Chapter 3: Apple or Cloak?

The next room had another table but no chairs. On the table sat a red apple and a red coat.

"Time for another choice," Moriarty instructed. "Apple or coat?"

"What's the catch?" I questioned eyeing both objects suspiciously.

"The apple is poison," he explained. "Choose that and I'll let Sherlock know where we are. The poison is excruciating but fast enough that it'll give Sherlock enough time to get here and watch you die."

"And the coat?" He snapped his fingers and five brutish looking men stepped into the room.

"I'll let you go," he said. "And my friends will chase you. If you make it to safety before they catch you then you can go. If they catch you first…well you probably won't be doing much of anything after that."

"Sounds like a fairy tale," I replied. "Snow White and Red Riding Hood."

"Very good!" Moriarty exclaimed. "Exactly right! Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. So what'll it be Reilen, the apple or my wolves?"

"What counts as safety?" I asked. "Where do I have to make it to?"
"Anywhere." He shrugged. "As long as you get there first." I nodded.

"The coat," I decided. Moriarty grabbed my arm and pulled me from the room with his men following.

"I'll give you a fifteen minute head start," he said as we reached a door that led outside. "Just to be fair." I turned toward the door waiting for him to tell me to run.

"Just one more thing," he added. "Since I know where you're going to run and all." He spun me around and drove the blade of a knife into my stomach. I doubled over in pain as he grabbed my shoulder and leaned close to my ear.

"Run little mouse," he ordered quietly. "Run from the wolves." He released me and I stumbled out the door. I wanted to collapse but I knew that if I didn't run then blood loss would be the least of my problems. I scanned my surroundings trying to figure out where I was. Luckily, Sherlock had insisted that I learn the geography of London so while I wasn't exactly sure where I was I at least knew how far away I was from Baker Street. Keeping one hand over the wound in the stomach, I pulled out my mobile and sent a text to Sherlock.

- - Where are you?

His reply came almost immediately.

- - Scotland Yard.

I let out a sigh of relief.

- - Heading there.

Good. That was closer. I shoved my mobile into my pocket and started running. My body reacted exactly like I expected it to meaning that my legs gave out and I dropped to the ground.

'Get up!' I screamed at myself. 'You have to GET UP!' I struggled to my feet and forced myself to start running again.

Every breath burned my lungs and my hand was slick with blood. I could hear Moriarty's men behind me but I was nearly there. Just two more blocks. Ahead of me I saw Sherlock and John's familiar forms out on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for me.

"Got'cha!" One of the men grabbed me from behind.

"Sherlock!" I screamed as I was dragged backwards. I saw both Sherlock and John turn towards the sound of my voice before the men pounced on me. Moriarty had been right to call them wolves. They acted just like a pack of wolves only instead of ripping me apart they punched, kicked, and stomped on me. A shot rang out and the men scattered like cockroaches from a light.

"Jesus!" John cried as he and Sherlock knelt beside me.

"Lestrade's already called an ambulance," Sherlock said. "They should be here momentarily."

"How did you—?" John began in a baffled tone. "Never mind." John's medical training took over and he began to check my pulse.

"Pulse is weak and thready," he noted. "God he stabbed her!?"

"She's been beaten as well," Sherlock added. As the two of them began going over my injuries: broken ribs, bruises, stab wound, possibly fractured wrist, I began to pass out.

"Reilen, no!" Sherlock ordered sharply as his hands gripped either side of my face. "You have to stay awake. Concentrate on my voice." I blinked slowly at him trying desperately to do what he asked. The wail of sirens approached us and suddenly I was being lifted onto a stretcher.

"Sorry…Sherlock," I gasped as I lost consciousness. "I was…wrong."

I opened my eyes and found myself in a very familiar room. The living room at 221B Baker Street. I knew I couldn't really be home, though, since the last thing I remembered was being loaded into an ambulance. I was in my mind palace, which, unlike Sherlock's wasn't very much like a palace at all. Mine was mainly a hallway with doors on either side. I'd only started doing the whole 'mind palace' thing recently so it wasn't very organized yet…

"Sherlock?" I called uncertainly. He appeared out of thin air right in front of me.

"You know what's happened, don't you?" he asked. I nodded.

"Am I dying?" I questioned.

"Now that the adrenaline is leaving you system you're going to have to keep your body from going into shock," he instructed. "You're not dying yet but if you can't control the pain you'll be dying soon enough." I couldn't even make my mental version of Sherlock be anything but—well—Sherlock.

"I'm okay," I assured him. "I'm—" I collapsed onto the floor and let out a scream as intense pain flooded my system.

"Reilen, your injuries are extensive," Sherlock told me in that tone he used when he thought I was being stubborn. "You need to find something to distract yourself." I struggled to my feet and staggered into the hallway. It was long, every memory or fact I needed had its own room. I realized now that it would be much simpler if my mind palace had different floors like Sherlock said his did. So many doors. Which one would calm me down? I threw open one door after another trying to pick one. Memories of my childhood, vivid imaginings of books that I had read (which Sherlock said was nothing but clutter. I should keep the information from the books, not the daydreams I had about them), memories of my life with John and Sherlock.

"It's not working!" I groaned as another wave of pain knocked me into a wall.

"You have to try harder!" Sherlock commanded. I suddenly found myself in front of a door at the end of the hallway. It was black, shrouded in darkness, and the handle was silver while all the others were gold.

"Don't go in there," Sherlock warned. I knew why I shouldn't. That room was where I kept anything traumatizing. Any memory I didn't want to think about. I didn't have many, in fact, until recently I hadn't had any. I had only created it because Sherlock had told me to. He had explained that eventually I would have something I wanted to lock away in there. I knew what was in there now.

My hand reached out and turned the knob. As I stepped into the room I felt a chill settle over me. Sherlock was gone and I was alone.

"Looks like I win." Moriarty stepped out of the shadows and grinned at me, continuing in that sing song tone of his. "The wolves ate Little Red Riding Hood and the Huntsman couldn't save her." I dropped to my knees in front of him unable to breathe. My limbs became ridged and I fell onto my side.

"You're so boring," Moriarty sneered as he crouched in front of me. "Just like I thought. Poor little mouse. Sherlock can't save you now. Should have chosen the apple, it would have been quicker." I shut my eyes feeling my mind give up. I was too tired. I was too hurt. My injuries were too severe. I had lost too much blood. My body went limp against the wooden floor of the room and I waited.

"You're dying my dear. I'll bet it hurts. I can't wait to see Sherlock's face. He and John will be so sad!" My body jerked like I had been shocked and my eyes snapped open.

'Sherlock!' I thought frantically. 'John!'

"Don't fight it," Moriarty crooned in my ear. "Just let go."

"No!" I snarled through clenched teeth as I struggled to my knees. He kicked me backwards and I couldn't breathe again. Another jolt ran though my body and I realized what was happening. I was really dying. I had to fight. I had to get out of here. I forced myself to my feet and clawed my way out into the hallway.

Calm down. I have to calm down.Using the wall, I dragged myself back the way I had come. It was like walking through waist high mud. Every step was harder than the one before.

Finally, I came to a room with a pale green door, green like the color of Sherlock's eyes. I opened the door and fell inside. Music filled the room, violin music. I closed the door and leaned back against it, gasping for breath. The music stopped for a minute and Sherlock turned from the only window to look at me.

"There you are," he said. "Tell me what you think of this piece. I've been working on it for days. John's no good at this sort of thing." He began playing again and I closed my eyes, listening to the music. I felt my breathing slow to a normal pace. I felt safe in here, calm and peaceful. Just me and Sherlock and his music. I sighed quietly and smiled to myself.

"Sherlock…" I said softly. "It's…"

I opened my eyes and shut them again against the brightness of the light above me. I could hear a steady beeping nearby and I when I opened my eyes again I saw that the room wasn't actually that bright. It had just seemed that way probably because I had been unconscious.

"Morning," Sherlock's voice said. I turned my head and saw him sitting in a chair beside my bed. His elbow was propped on the arm of the chair and his chin rested between his thumb and forefinger. He looked almost bored except that I could see the worry in his eyes.

"Sherlock." My voice came out weak and raspy. I glanced around the room and saw that we were alone.

"John went to get coffee," he said even though I hadn't asked where John was. "He'll be back soon. How's your pain?"

"Fine," I answered. "How bad was it?" I could feel that my face was still swollen and there was a dull ache in my stomach and ribs. I looked down and saw that my right wrist was in a splint.

"You died." His tone was sharp like he was angry with me. I flinched and twisted the hospital blanket between my fingers.

"I know," I responded in a whisper. "Did Lestrade catch any of the men?" I glanced over at him. He looked surprised by my question. Clearly he hadn't expected me to ask about that.

"One or two. They're not talking."

"'Course not," I muttered.

"You're awake!" John's voice made Sherlock and I look over at the door.

"Hi John," I replied. He set down the two coffees he was carrying and rushed over to me.

"How're you feeling?" he wondered as he hugged me. "Do you need anything? How's your pain?"
"Fine," I assured him. "I'm fine." John's eyes narrowed as he studied me.

"No you're not," he argued. "Something's wrong." I shrugged.

"Sherlock's mad at me," I told him. John glared at Sherlock and walked around the bed to stand in front of him.

"What could you possibly be mad at her for?" John snapped. That look of surprise crossed Sherlock's face again.

"I'm not angry with her," he responded in a baffled tone. "I was worried."

"Sounded more like angry," I informed him. Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, emotions come out in different ways I suppose." John and I rolled our eyes at each other but were much more relaxed after that.

"Easy does it," John cautioned as he walked behind me up the stairs to our flat. Sherlock was ahead of me and at the top of the stairs he turned and looked exasperatedly down at John.

"For god's sake, John, she's not an infant!" he snapped. "She can manage the stairs just fine."

"She's only just got out of hospital," John snapped back. "She's still got stiches and the meds she's on throw off her balance."

"I'm fine," I insisted but the stairs had me out of breath so I knew John didn't believe me. We walked into the living room and I collapsed onto the sofa.

"You need water," John decided. "I'll get you some. How about some soup?"

"Water's fine," I called as he bustled into the kitchen.

"John, stop mothering," Sherlock ordered. "It's ridiculous." John leaned around the kitchen doorway and frowned.

"Shut up Sherlock." As soon as John had disappeared into the kitchen again Sherlock focused on me.

"Really, though, how're you feeling?" he asked.

"Just tired," I told him. "A little woozy maybe." Sherlock nodded and studied me intently.

"What?" I asked eyeing him nervously.

"Shall we discuss it now?" he replied. I felt my stomach drop as a wave of panic flooded through me.

"Discuss what?" John questioned as he came in with a tray on which was a glass of water and a bowl of soup. "Reilen, what's wrong?"

"N—Nothing," I stammered.

"What did you do?" He turned to Sherlock with a disapproving look.

"I think we ought to discuss what happened," Sherlock responded calmly. "I need the details."

"Please don't make me," I said in a small voice. "I—I can't go over it right now."

"Sherlock, we don't need to do this now," John said. "She just got home." Sherlock started to pace in an agitated fashion around the room.

"We do though!" he shouted causing me to cringe. "I need to know what he did! Why he did it! How did he even get her in the first place!?" I had never seen Sherlock like this and it made me angry. I just didn't know if I was angry at him for being upset because I didn't want to talk or because I was angry at Moriarty for putting us in this position.

"You were right!" I shouted back at him as I stood painfully. "All right!? About me going out on that date! He pretended to be someone else, Moriarty, he—he tricked me and then he probably paid off the bartender to put Rohypnol in my drink. That's—that's how he got me." Sherlock turned sharply and stared at me.

"He drugged you?" John sounded disgusted. And why wouldn't he be? I was disgusted every time I thought about it.

"Quite an easy way to go about it," Sherlock pointed out. "It's tasteless. You wouldn't even notice it was there."

"Sherlock that is so far from the point!" John cried.

"No, you see that is the point!" Sherlock snapped. "It was easy for him to get at her!" Tears filled my eyes and I started crying.

"I'm sorry!" I sobbed. "You were right. I—I should have listened to you!" John came over and helped me sit back down.

"No," he replied. "No. You've got nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't your fault."

"'Course it was," I whimpered. "Sherlock said it was a bad idea but I was so mad at him for acting like I couldn't get a date that I wanted to prove him wrong."

"Ohoo-Ohoo!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called as she walked up the stairs. She took in the scene in the living room and rushed over to me.

"Reilen, love, what's the matter?" she asked worriedly.

"Nothing Mrs. Hudson," I said as I swiped at my eyes. "I'm fine."

"Sherlock's upset her," John told her.

"Me?" Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"Yes, you," John snapped. "I told you to leave her alone but you had to go and get her riled up."

"Oh Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded him as she put her arm around my shoulders.

"I've got to know what happened!" he insisted. "Moriarty never does things without a reason and I need to know why he took Reilen in the first place. I need to know what he did to her."

"Not now," John argued. I took a deep breath and dried my eyes.

"No," I said before they could start arguing. "No. It's fine. What'd you want to know?" Sherlock sat down across from me and his eyes darted around as he studied my face. I knew he was cataloging all my injuries so he could fit them into what Moriarty had done to me.

"So he took you and locked you in a room with a snake," he said. "Which you apparently found terrifying."
"It was huge," I clarified. "At least 30 feet. Maybe more. He was shooting something into the room to make it angry and—and I don't like snakes Sherlock."

"But you were where it couldn't get you?" I nodded.

"Up on a platform. He had the snake shot and then he knocked me out with some sort of gas and I woke up in a different room handcuffed to a pipe."

"Which is when he sent me those pictures." I nodded again and looked at my lap as my face burned with embarrassment.

"He didn't—he didn't do anything to you, did he?" John asked.

"No," I said firmly. "He got angry because I shouted for you and Sherlock. There was a table in the room and he made me sit at it and play a game."

"What sort of game?" Sherlock asked.

"A game of questions. If I got one wrong he slapped me. If I got it right he'd pat me on the head. I got more wrong than I did right which was the whole point."

"What questions did he ask?"

"He asked what Hydrogen was on the periodic table," I remembered. "I got that one right. He asked me to translate things from German and French and Russian to English. I got all those wrong since I don't speak any of those."

"Did he ask you anything about me?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Asked if I knew the color of your eyes," I replied. "And some other stuff but nothing important."

"And then he let you go?" Sherlock asked. I shook my head and explained about the final choice between the apple and the coat. I left out the part where Moriarty ridiculed me for loving Sherlock.

"I thought I would have a better chance trying to outrun them," I finished. "I nearly made it."

"Happy now?" John snapped at Sherlock. I was fighting the urge to be sick now that the memories were running rampant through my mind. I closed my eyes and forced them back behind the black door. I added a lock and locked it tight with a key.

"Very," Sherlock replied.

"Well I think Reilen needs to eat some soup and then get some rest," John decided. "It's been a long day. Doctor's orders." I accepted the soup he had brought me even though I had told him I wasn't hungry. He wouldn't leave me alone until I ate it anyway.

"Where's she going to sleep?" Mrs. Hudson asked as John cleared away my tray. He had given me another dose of my pain medication with my food and now I was starting to feel myself drifting off.

"She can stay in my room," John offered. "No sense in her going back down the stairs. I can take the sofa."

"No, s'okay," I slurred as I settled on the sofa. "I wanna sleep here. No moving please."

"Sure?" John asked worriedly.

"Mmhm," I mumbled. "S'fine." Everyone said goodnight after that and went to bed.

"What's the answer Reilen?" Moriarty demanded. "Time's up."

"I—I don't know," I whimpered. I flinched before he had even raised his hand. He slapped me once across one cheek and once across the other.

"Two for flinching!" he giggled. I had to keep myself from crying as I prepared for what I was about to say.

"I don't want to play anymore," I told him in a low voice. He leaned across the table and grinned at me.

"Is that so?" he asked. I nodded and he came around the table, perching against the edge when he was right next to me.

"Well you can make that decision if you want," he allowed. "But I'm going to entertain myself in other ways." He brushed my hair away from my face and ran his fingertips up and down my cheek. I let out a hiss of pain and recoiled from his touch feeling my skin crawl.

"What will Sherlock think if you survive this, hm?" he continued. "What'll he think when he finds out that you chose to let me have my way with you over answering some simple questions?"
"They're not simple though!" I cried near tears again at the thought of Sherlock.

"They really are," he disagreed. "You just don't know the answers because you're so STUPID!" I cringed and looked away from him.

"Maybe I should have taken someone else. Sherlock would probably thank me for getting rid of you." I closed my eyes as a few tears slipped down my cheeks…

I jerked awake and looked around in a panic. There was a noise from the kitchen and I scrambled off the sofa but instantly regretted moving so fast. I groaned in pain and Sherlock leaned into the living room.

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

"N—No," I gasped as my ribs throbbed. "Nightmare. What're you doing?" I walked stiffly into the kitchen and saw he had a blow torch and a jar of eyeballs on the table.

"Experiment," he said simply.

"Not gonna ask," I decided. I sat down at the table and watched him work on holding the eyeballs to the flame of the blow torch.

"What was it about?" he asked after a while.

"Hm?" I answered as I raised my head from my hand. I'd been absorbed in watching him to the point where I was in daze.

"You're nightmare," he clarified. "What was it about?" He was watching me closely so I wouldn't be able to get away with anything but the truth.

"Moriarty." Sherlock turned off the blow torch and sat down across from me. I flashed back to Moriarty sitting across from me and stood up.

"Can we go sit in the other room?" I requested. "I might need to lie down." Sherlock nodded slightly.

"Of course." I knew he had noted my reaction and was thankful that he hadn't asked about it. Once we were settled in the living room he focused on me again.

"What didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"About what?" I pretended not to know what he was talking about and did a piss poor job at it.

"You know what," he snapped. I barely stopped myself from flinching as I thought of how Moriarty would have hit me for that answer and probably a second time for making him angry. But Sherlock wasn't Moriarty. Thank god for that.

"It doesn't matter," I said quietly.

"Of course it matters!" Sherlock's voice was sharp. I bit my lip and looked at the floor. There was a pause before I felt Sherlock lean toward me.

"Look at me Reilen," he commanded and I raised my eyes to meet he gaze. "I need to know what you're not telling me."

"He wanted to drive you out of my head," I told him even as part of my brain was actively resisting saying anything. "I thought I heard you telling me to wake up after he knocked me out with that gas and Moriarty said that you do that, get in people's heads."

"Did he manage it?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I really don't."

"Did he say why he took you?"

"Because he wanted to use me to tear you apart." Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"I don't understand," he said in that baffled tone he used when John or I told him something about human nature that he thought was pointless.

"He would have taken John," I explained. "But I'm a girl and he wanted to use that against you." Understanding flashed through Sherlock's eyes.

"The pictures," he murmured. I nodded.

"My being a girl was how he got me to agree to play his game," I added. Sherlock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, clearly not understanding.

"I didn't have to play," I admitted fidgeting with embarrassment. "But he said if I didn't—if I didn't he was going to amuse himself in other ways." Sherlock let out a disgusted snort.

"That's so—common," he scoffed. "I didn't think Moriarty would ever consider something like that."

"He said I was ordinary and boring," I continued dropping my eyes to the floor again. "He said you'd get tired of me because I'm so stupid. And I know I am—I know that. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" he asked.

"For being so stupid." Sherlock waved away my apology.

"Practically everyone is," he reminded me. "But you're wrong. You're not as stupid as Moriarty thinks you are. You're nowhere near as smart as I am but you're quite clever." A small smile turned up the corners of my mouth. That was as close to a compliment as I was going to get with Sherlock.