She was sitting on his couch. She was leaning against his shoulder watching crap telly. If he closed his eyes and deleted a few choice memories he could pretend that this was his life, that she was his girlfriend. But she wasn't his girlfriend and this wasn't his life. She was a killer. Moriarty's right hand woman. But once Sherlock and Moriarty were dead something had happened. She still killed people, but in the in-between hours she would come to him, and they would pretend. She found comfort in the safety he embodied, and he found a hint of a thrill when he gazed down at the tiger purring beside him. He never knew what to expect from her. She replaced the electricity Sherlock had taken when he fell. Sebastia would waltz in and out whenever she felt like it. She took away some of the control he had on his life, and to be honest, he liked it. He had always liked it.

Her gentle nudging brought him out of his contemplation. He glanced over at her with a soft smile.

"What's for dinner?" She inquired softly, as if it was perfectly normal for them to be sitting on his couch. And in that moment he wanted it to be normal. He wanted this to be his life. He wanted to forget about falls and criminal mastermind and snipers. So he went back to pretending.