This is crazy. I shouldn't be doing this. Why am I doing this?

I knew the answer: I had to know the truth. If I didn't talk to him now, I probably never would once he was locked up for good.

Guilt started to eat at me as the taxi headed for my destination. I knew Sherlock and John wouldn't worry about me—Sherlock especially—but I couldn't help but feel a little bad for getting up and leaving without leaving any note. I didn't feel so guilty once John got a hold of me by texting me. I lied to him through a text that I was roaming like the kind-of tourist I was, hoping to get some nice views in before the day was out. He seemed to buy the lie, like Mrs. Hudson had. I just hoped Sherlock couldn't detect a lie through text.

My shoulder throbbed lightly, like my body knew who I was going to see. Though he hadn't done the damage himself—he never got his hands dirty—he was the reason I was shot. I wondered if Moriarty remembered me. How can he forget the woman who attempted to shoot him?

I shuddered, reminding myself that, if I had been successful, I would have become a murderer. I would have been no better than Moriarty.

I remembered what he had done, all those people he had killed—not directly by his hand, but still, he was the reason they were dead. The man was dangerous, dangerously crafty. He was silently poisonous, like a snake or a spider. You never knew you were in danger until the poison hit you.

Once the taxi pulled up to the place, I took one large breath before I got out. I squared my shoulders, preparing myself. Don't be intimidated by him; don't make him think you're scared. Show him that you've changed, that you're still that same girl who tried to kill him at the pool.

When I asked to see him, the receptionist shot me an odd glance. I didn't blame her. Who would ask to see him anyway, after he had broken into the three most highly secured places in all of London? She probably thought I was his accomplice or something—that would explain the checks I went through. It was either that or it was standard procedure.

I was escorted by a guard, another precaution. I felt watched, like the guard kept throwing looks at me. I knew he wasn't taken aback by my attire, it wasn't anything revealing. If anything, I covered up almost every inch of my body with a navy blue turtleneck and jeans. I let my hair fall around my face, not bothering to clip it back.

It amazed me how Moriarty was allowed any interaction with the outside world. Did dangerous people like him get visitors, as vile as he was? If only the people knew just how dangerous he really was. What he had done last month couldn't compare to what he had done before the break-ins.

I had nothing to occupy my hands with; they kept patting my sides, fingering my shirt. Truthfully, I was nervous. Even though I said I wanted nothing to do with Moriarty, I had to talk to him.

I felt like I was confronting a fear as I was led into a secluded room. More like I'm about to be locked in a room with a caged animal.

The room was dimly lit, reminding me of the interrogation rooms that they always showed on CSI. For all I knew, this was not only a visiting room but an interrogation room as well.

I was left alone, having the door shut behind me. I took survey of the room before my eyes fell on my purpose for coming here.

He sat calm and collected, like he had no worries. His composed stature bothered me. Looking back, I wondered how on earth I had fallen for a man like Jim Moriarty. It was because he was a good actor. I fell for an act.

"Nice bracelets," I commented, noticing he was stuck to the table. I could see the shackles gave him some rein but very little.

"I thought they were joking when they said I had a visitor," he said lowly, his brown eyes remembering me. "And I certainly didn't expect it to be you. Please." He gestured to the seat opposite him. "There's no need to be so...distant."

Showing my irritation, I stiffly made my way over, sitting on the cold metal. Silence fell in the room. My eyes looked everywhere else but at Moriarty. There have to be cameras watching, probably have microphones as well. I should be safe. But even if there was all the security in the world around me, I didn't feel fully protected.

"So what brings you here, Rachel?" Moriarty leaned forward, keeping his eyes on me.

"One of your boys told me you wanted to see me," I lied.

"If I didn't know any better, I think you came on your own."

"You caught me. There's no point in building up the lie."

"And what shocks me more is that you're here in London. Why are you back?"

"I have my reasons, and they are none of your business."
"Aw, so I'm not the reason for your return?"

I laughed darkly. "Definitely not."

He smiled coyly. "I thought after your...incident you'd want to stay away. Speaking of that, how's your shoulder?"

"Peachy," I deadpanned. "I've got something that needs an answer."

"And you came to seek it in London..." Moriarty's eyes brightened. "Your business wouldn't happen to involve a certain Sherlock Holmes, would it? You don't have to tell me, but I assume I'm right."

"I could walk out this door right now." I flicked a thumb behind me.

"And why won't you? Is it because you miss this?" He gestured to our conversation. "Do you miss having me around?"

"Hardly." My mouth became a thin line across my face. "In fact, I try to forget those times."

"Ouch. Harsh, darling."

"And I can happily say I don't miss those pet names either."

"It's a shame, because I miss what we had."

"I want an answer from you," I said bluntly.

"It depends on what you ask me."

"Your sniper could have killed me that night at the pool, when I tried to shoot you. They only injured me. Why?"

"You better be happy that they only injured you."

"Why did they?" I pressed.

"Come on, Rachel, a smart girl like you should have figured it out by now." My brows knitted together. "It was a warning."

"A warning?"

"Yes, to you."

"Well, gee, I figured that much."

"It was to keep you in line, to warn you that if you took one more step over, they would shoot to kill." Moriarty heaved a sigh. "It was a shame that you did that. Really, it hurt me."

I really wish it had actually hurt you. "You've got to be kidding me."

"After it happened, I thought about you. Wondered how you'd made out."

"Did you tell them to do that, only hurt me?" I ignored Moriarty's attempt to make me fall into another trap of his. I had fallen into the first one, only because it had been much more deceiving. This little trap he wasn't trying as hard with.

"I think you and I both know the answer to that."

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Why would you spare me? You took peoples' lives before!" My voice shook.

I remembered the blind old lady he had murdered, all because she had begun to describe his voice. I had been there, listening. The eerie, abrupt silence had scared me.

I calmed myself down with one breath. "Why would I be any different? To you, I'd be another person dead, because apparently that's what people do." Moriarty had said something closely similar to Sherlock when the consulting detective had told him that people had died because of him.

Moriarty shook his head, snorting. "You don't catch on to anything quick, do you, Rachel? If you learned to think for once, you would answer your questions instead of dropping by to see me. Not that I don't enjoy your company, it is nice to see you again."

I need to keep my temper in check. The last thing I need is to be beside him because I attacked him. How he is keeping his composure...

I breathed through my nostrils noisily and slowly, thinking. There was one answer that came to mind, but it sounded impossible. What relationship we had had meant nothing to him. He had played me like a musical instrument. I put all the blame on myself for getting together with Moriarty; I had had no experience in relationships before I met him.

I learned one crucial thing coming out of our relationship: everyone kept secrets no matter how open a person seemed.

So why was Moriarty hinting that the reason I was still alive was because he cared about me? There was no way that he missed me. The only way I could see that was if he missed having someone to hold hostage and play with. He's trying to play mind games. Don't let him.

I felt a huge wave of fatigue crash into me. I wanted nothing more to do with Moriarty, or this place. Right now, I wanted to take a taxi back to 221B, crash on the couch, and sleep the rest of the day away.

With a new goal set in mind, silently, I got out of the chair. Before I could even turn my body, Moriarty grabbed my wrists, pulling me down on the table. He didn't yank me harshly; it was more of a firm, calm pull. If there are cameras watching, they better be sending help. See this as an attempted assault.

"You're leaving so soon?" he crooned.

"I think I've wasted more than enough time here," I spat. "The longer I stay talking to you, the more you'll try and mess with my head."

"Oh, Rachel, I would never do that to you."

"Every word that has ever come out of your mouth has been a lie, Moriarty."

Moriarty's eyes hardened. "So it's going to be like that. Fine. Before you leave, I just have one thing to say to you." His face was just inches from mine; our eyes were fixed on each other. "Whatever business you have in London and with Sherlock, abandon it. Leave now, before it's too late."

My brows scrunched together. "What are you scheming?"

"Like I would tell you," he chuckled. "Be thankful I'm giving you a warning at all. If I wanted you to suffer, I would have let you walk out that door. I'm giving you a chance to get out now."

"I'm not going to leave London until I get what I came here for." I wriggled under his grip.

"And just what is that, darling?"

My jaw locked. "To see you locked up for the rest of your life." And for Sherlock to help me find my biological father, I added mentally.

"So you're staying that long, are you?" His eyebrows rose.

"I wouldn't miss it," I said coldly. I slipped my arms out of Moriarty's grip. Assured that I wasn't going to be held down any longer, I headed for the door.

"Oh, one tiny thing more, Rachel," he told me. I stopped, my hand on the knob. "If you decide to hang around, don't say that I didn't warn you." There it was again, that annoying singsong voice that tempted me to turn around and punch him in the face.

I could feel Moriarty's eyes piercing my soul as I left.

* * *

"For the one-hundredth time, I told you I was sightseeing!" This was becoming my catchphrase.

From the moment I stepped back into 221B, I was interrogated by Sherlock. I had tried to put on my best poker face, that way he couldn't see through me and guess where I had really been. But a feeling inside me told me that he was doing silent deductions and wouldn't share them until I cracked under his extensive questioning.

Night had fallen, and I was curled up on the couch, snug in a blanket. John was typing away on his laptop while Sherlock paced in the den room trying to see through my lie.

"Impossible," he muttered. "You looked disturbed when you came back."

"I wasn't." I pulled the blanket tighter around me.

"You really think you can pull that charade with me? Do you forget who I am?"

"No." My voice was dangerous.

"Sherlock, back off," John groaned for the fifth time since I had gotten back. "She was out, and that is that. Just leave her alone."

Sherlock stopped his pacing—thank God, I was about ready to throw a newspaper at him so he'd stop—and stared at me. My eyes focused on the coffee table littered with papers.

"You aren't even the slightest bit suspicious of her?" Sherlock asked John.

"No," John said simply, "because I am not paranoid that she is still involved with Moriarty like you are."

At the mention of that vile man, I sprang from the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom. Maybe I could at least be in a different room than Sherlock.

But it was like he read my mind, because he blocked the small hallway. I glared at him, green eyes meeting blue-gray.

"Let me through," I snarled. "I'm really not in the mood for your paranoia."

"Of course you aren't, because you know I'm onto something," he said calmly. He took two steps forward, I took three back. "It's something bad; otherwise what's the point in lying about it?"

I groaned. "What will it take to make you stop hounding me?"

"You're nervous. You've got a habit of wringing your hands together when you're nervous." I instantly made them stop kneading each other through the blanket.

"Sherlock," John warned him.

Something in the consulting detective's brain clicked; recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by anger. "Of course. You were lying from the beginning, weren't you?"

"What?" I sputtered.

"When I asked you the day of the break-ins if you were still with Moriarty, you immediately said no."

"Because I'm not."

"And there it is, the lie! That's where she went today, John. She was catching up with her old friend." Sherlock scowled. "Did you take us for idiots? John I can understand, but did you think you had me fooled?" Stealing a look at John, he didn't seem fazed by his roommate's insult. It must be an everyday thing with him. "You're his spy, aren't you?"

"No!" I shouted, panic shooting through my veins. "I've hated the man since the day I knew what he was! What reason would I have to go crawling back to him and spy for him? I mean, did you forget that I tried to shoot him as he was walking away?" Now it was my turn to pace around the room. My mind was as angry as my body; words flew around, trying to form sentences that I could get out.

"John, call Lestrade. Tell him we've got Moriarty's accomplice."

"You're not serious," I stammered.

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous!" John sided with me.

"There's no way he would believe you on it!"

"That's your true purpose for finding me, isn't it?" Sherlock demanded of me. "That whole thing with your dad, that's a lie too."

My mouth dropped. "You really are paranoid." My voice was lethally calm. "Are you going to say next that I'm Moriarty well disguised as a woman? Are you going to call me an assassin and go searching for imaginary weaponry? You're stupidly oblivious to the fact that I've never wanted to be near that man! John can tell you that! I was the one who strapped explosives to him that day, unwillingly. If I hated to do that, what makes you think I would have enjoyed being in Moriarty's company?

"You..." I hitched a sob. "Your head is so stuck up in cases—or maybe it's up your ass—that you can't even pull back for one second and see that someone wants your help! You've always got to assume that everyone is out to get you!"

Sherlock didn't try and hold me back as I ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. I slumped down to the floor, sobbing. I knew John was chewing Sherlock out for his wrong accusations, but I couldn't hear what was being said; my crying was muffling it.

I should have never come here. What was I thinking, agreeing to come back? Sherlock isn't any help. He thinks I'm the enemy. Sherlock won't get me anywhere. He won't help me find my dad, not while he's stuck on the assumption I'm tied to Moriarty.

I ended up crying myself to sleep in the bathroom.  

**oh Rachel, dear, you poor girl.**