Chapter 1- Subterfuge
A ball of light hotter than the sun blazed above me, searing my skin so much I wanted to tear it off. I reached up to begin peeling the first layer of my forehead away, except my hands were bound where I couldn't see them. A cold, hard thing that I somehow knew was a gun was pressed against my right temple. When I turned to see who my gunman was, I found a figure who, even though it had no face, I knew was a man, just as certainly as I knew he was the most powerful and wrathful one in the world. Just as certainly as I knew he was my enemy.
Though he had no face, I knew he was smiling as he pulled the trigger and fired a bullet between my eyes.
I awoke with a start, a great light burning my eyes. At first, I thought it was the scorching fireball in my dream, but then I realized it was just sunlight streaming in through the window whose curtains I had neglected to draw last night. Wiping the light sheen of sweat that had sprung from my forehead, I pulled myself free of the heavy blankets, shrugged on my dressing gown, and sleepily padded to the kitchen—a drink of water was in order after having my wits scared out of me as I slept.
I gulped the water down thirstily, as if I had never drunk anything in my life. Slowly, the hot, sticky aftereffect of nightmares receded. As I poured myself a second glass, I tried to think about when the horrible dreams started. I've been having nightmares for about…two weeks now? Yeah, that sounds about right. These horrible dreams- of which common themes were heat, the bad sort of bondage, and murder- sprang up about a month after Moriarty had kidnapped me, and I haven't gotten a truly decent sleep since. I haven't told anyone—they're only nightmares, I can manage. I'd tell my mother, but she's actually on a six-week-long cruise with a bunch of friends from university. It's about time she got to do something for herself. If I told her over the phone she'd worry herself sick.
As I sipped my third glass, I thought about how distinctly I remembered very much not wanting to leave Baker Street at sunset. I don't exactly know why. Thankfully, years of Yard training helped me come up with a convincing enough reason not to. I really should at least tell John about everything- he is a doctor, after all- but they were only stupid nightmares and unwillingness to leave my apartment, right? Trivial.
Having only gotten about five hours of sleep last night, I settled into finishing some arduous paperwork for the Yard—I can be productive while I wait for the boys to wake up, plus it might bore me so much I'll fall asleep again. I flipped my computer open and began working, racking my sleep-deprived brain for details of the case.
John
Having woken up late in the morning, I began making myself some coffee to refresh me after last night's escapades. I found Sherlock already awake, typing away at his laptop.
"Morning," I greeted. He didn't acknowledge me.
"No cases," he grumbled, slamming the laptop closed.
"Well, there's hardly ever one case after the other, is there?" I consoled wearily, pouring the strong black coffee into a mug. Taking a sip, I continued, "You should get a hobby or something to take up the time in between work."
"Why would I do that?" he snapped.
"Because most people do," a tired voice said from our doorway. There stood Mallory, a cotton dressing gown hanging off her shoulders, her frame thinner than usual. She hadn't exactly been eating as well as she usually has, I noticed. She looks pretty tired, too.
"Morning, Mals," I said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah," she replied. She's a bad liar.
I decided to let it slide. "Coffee?" I offered, gesturing to the pot. She nodded gratefully, and I continued, "We've got to get him a Rubik's Cube or something to shut him up when we're not on a case."
"Oh, he'd solve a Rubik's Cube in about four seconds," Mallory replied, leaning against the doorjamb. I noticed in her coffee mug the liquid was black, like mine. She hated black coffee.
"Are you…feeling alright?" I asked cautiously.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second and said, "Fine. Why do you ask?"
"You just look a little pale," I replied. It wasn't entirely a lie: there was a definite lightening in the color of her skin.
Mallory shrugged my comment off. "I always pale in winter," she said, downing another gulp of bitter coffee. "I've got some files to complete downstairs. See you later."
"See you," I said to her retreating back. It was silent in our flat until the door to 221A slammed shut.
"There's something wrong with her, Sherlock," I said, planting myself in an armchair. "You know as well as I do that she was lying."
"You see it, too?" Sherlock said, with an air of relieved curiosity. "Good. I thought I was just being…worrisome. Paranoid. Overprotective."
"You thought you were just being a boyfriend," I corrected.
"Is that what it feels like?" he said, still with that curious tone. He chuckled with almost no humor. "Never anticipated these feelings."
Trying to get us back on track, I repeated, "Mallory was lying to us, Sherlock. She's never lied to us before. Ever. Something's got to be wrong."
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. There was something gratifying in the fact that Sherlock needed help in the realm of relationships. "Do you think she's hiding some sort of illegal activity from us?"
"…No," I said after a pause. "She was pale, she hasn't been sleeping well—if she were doing something of her own will, she wouldn't be so worried. No, there's something she can't control, and she's scared."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because she's been in the Yard long enough to know how to run a secret drug, smuggling, and prostitution ring and get away with it. Either that or she knows you well enough not to even try. She wouldn't be worried."
"So what could be worrying her?" Sherlock asked. I had no answer.