A gentle hand rested on her shoulder. Someone was shaking her awake. Slowly, Annabel opened her eyes, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight. She stretched her sore arms, and then attempted to curl back into a ball and fall asleep again. This person, whoever they were, wasn't having any of it.

"Come on, sweetie. Time to get up. You've slept nearly all day." The voice was soft, grandmotherly – familiar. Annabel's eyes shot open, completely alert. The events of the morning came streaming back in flashes. She was at the flat of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. She had escaped from him the night before, and they had taken her in – and Sherlock knew her identity, and had shared it with some man named Mycroft, who clearly had some influence.

In front of her crouched the woman who had taken her into the flat. She was tiny, fragile looking, but Annabel perceived that she could be firm when the situation called for it. Standing behind the woman, whom Annabel assumed was Mrs. Hudson, she could make out Sherlock and John arguing animatedly about something she couldn't hear. Sherlock stood with his arms crossed, occasionally throwing them out in a gesture of frustration. John paced back and forth in front of him, pointing at various people in the room and gesturing angrily. She also noted a tall man sitting in the leather chair. He said nothing, only stared into the distance, holding his head in one had and swirling a glass of whiskey in the other. Seeing no means of escape, and assuming she was safe for now, Annabel decided to play along – for now. She needed to trust these people. They hadn't turned her over to him. And they clearly, somehow, knew her identity.

She smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you. What time is it?" she asked, her voice still a bit hoarse and her throat scratching as the words forced themselves out.

"It's four in the afternoon, dear," she responded. "You haven't eaten or drank anything all day. Can I get you anything?"

Annabel glanced nervously at the three men. Mrs. Hudson followed her gaze, sighing deeply.

"Don't worry about them, dear. They're always like this. Come on, let's get you some tea."

"Um, actually, which way is the bathroom? I've got to use it," Annabel asked.

"Down the hall on your left," Mrs. Hudson responded, grabbing her hands and helping Annabel to her feet. She wavered for a few seconds, then gained her balance and started to walk slowly toward the bathroom hallway – which, currently was blocked by a still-arguing John and Sherlock. She approached quietly, trying to edge around the argument. Apparently, Sherlock had other ideas.

"Ah, she awakes!" he exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me, Annabel," he continued, placing extra emphasis on her name, "Why did you finally decide to get away from the consulting crime business?"

She kept walking. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes from the sharp words. They stung her, their falsity and the extent to which Sherlock did not understand hurt her. She realized she was alone. No one would ever understand. A tight grip around her wrist stopped her progress. She whipped around and stared into Sherlock's glaring eyes.

"Need I remind you, Miss Moriarty, that you are currently under our protection? I could easily turn you over-"

"Sherlock," John's voice held a cautionary tone, a thinly veiled threat of violence. It suggested that John was very close to punching Sherlock in the face. "Let her go. We're all adults here."

"She's not an adult. She's a criminal."

She attempted to wrench her hand from his iron grasp, but to no avail.

"You know nothing," she hissed, her eyes blazing with hatred.

Sherlock pulled her closer, his eyes roaming over the deep gash on her face. His free hand brushed tangled locks away from her face.

"On the contrary, Annabel," he whispered, "I know much more than you realize."

"That's enough, Sherlock," a voice clipped from the chair. The tall man, Mycroft, stood quickly, then walked over to the kitchen and refilled his glass from a bottle of expensive whiskey on the counter. He sauntered back into the living room and stood next to Sherlock, staring him down. After a few minutes, Sherlock sighed and released her wrist. He stalked over to the leather chair and threw himself down, crossing one leg over another and folding his hands.

"Well, Mycroft, just what do you suggest we do?"

Mycroft sighed. He walked over to Annabel and slowly circled her, observing her tattered appearance and her obvious resemblance to the dangerous criminal. Annabel stood perfectly still. She still had no idea who Mycroft was, but he obviously held power and influence. Her dark eyes found John's light ones. He nodded encouragingly at her, but his mouth was pulled into a tight, nervous line. Suddenly, Mycroft stopped in front of her and turned to face Sherlock.

"We're in quite a situation, you three. Jim Moriarty is the most dangerous, most wanted criminal in London. And what's worse, he leaves no loose ends. He has no weakness, nothing to lose or bargain for. But now," he said, turning to face Annabel, "We have something he wants."

"For God's sake, Mycroft!" John snapped. "She's a child, not a bargaining chip! We're not using her as bate. And we're certainly not trading her for information!"

"John Watson, if you understood what this man knows, what he can do, then you'd perhaps be reconsidering that statement."

Annabel's mind reeled. The room started to spin again. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, getting the attack back under control. It was high time she stood up for herself in this damned place.

"I'm not going back. You can't send me back," she said firmly. "None of you have the authority-"

"Actually," Sherlock cut in, "you're quite wrong about that."

Annabel's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Mycroft Holmes. Nice to make your acquaintance," Mycroft stated. "I hold a minor position in the British government."

John snorted, shaking his head and sighing deeply. Sherlock stood, wandering over to the window and staring out.

"He means he is the British government, Miss Moriarty," Sherlock called over from the window. "And he has total and complete authority to hand you over to Jim Moriarty for whatever price he desires. You see," he said, his voice becoming slightly softer, "no one would ever know. It would be a quiet transaction, and no one in his department would dare question the decision after realizing the amount of information provided."

The room was silent. John kept his gaze on the floor, his fists clenched and knuckles white. Mycroft turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock remained staring out the window. And Annabel stood rooted to the ground, knees locked and eyes wide.

"You're not actually considering this, are you?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"We're considering all possibilities, Miss Moriarty," Mycroft replied.

Annabel closed her eyes. She saw no other choice. Her father had taught her one thing, one very important lesson that stuck with her: above all else, save your own skin.

"What if I told you I'm more valuable to you than any information he can provide?"

Sherlock snorted from the window. "I hardly believe that," he said, turning around to face her. "What could you possibly have that Jim Moriarty does not?"

Annabel smiled. "The one thing that you have that Jim Moriarty does not, Sherlock," she replied.

He huffed in annoyance. "Let's not talk in riddles, Annabel. Tell me. What do you have that Jim Moriarty does not?"

She turned her back and wandered into the kitchen, fishing a glass from behind the jar of fingers. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, she poured a glass and tilted it back, drinking the brown liquid in one swig. She turned to face the three men. They were staring silently, waiting for an answer. Annabel smiled.

"A mind palace," she said.