"Came the last night of sadness

And it was clear she couldn't go on

Then the door was open and the wind appeared

The candles blew and then disappeared

The curtains flew and then he appeared

Saying, 'Don't be afraid'"

-Blue Öyster Cult

I carefully watch Moriarty's every move as he walks over and sits down in the chair that used to be Sherlock's. I then mimic his movements and sit in the armchair directly opposite, the chair that used to be John's. He smirks at me, obviously seeing through the façade I was trying so desperately to put up. "Well," he says with that smooth tone of his. "You didn't answer my question. Did you miss me?"

I open my mouth, about to reply with a sarcastic comment, but I hold my tongue. Instead I pause, pretending the question requires some real thinking. I give him a brittle smile, "Not in the slightest."

He chuckles at my answer, but abruptly stops, the fake smile being replaced with a dark look, "Wrong answer." He stands up from the chair and heads to the door, opening it. "You have to come with me now," he says, gesturing for me to go through the door.

I raise my eyebrows and scoff, "Oh? What makes you think that I would ever go with the world's most dangerous psychopath?"

He fakes an incredulous look, "Who said you had a choice?"

Suddenly I feel a presence behind me, and I'm locked in a choke hold. I try everything I can think of to get out of my holders grasp; stomping on his foot with my stiletto heel, elbowing him in the ribs, but nothing works. Then I feel a pinch in the side of my neck, and my vision turns blurry. "Wh–what did you…," my voice slurs. My holder lets go of me and I stumble to the ground, landing on my knees.

"Sweet dreams, dear Eleanor."

And that's the last thing I hear before everything fades to black.

Splash!

I gasp, awakened by the ice–cold water drenching my body. I blink a few times, trying to clear the fogginess from my vision. Forgetting what had happened, I take a look at my surroundings. The place was dark, with one single bulb hanging from a ceiling chain. The floor was made of concrete, and I could hear the sound of water dripping not too far away.

I then try to move from my current position, only to be held back by an unknown force. I glance down for any indication of what it might be, finding myself chain–cuffed to a metal chair. I struggle for a few minutes, but it's no use.

That's when I hear the click–clack of polished shoes across the cold floor, and I remember.

"Moriarty…," I growl quietly.

Said man steps into the light upon hearing his name, faking a look of surprise, "Oh! You remember. Very good."

I glare at him, "Why am I here, for what purpose?"

He slowly circles me with his hands folded behind his back. "You see, Eleanor, I failed. I failed at destroying Sherlock Holmes. Or, at least, that's what he thinks. In reality, his suicide was only the beginning of my plan. My plan to ruin him, to burn the heart out of him. And what better way to do that than to hurt the one he loves most?"

I muster up the toughest look I can manage without letting the gnawing worriment in the back of my mind seep onto my face. "Know that whatever you do to me, when Sherlock finds out, he'll personally put a bullet through your skull. And this time, he'll make sure you're really not coming back."

Moriarty fakes a pout, "Aw, you're cute when you try to sound tough." He then walks to a small metal table that I hadn't noticed before, unravelling the roll of cloth lying on top. I sit up straighter in my chair, trying to see what's inside.

With a jolt of fear that reaches the very pit of my stomach, I recognize the cruel curves of knives in their newly sharpened and polished glory. A row of medieval–looking medical equipment, the dull glint of a bludgeon.

Any courage I once had is now lost.

I can't take my eyes off of the weapons. "What are you going to do to me?" I ask numbly.

Moriarty looks up and smirks, "Well, you know how I don't like getting my hands dirty." He glances behind me, "Moran!"

A tall, muscular man with short, dark hair steps into the dim light, donned with an apron and gloves. To say he looked intimidating was an understatement. "Ah, Eleanor, dear. I'd like you to meet Sebastian Moran, my right hand man. He'll be the one torturing you during this lovely evening," my captor declares smoothly. "Which should we have him break first: hands or ribs? Your choice."

In an act of stubbornness, I stare at him silently, no movement, not even an eye twitch. Though deep down I was unbelievably terrified.

He cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, "Hm, well then, hands it is." Then to Moran, "Use the bludgeon, I want every bone broken."

Moran takes the instrument in one hand and approaches me. My hand is splayed palm down, trying to clench back into a fist, but the weapon comes down hard over the back of my knuckles, the unmistakable crunching sound of bones resonating throughout the room.

I cry out in pain, short lasting, my face scrunched up and my eyes screwed shut. The pain is making it hard to breathe. Then Moran moves to the next hand, repeating the previous action. I start to hyperventilate, and soon the pain is too much.

For the second time that day, I lose consciousness.

I wake up a couple hours later, the pain now turned numb. They're disturbing to look at, but at least the bleeding has stopped. I can't even twitch my fingers. They're like dead puppets.

"Awake already?" Moriarty's Irish accent pierces the darkness. "When Sherlock figures out where we are – and we both know he will – I want him to break at the sight of you. So, help me out here, what do you think would be the best way to do that?"

I don't make a sound, for fear that if I do, I'll experience more excruciating pain. I suppose that was in vain.

Moriarty picks up a sharp blade from his collection on the table and saunters over. "You know, it's often found impolite to not answer when you're spoken to." He slowly circles behind me, smoothly guiding the blade along my neck in a teasing way, but not applying enough pressure to break the skin, and my breath hitches in fear. He then leans into my ear and mutters, "Does this frighten you?"

Moriarty waits a few moments for me to reply, but I stay stiff, focusing on the shininess of the blade that's still grazing my neck. He suddenly straightens up and walks a few paces away, his back turned to me and chuckling, "Don't worry, Pet. I'm not going to kill you." A pause, he slowly turns and faces me, then in a darker voice, "But I'm going to make you wish I had. Moran!"

At his call, Sebastian Moran is behind me in an instant, "Yes, sir?"

"Get the jumper cables."

Moran nods obediently, "Right, on it, sir."

Moriarty picks up something from the table just a few feet away, but I can't make out what it is. He saunters back to me and grabs my jaw in his other hand. I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he forces my mouth open, shoving into it the object from the table. It's a gag.

Moran comes back into the room, rolling a cart with an electrical panel, cables that would normally be used to jump–start a car hanging from within. I can feel all color drain from my face as I realize what he's about to do. Moran hooks the remaining ends of the cables onto the metal cuffs holding me to the chair. Once he's done, he walks back over to the electrical panel and rests his hand on a red lever. He then glances at Moriarty for permission.

Moriarty firmly nods once, "Make her scream." At that he turns around and struts out of the room, the sound of his leather Gucci shoes echoing, and closes the steel door behind him.

Then Moran pulls the lever, and I scream louder than I have ever screamed before.

There's a bright light. And voices. I can't feel anything. Where am I?

The voices start to get clearer as I slowly regain consciousness. I try to open my eyes, but they're too heavy. I try to talk, but all I can get out is a quiet mumble, too hard to understand.

"Eleanor…," I can faintly hear someone call my name, but it's not clear, as if I'm under water. "Eleanor, can you hear me?"

I groan softly in pain. And then another voice, different from the previous one. "Oh my God, Ellie. Is she alright?"

The sounds start to become clearer, no longer sounding as if I'm under water. The first person replies to the second, "She needs medical assistance." Then shouts, "Someone, can we get a gurney over here, quickly!"

I hear boots running across the cold, hard cement floor. I then feel myself being lifted up and layed down on a cushion. I'm finally able to open my eyes, and am met with worried pale–blue ones. They soften immediately, and I relish in the familiarity of the voice that is Sherlock Holmes, "It's going to be okay, Eleanor. We're getting you out of here."

My voice croaks from the dryness of my throat as I speak, "What about Moriarty?"

His eyes turn hard, and his voice cold but strangely reassuring, "He's been taken care of."

That's all the confirmation I need before the paramedics inject me with a clear liquid, and I close my eyes in a much needed rest.

Six months. It's been six months since I was abducted and tortured by the well–known consulting criminal and psychopath, Jim Moriarty. My rescue was all over the front page of The Sun newspaper.

Things haven't been easy, to say the least. I've slowly been recovering. At first I didn't want to solve crimes at all. I wanted to quit, never to see a client or case file ever again. But Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard tried to convince me to stay. "We need you. You're the best we've got," they said. I must have declined about thirty times.

Then came Sherlock and his sulking manner. He would sit around the house, shooting at the wall with his glock that he probably stole from Lestrade's desk, bored out of his mind. Apparently solving crimes without me just wasn't the same. One day John came up to me and begged me to solve crimes again, just to make Sherlock stop lounging about. It was causing us both to go insane. Reluctantly, I agreed.

It's been two years now. Those few days still occasionally come back to haunt me. Sometimes I have nightmares, my screaming waking my other two flatmates. That's why Sherlock and I share a bed now. No, not like that. I mean, something about his presence makes me feel safe. Knowing that he's there, right next to me, it takes the nightmares away.

I'm still not quite the same person as I was before that event all those years back. There will be moments when I completely zone out, perhaps a word someone said triggering a memory from that time. People worry, Sherlock more than anyone else. They ask if I'm okay, and every time I reply with the same thing, "I'm always okay."

"Ellie," I stop typing and glance up to the sound of Sherlock calling my name. "We've got another." He walks over to the coat hook and puts on his signature look: long, black Belstaff wool coat, navy–blue scarf, and black leather gloves. He opens the door, about to leave, but turns back towards me, "Are you coming?"

I give him a bright smile, exit out of my blog, and snap the laptop shut, "I'm right behind you."

Together we head out into the chilly London air, off to do what we do best. Solve crimes.