"And yesterday, the almost unbelievable truth was revealed: James Moriarty was an actor, Richard Brook, hired by Sherlock Holmes to convince the police and public alike that he was a genius. Many of the crimes he was said to have committed simply didn't happen, and the blog which made Sherlock famous was revealed to be nothing more than a work of fiction. Whilst it's still unclear-"

Emma stopped the video that was trending on the homepage of the BBC News website and sat back in the overstuffed leather armchair by her desk. It was enormous and made of an expensive mahogany, but was hardly ever used. She wasn't an office type of person, as one could tell by he barbells and punching bags behind the large office desk. Only a fraction of actual work got done at the desk. Mostly it was used for sitting in front of her laptop, occasionally checking in on the news stations of her home country. When that wasn't enough, she put her hacking skills to the test to check the underground networks to see what was really being talked about, but covered up to an extent.

Today was one of those days when she ventured into the Deep Web only to find it buzzing with more activity than she'd ever seen. Over and over again, the same three words repeated: Moriarty is dead. This led her to the BBC News page, allowing her to piece together the puzzle when she saw what her home country was buzzing about.

She let out a shaky sigh and buried her face in her hands. She had been fine during his incarceration, and then again during his suspicious acquittal, but this is where she saw her own handiwork actually cause damage.

It had been four months since she had arrived in Rio de Janeiro to start a new life under the pseudonym Alana Monteiro. Four months since she had last seen Jim's face lying across her naval as she drifted off to sleep, wondering how he was planning on killing her. Never would she have thought she'd outlive him. She was sure he had protection against god himself.

What bothered her most though was not that he was dead, but that he took someone out with him, and she had had a significant hand in it. Despite turning down his offer of working for him, that's exactly what she ended up doing. It was as if she herself sent this Sherlock Holmes to his death. If Mycroft did ever find her, she was sure their reunion would not be a joyful one.

She pushed her intrusive thoughts to the back of her mind. It was, after all, another workday. She had no time to time to stress over what she could and could not have prevented. Jim Moriarty was a chapter in her life that was over months ago. Unfortunately there still remained a few reminders of the previous chapter such as the magnificent flat she now resided in, provided for her by him, and a black Swiss Army knife she now kept on her person to brave some of the more treacherous streets of Rio.

She had no idea why she kept that knife. She didn't even remember she still had it until she was on the plane ride here. It was more a weapon that was conveniently now hers rather than a reminder of him. Then again, sometimes she wasn't so sure. She could have easily thrown it out and gotten something better. It's not like she didn't go weapons shopping once in a while. But something prevented her from discarding it. Sentiment, perhaps? She found she had nothing to be sentimental about in years, and this tiny, now-dull knife satiated any hunger she had ever had for it.

She finally closed her computer screen and headed for the bedroom to prepare for her day. It was a wide-open space with barely more than the king-sized bed and vanity. In fact, the décor was so eerily like the room she stayed in at Jim's compound, but that had to do more with the fact that she preferred the simple contemporary look. She didn't have many items in her possession to clutter up her place with.

After a quick change of spandex capris and tank top, she put her long hair in a braid and headed out with the duffel bag by the door.

The sun was just coming up and there was barely anyone out in the streets. This was not a morning city. The nighttime however was when all of Rio came alive with sights and sounds. Women clad in only bikinis headed back from the beach to get ready for the nightlife, kids played football in the streets, and men and women alike skirted along on their mopeds from work. At this time however, they were all recovering from their long nights.

After about a mile of walking, she reached a smaller building that looked like a warehouse of sorts. A muscular tanned man without a shirt on stood outside it next the door.

"You're late," he said with an accent.

She rolled her eyes and looked at her watch. It was a quarter until seven and she normally would have been there fifteen minutes earlier. "I was busy."

"Fala sério! (No kidding!)" Gabriel, one of her employees, sarcastically exclaimed as she took out her key ring and began unlocking the front door. "Was there a House marathon on this morning?"

She chuckled before pushing the door open to let him through first. "Espertinho (wiseass)," she muttered with a smile and wink. She hit a switch and the interior of the warehouse illuminated as the light shone off of the mirrors that lined almost every wall. Throughout the room were several pieces of new fitness equipment: weight racks, row machines, medicine balls, resistance bands, jump ropes, Stairmasters, etc.

The fitness center had been her creation, obsession, and distraction for months now. She knew she would eventually have to find a job here, and because she had a clean slate, she had almost any profession to pick from. Her only limitation was yoga profession. Mycroft caught her once and she was making sure to never be caught again.

So this is what she chose. Instead of constantly running away from what she was good at, she decided to embrace it and make something good out of it. In a way, she did help people. She helped them to achieve their goals and offered motivation just when they felt like giving up. And best of all, she was helping people to defend themselves.

As her employee began to turn on certain lights and arrange equipment in the fitness, she walked through to a set of doors just at the far end: the room she was most proud of. After propping open the doors and illuminating the room before her, she couldn't help but smile.

It was much larger than the room she entered from. While it indeed looked darker, it was because there were no mirrors lining the wall, only the grey metal of the interior of the building. Black rubber mats tiled the floor and all around the perimeter were heavy bags and speed bags spread out evenly. In the center of the room stood a clean but slightly worn boxing ring.

Her new profession as a personal trainer and fitness business owner was perhaps not the best idea to keep a low profile, but Jim had promised her additional security measures was taken so she was ecstatic at doing at something she was good at. Usually not one for promoting violence after the fallout from her last job, she found that most of her customers were either competitors or civilians wanting basic self-defense skills. In fact, most of them were the latter, and she was more than happy to provide the service. For the first time in many years, she felt safe and happy.

The rest of her day played out like any others: she trained a little, sorted out some paperwork, consulted her customers, cleaned equipment, and ended the day with an arduous women's self-defense course. The women were now leaving along with her employees, leaving her to clean up the area in complete quiet solitude.

She was just pushing a heavyweight dummy out of the way when she heard light footsteps in the main area of the gym. Confused, she dropped what she was doing and walked through the double doors to find a tall pale man in a dark suit standing there with a hardened expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, we've just closed. If you want to come back-"

"Emma Marin," the man began with a posh English accent, "I'm here to escort you quietly to the British Embassy, where you will remain in custody until we can arrange transport back to England."

She felt her entire body turn to ice in that instant. Goosebumps crept upon her, her mouth lay agape for some time, and he breathing practically slowed to a stop. She was not, in fact, as safe as she thought.

"I-I think you have the wrong person," she stammered out. He knew it was a lie and she knew his knowledge of that, but she was giving him a second chance to leave here without conflict.

His glare remained unchanged. "My orders were to bring you back alive or dead this time. I'd prefer the former," he said, taking a step forward.

She responded with a step backward. "Listen: either you can get out of here and tell Mycroft that it was a false lead, or one of us dies. Neither of us wants the latter." She had a frightened look on her face, not because she was legitimately scared of him, but because she was scared of the conflict that was to come.

A small smile appeared on his face and his eyes moved from her face down her body, clearly noticing how, despite her fit shape, she was no match for his large, muscular form. "I don't mind the latter," he replied, reaching his hand into his front coat pocket.

Her instincts jumpstarted as she dove out of the way toward the boxing room door before he could even fire a shot from the gun he now held. She heard the bullet ricochet off a medal bench press machine and she could only pray that it wouldn't hit her.

She reached the light switches and hurriedly ran her arm down all of them, avoiding a bullet just to her right. With the room now being pitch black, she quietly skirted along the edge of it making little to no noise.

She heard the gunman click his tongue. "How clever…" the gunman uttered as his eyes tried to adjust.

She had spent almost twelve hours a day here for the past three months and she knew where everything was placed. She could have navigated this room blindfolded if she needed to. Luckily, this was as close as she was going to get to that.

She grabbed a weight she found by her foot and softly lobbed it across the room, making sure it landed with a thud. A millisecond later, a gunshot went off followed by the cracking of one of the mirrored walls. It was enough to draw his attention away for just the right amount of time as she grabbed bench press bar and swung it toward the spot where she had last heard the gun.

It met a hard object and she heard the gun go clattering to the floor as the man roared in agony. She threw the bar aside and dropped to her hands and knees to feel around for the weapon as the man tried to recover. She had just felt for the tip of it when his arms flew around her neck.

One of his burly forearms was now digging into her neck, blocking her airways. Her arms instinctively flew to his, trying to pry them off, but it was no use. He was significantly stronger than her.

She closed her eyes and pictured the room. In front of her must have been the leg press and behind them was the squat machine. And that's when she formed her plan. Instead of trying to slip under his grip, she put her hands out and pushed against the leg press as hard as she could, sending them both flip backward and into a pin that normally stuck out from the machine behind them.

The man cried out and let go of his chokehold of her as the pin pierced through his back. She scrambled forward once more and grabbed the gun before turning around to face her attacker. There he sat against the side of the squat machine, the weight pin sticking out of his stomach as blood began to pool on the dusty floor.

He looked up at her helplessly in his final moments. She returned the look with one of dire regret. "I'm sorry," she said in her shaky voice as she raised the gun to his forehead.

A ringing phone broke the silence in the dark hotel room suite. It was finally answered after the fourth ring – not enough to be dismissed, but not soon enough to be important.

"What."

"Sir, there's been a problem," the panicked voice on the other line began. He sounded as if it were his own life on the line. He wasn't wrong. "The man we sent…he hasn't checked in. I'm afraid we've lost him."

There was a pause in the conversation, one that made the caller quite nervous. What he couldn't hear was the smile that formed upon the receiver's lips. "Good."

"Sir?" the man asked, clearly confused. "But…he failed. One of our men is dead!" He sounded nearly hysterical at this point.

A long paused followed by, "Have you ever been to an aquarium?"

"W-what?"

"That shark tank, specifically. Lovely creatures, sharks…"

There was another pause on the line. The caller had no idea what to say and he was sure his boss wasn't done yet.

"The problem is that they can be a bit a shy. It's almost like they sometimes forget they're sharks," he continued, saying the last line with a touch of irritation. "That's easily fixed, of course. Just drop some fish into the tank, am I right?"

"Sir…what exactly is the plan?"

"To get the shark to come out and play," he finished, hanging up the phone and throwing it aside. He walked over to the window and threw open the curtains. It practically lit up the entirety of his room. That was something he'd have to get used to. Even so, he couldn't help but smirk at the lively city of Rio before him. Well…lively for now, at least.