic continued to bustle outside of 221B. My eyelids were heavy like bricks. I wanted them to fall back down, but I knew if they did, I'd dream. And I knew just who would be there to greet me.

Maybe I can just close them for a few moments...

***

I was perched in a dark corner of the pool area, waiting for commands to be spat in my ear thanks to the earpiece given to me. I didn't want to be here, but sadly, due to being watched and having an ankle monitor strapped to me, I had no choice in the matter. I had no choice in it, just like John Watson didn't when he had been abducted.

I was told to keep out of sight, that way Sherlock Holmes wouldn't suspect someone was on the ground. From my vantage point, I was able to hear everything that had gone on since Sherlock had arrived. I had been close to crying out so he would know I was near, but I was told if I did I wasn't going to like what happened afterwards.

The whole confrontation between Jim and Sherlock was very intense. I learned a bit through their conversation. For instance, I hadn't known Jim had gotten closer to Sherlock, so close that he had pretended to be a worker from I.T. That had explained his getup the one day he had visited me in my room—or should I say, hell.

Jim told Sherlock to back off, and that he would—and I quote—"burn the heart out of him" if he didn't. But honestly, their confrontation wasn't the worst part. The fact that Jim had John Watson strapped with explosives was. What was even more so appalling was that I had been forced to suit him up in his dangerous attire.

When Jim made his short exit, I thought it was all over, that I could be sent back to my room for the night. John and Sherlock thought the same thing, that the whole ordeal was over.

Of course, we all thought wrong.

"Sorry, boys!" Jim's voice penetrated the silence in the pool. "I'm so changeable!"

My heart clenched. No wonder I hadn't gotten any orders. Things weren't finished yet.

I listened intently with bated breath, hoping to God I wasn't forced to be put out in the open.

"It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness," Jim continued. I loathed how calm he sounded. It made me want to take the gun I held in my hand and shoot him. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

"Get moving," snarled the voice in my earpiece. "Be slow, and don't try anything."

Right, you're always watching. Whimpering, I slipped out of my cover, having the gun loaded and ready. My heart pounded as I saw the three men on the other side of the pool. I saw John, who was practically frozen to the wall he was slumped against. Sherlock stood near his "pet" as Jim had called him. Near towards Jim, on his side, was the jacket laced with explosives. I let out a semi-relieved breath. At least John didn't have that awful thing on him anymore.

"I would try to convince you but..." Jim laughed. I crept around the edge of the pool, heading closer towards the tense situation. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" I wanted to spit on the floor hearing Jim's sing-song voice, a voice he used too often.

From afar, I could see John and Sherlock exchange some silent look. I noticed a few dancing red dots on the pair. How could I have forgotten that Jim brought snipers along for the ride as well?

Sherlock seemed to focus back on Jim after his silent, nonverbal conversation with John. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

I swallowed; my eyes were trained on the gun in Sherlock's hand. He had it pointed right at Jim. Jim watched the consulting detective with an amused grin. I saw no trace of fear in his eyes. I wished there was, I wanted Jim Moriarty to know what fear felt like.

Was Sherlock insane? He would be shot dead before the bullet would ever hit Jim!

"Get closer," hissed the voice from my earpiece. I breathed through my nostrils heavily, grudgingly taking a few more quiet steps.

My green eyes bugged as I saw Sherlock's gun lower, trained right on the jacket bomb. My knees started wobbling. There's no way he's going to do it, not without blowing us all up. I focused on Jim's face, how he still looked confident. Did he think Sherlock wouldn't pull the trigger?

Music broke the tense silence. I, in addition to Sherlock and John, looked around for the source. I recognized the tune: The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive". As I stalked even closer, I saw Jim close his eyes and sigh, exasperated.

"Do you mind if I get that?" he asked.

"No, no, please," Sherlock said nonchalantly. My eyes narrowed in focus. "You've got the rest of your life."

"Hello?" Jim answered his phone. "Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"

While Jim was taking his call, I threw a look at John. He looked a bit petrified still, but not as much as before. And for the first time, Sherlock noticed I was around—though he probably knew when I had come out of cover.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" Jim's voice made me jump. I nearly let the gun slip through my fingers. From across the pool, his low, snake-like voice traveled to me. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you. Wait." Jim lowered the phone. He moved a bit closer towards Sherlock and the bomb-ridden jacket. "Sorry," he said. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked him.

Jim stole a look at his phone then started to head towards the door on the opposite side of the pool on his side. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he called. He walked the length of the pool, pulling the phone back up to his ear. "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

Just as Jim approached the door, ready to leave, I aimed and fired. A loud CRACK rang in the air. Jim flinched as the bullet missed him. I snarled under my breath.

Not even a minute after I attempted to kill Jim did another bullet fly.

***

I jolted myself awake, feeling a slight throbbing in my left shoulder, the one the sniper's bullet had ripped through when I attempted to assassinate his boss. I rolled it slowly, trying to forget how much blazing pain it had endured that night. I remembered how John had told me that I was lucky the bullet didn't hit my heart. I remembered how grateful I was when he had rushed to my aid despite me decking him out with explosives. Whether or not he had perceived me as a friend or foe that night, John Watson had helped me. I also remembered Sherlock reluctantly helping in my rescue.

I sat up in the couch, hunching over. I rubbed my eyes, definitely awake now. My mind replayed the injury. Being at the pool that night could have very well been my last day on earth. So...why hadn't it been? There was no way that sniper could have let me live. Snipers were known for their precise aim. Why was my shoulder the only victim?

I wanted to know why I was still alive. And I knew just the person who could give me the answer.

I made the decision just before the sun rose in London. If John or Sherlock knew what I was going to do, they would be livid, Sherlock especially, considering he would have all the more reason to complain as to why I shouldn't be in 221B.

To avoid confrontation with those two, I slipped out early. I stopped by Mrs. Hudson's place—the landlady who I had met my first day at 221B. I had gotten to know her the first week I had stayed in the apartment. She had thought I was John's newest girlfriend. It was a very awkward moment. But, the moment had passed, and Mrs. Hudson and I had gotten along ever since.

She was delighted to see me when I dropped by. She offered to make me breakfast before I headed out. I told her I wanted to go sightsee when she asked why I was leaving. Though I was sure Mrs. Hudson was reliable, I was sure she would rat me out if I told her where I was really heading.

While visiting the old landlady, doubt slipped into my mind. I constantly juggled back and forth between going through with my plan, or heading back up to the flat and not bothering. I couldn't ignore the idea in the back of my head though. I wanted to know, and I would never know if I didn't go hunting for the answer.

I didn't want to regret going through with my decision, but somehow, I had a feeling that I just might.