Pressure Points

-Wicked Girl-

She heard the crackle of fire from the hallway, and her ruby lips stretched into a smile as she peered through the crack in the door to see the shadow of a figure illuminated by flickering flames. Emma smoothed her hands down the silk of her evening gown, flexing their joints against the cramp of a long day's work in the cold. She'd just come from the site, had only enough time to wash her skin, tidy her hair, and slip into the gown before her presence was requested for a "follow-up". It had been snowing for most of the afternoon and well into the evening, which she'd spent in a garage with little insulation, and absolutely no heat. She looked forward to standing in front of the flames until her skin sweat and burned.

She pushed the door open, bare feet padding silently across the distressed hickory hardwood as she surveyed the room. Every detail of this study, from the built-in library with shelves neatly lined with a motley collection of works, to Judith Slaying Holofernes, a Gentileschi original proudly hung above the marble fireplace, every detail was chosen with the utmost precision and care. This was his sanctuary. She paused at the arm of the couch, hand resting lightly on the maroon velvet as her gaze dropped to the man sitting squarely at the center of the cushions. His back straight, hands in his lap, mobile phone clutched loosely in the left. A suit jacket had been discarded, leaving only a pressed pair of black slacks and a white button down, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a solid plum colored tie loosened around his neck. Eyes were closed, features were relaxed, headphones were in, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

It had been a good day for him, and it was because of her.

Emma smiled proudly to herself, and intended to relocate in front of the fire, but he spoke first, a calm, quiet murmur that broke the meditative silence and rooted her feet to the floor. "Is it done?" His eyes remained closed.

She averted her gaze, mentally checking off the highlights of her day. The traitor had been found and delivered. She'd tried him, found him guilty, and sentenced him in all of thirty seconds. And as punishment for his crimes, his loose tongue and betrayal of trust, she tore him limb from limb. Slowly.

"Yes sir," she responded, red-painted fingertips playing lightly at the soft fabric on the arm of the couch. She looked up from the motion to find his gaze now on her, dark irises penetrating and unwavering.

"The body." Though it wasn't a question, it required a response, and he did not blink as he awaited an answer.

"Gone," was all she said, though her mind drifted to the image of flesh and bone dissolving in several storage bins of sulfuric acid. Her confirmation was enough for him. He smiled and turned away, resuming his original position.

"I like that dress," he said, voice taking on a higher volume as he removed the buds from his ears and tossed the mobile aside. "Was it expensive?"

"Yes," she said, and could feel her skin flush with warmth as he hummed his response, eyes trailing the length of her, hesitating over the plunging neckline, and the way the midnight blue material curved over her breasts, clung to her hips, draped over her thighs.

"Shame."

Emma remained still even as he stood, gaze locked on her like a predator to its prey, closing the distance between them with smooth, silent grace. His power coursed, thick as molten lava, and just as hot. He smelled of cigar smoke and cinnamon, its effect dizzying and hypnotic. Mesmerizing. She worked to steady her breaths.

Looking him in the eye was a dangerous thing to do, but she searched the curve of his cheekbones, the shade of stubble over his chin, upper lip, the muscles of his face which appeared to be in a state of complete relaxation, even as he grabbed at the small of her back, pressing their centers together forcefully. She leaned against the hardness of him, exhaling through her nose as she felt his palm slip to cup the curve of her ass.

"You missed a spot," he said. Emma did not know what he meant until his head dropped, and she shuddered pleasantly against the wet tickle of his tongue along the hairline above her ear. She'd neglected a smudge of blood during her hasty cleanup, and he lapped up the remnants in a slow, deliberate swirl. "My wicked girl."

Emma clutched tightly at his biceps at the endearment. She loved when he called her that. Wicked. His. His voice was soft, and she could feel his smile against her skin. He was pleased, which meant that tonight he would reward her until she begged to be punished. The tip of his nose trailed along the curve of her neck until he pulled back. "Look at me."

She didn't waste a single second, locking her line of sight with his. It was so difficult to hold her own against his gaze. It always was. She could never match the passion, the supremacy, the focus within the two abysses that challenged the integrity of her shallow pools. She tried anyway, testing her strength against his unwavering stare because that's what he liked about her: the strength, the fight. She could feel him deep inside her mind, obliterating all she thought she knew, making room for all there was yet to learn. Rearranging, reorganizing her thoughts, her memories, past, present, future, dreams, desires, all to include him. She lived for these moments, when he looked at her, and suddenly he was everywhere, and everything. Cinnamon, fire, voice like siren song. A spring tide wrapping itself around her and pulling her out to sea. She was defenseless. She couldn't bring herself to care. As long as there was James Moriarty, there would be Emma, and she would always be his.

She was so close. All that was between her and reprieve was fifteen steps from the cab up to the door. It was early morning – just after sunrise. The house would be asleep. But they would be home, and she knew she would find help. She could always find help there. Mary would know what to do.

Emma grabbed the last of the bills from her pocket and put them into the cabbie's hand. She quietly thanked him, and turned to quickly climb out of the back seat. Her range of motion was quite limited, and a ten-hour flight had done nothing to help her condition. A quick stitching of the gash along her hairline in a gas station bathroom and a heavy layer of foundation over the bruises on her face and neck had gotten her through the airport and on a flight without too many suspicious looks. But she could feel the fractures in her ribs, the painful bruising and swelling along her chest and arms, which a long sleeved shirt and jacket had been easy to cover. She hadn't had enough time to take a full inventory of the damage, only where it hurt and how to ignore it. It didn't matter really. She'd made it to London.

Emma gripped the edge of the car door to steady herself before slamming it closed. Then, she limped her way through an iron gate and up several steps leading to the front door of a townhouse. Only fifteen steps. It felt longer. Emma knew this was the one because she would always know where Mary Morstan was. Whenever she moved, whenever she changed jobs, names, identities, Emma would know, just like she knew that it was Mary Watson now, and inside that house was a civilian husband and a sleeping child. The bullet points of her cover story were kept at the forefront of her mind as she approached the door.

She paused, inhaled deeply, and knocked soundly on the green paint. Then waited. Emma winced against a jab of pain in her chest, exhaling slowly as she looked around. The townhouse was flanked by two other identical structures, and stood out as the only white paint job amongst a dull gray on the suburban block. The street was quiet, the cab having already disappeared. Heavy overcast for a morning that promised rain. She felt the sudden urge to sob.

The door swung open, and Emma spun to greet the woman, this new version of her she'd only seen in candids. Short blonde hair, slim, straight nose, and a bit of extra weight from pregnancy. The eyes were the same, wide like a doe's and a sharp pewter blue. She found comfort in them. "My god," Mary said. She'd altered her voice as well, to a lighter tone and a foreign accent.

"I need your help." Emma stared at her friend, her confidant, and hoped she would be able to overcome the shock of her presence quickly. She was cold. She was hurting. And she needed to get out of plain sight.

"You're supposed to be dead," Mary breathed, her eyes growing wider.

"We're all supposed to be dead," she countered, biting the inside of her cheek as her muscles contracted painfully against the morning chill. Death provided the ultimate anonymity. There wasn't any other way out of the game. Well, Mary had wanted out. Emma had a different game she wanted to play.

"How did you find me," Mary demanded, voice darkening as her body subconsciously morphed itself into a fighter's stance. Emma did her best to keep a straight face. Neither of them were built for civilian life, it seemed.

"Easy," she shrugged. "I never lost track of you."

Mary rolled her eyes and blinked slowly, clearly disappointed in herself that she should've known better. Emma had always been the better tracker of them. She folded her arms over her chest and stared her down for a long minute. Emma knew that her physical and emotional condition was quickly being analyzed, and a decision would soon be made on whether or not it was safe to let her inside.

It was not, but Emma prayed to be taken in anyway.

"What's happened, then?" Straight to the point. Instant relief swept over her. She didn't care where she'd been, or how she'd suddenly come back from the "dead". She wasn't interested in how Emma had kept tabs on her all these years, even as her identities altered. She only cared about why she was on her doorstep now, and what she could do to help. Mary had always been a hard shell, uninterested in the details, preferring core facts, swift action, and positive results. It's why Emma knew she could come.

"Moriarty," Emma said, and was not prepared to watch as Mary's composure visibly disappeared almost instantly. "James Moriarty is going to kill me."

"I need you to go away for a while."

Emma huffed, glancing over her shoulder at the man who stood, focused on the screen of his mobile as his thumbs jabbed out a quick message. All she wanted was silence, and was prepared to tell him to take his untimely conversation outside when she realized that he was speaking to her. "Me?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes dramatically, head jerking as he drawled, "yeah, you!" with annoyed mockery.

Her heart jumped in her chest at the confirmation. He never asked her to go away. Not unless it was more dangerous, more complex than he thought she could handle. This was an extreme rarity, and only meant he would be dealing with individuals as erratic and treacherous as he was, and he could not be one hundred percent sure what the outcome of their interactions would be. She hated when he did this.

"Why?" she asked, but what she really wanted to know was "who?"

Moriarty smirked. He could see it in her face, the real question. He pocketed his mobile and took several deliberately slow steps towards her. "I'm going to be playing a little game with Sherlock," he said, and did not hide the animated pleasure in his voice.

Emma turned away. Again, the obsession with the Holmes brothers. She returned to fiddling with the height of the tripod in front of her. Two English brothers with large brains – her boss's new favorite toys. They were clever – clever like him, and there were few things he loved more than learning how their minds worked, what made them tick, and sending them on experimental exercises to discover just that. It was all fun to him, which infuriated her because if it was only fun, then she couldn't understand for the life of her why she couldn't be involved.

"Aren't you going to ask me what it is?" he stuffed his hands in his pockets, bending his knees a bit as his eyes gleamed with excitement.

"No," she said, earning a loud sigh. She peered through the scope, and re-positioned the rest a few degrees to the left. "You never involve me, so why do I care what little games you play with your toys?"

Thick fingers wove through her hair, grabbing a fistful at the scalp, and yanked sharply. She cried out at the sudden, unexpected pain, hands flying up in an attempt to loosen the pressure of his grip. She winced as his face came into view, hovering over hers. "Because you are mine," he enunciated with a vicious sneer.

"You let Sebastian play," Emma fought back, glaring up into the black orbs above her. "I'm just valuable as he is, I have every right-"

His lips crashed on hers, just long enough to silence her words with his tongue and keep more from coming with a warning bite to her bottom lip. He released his hold on her with forceful toss, and Emma gripped the back of the chair she currently straddled as she regained equilibrium.

"Sebastian is indispensable," Moriarty said with a shrug as he slid his hands back into his pockets, deadpanned expression slowly transforming with a bright new thought. "But you, my darling, are my secret weapon. Can't have the brothers knowing about you, oh no. Do you understand?"

"So you're sending me away."

"Only for a little bit – oh don't look so pathetic."

"If they're as dangerous as you say they are, then you could use me out there," Emma defended her stance, but was only received with an look of disgust.

"Do I need to draw you a picture? When Moriarty plays with Sherlock, Emma goes away! Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"You have, but-"

"Have I!"

The words were stunted on her tongue, and the temperature of the room grow cold enough that she could feel the flush in her cheeks. There wasn't any arguing with him. She was foolish to have tried. "I just won't see you killed," she bit out quietly, gaze dropping to her lap.

Emma heard his chuckle from behind her, and felt the warmth of him as he leaned down over her, head on her shoulder, resting his cheek against hers. He freed his hands, and began to adjust the focus on the scope, rotating the rest a few degrees back to the right. "Darling," he said, and she closed her eyes against the soothing vibrations of his voice. "We will always be one step ahead. Always. Take the shot."

He retreated, and she opened her eyes, straightened her back, and placed her hands over the rifle. She peered into the scope, found her man already on location, and in position for solid kill shot. She pulled the trigger.

I made a boo-boo. I developed a new obsession. Emma's relationship with Moriarty will be established through flashbacks in a story that will jump quite a bit. I'll do my best to make it artistic and entertaining, though. Sherlock will enter in the next chapter. This Chapter moved a bit quickly, but I promise the story will slow down. I just wanted to put it out there to see what kind of response it might get. LOVE me some Moriarty, and Sherlock, and was very curious to see what might happen if we threw an OC into the mix. Let me know what you think!