I slept in snatches, my body clock thrown off by the constant dim light in the room, unable to tell if it was night or day, or how long I had been there. Occasionally Moriarty would appear, always so confusingly considerate and cruel at the same time.
After he had first left me to change my clothes, Moriarty had been gone for hours. When I tried the door, it was locked tight, and with my ear pressed to the wood I could hear at least two men guarding the other side of the door. He had reappeared again some time later with a tray of simple foods that I had initially refused, but he had again taken mouthfuls to prove that I could eat without fear of drugs. Suddenly realizing my hunger – I had been stressed at work and skipped lunch, and I had no idea how long I had been sleeping – I wolfed down the bread and soup he had given me, ignoring the burn on my tongue from the scalding hot soup.
Moriarty watched me carefully as I soaked up the last of the soup with the bread and finished the meal, feeling stronger with something in my stomach. I set the bowl and spoon back down on the tray, and Moriarty snapped his fingers. A small, skinny boy of around twelve scurried in through the door and picked up the tray, never making eye contact with either of us. He hurried away again, closing the door quietly behind him. I watched him go, sympathy filling my chest for the child that Moriarty had employed. I wondered how many other children were scurrying around this building.
Moriarty cleared his throat and I glanced up at him warily. His stare was level and steady, but not dangerous or threatening. He was just… staring. Like Sherlock did sometimes, when I surprised him with a deduction of my own or sarcastic comment that he heard me mutter under my breath. He always thought it odd that I could be sarcastic around him. Mousy Molly, timid little thing. That's who I was to Sherlock. The conveniently manipulable pathologist, I told Moriarty. I knew I had been right.
Moriarty was still looking intently at me, a small frown of thought turning down the corners of his mouth. I looked at him through the curtain of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder, but he caught my gaze. Trying t look unconcerned by him, I flicked back my hair and met his eyes. Moriarty raised an eyebrow, entertained by something, then whipped out his phone and pressed send on a waiting text.
Moments later a knock sounded on the door and Moriarty shouted for whoever it was to come in. The door swung open and two huge, burly men walked in, one holding a pair of crutches. Moriarty stood, and I got up, awkwardly backing away against a wall, intimidated, forgetting my nonchalant cover act. The two men walked toward me at a nod from Moriarty, and came to stand behind me. One handed me the crutches and I tucked them under my arms, just as the other nudged me forward with a hand on my shoulder, and I stumbled into Moriarty, who caught me, propped me up again and placed a hand on the small of my back and pressed me toward the door. We went out of the door to my room and straight down a narrow hallway, to an elevator door at the opposite end to my room. I recoiled as we approached the open metal doors, hating the idea of being in such an enclosed space with these three intimidating men, but Moriarty felt me attempt to pull away and moved his hand to my waist, firmly but deliberately slowly, mindful of my ankle.
'Come on now, Molly. We're only going into the lift; nobody's going to hurt you.' Moriarty reassured me, doing very little to calm my nerves. I resisted a little more, but on crutches I could do little, so I let him lead me into the lift. The two men stepped in after us, but Moriarty waved them away and they stepped quickly out again, taking up positions on either side of the lift. The metal doors slid shut and Moriarty pressed a button, and we began slowly ascending up through the building. Moriarty didn't speak, but whistled a short, pleasant melody as the lift came to a stop. The doors opened and he gestured for me to walk out before him.
I hopped out of the lift with my new crutches and stared around me. I was struck dumb by the bright light of what appeared to be a very luxurious top-floor suite of the building, which when I had glimpsed it outside, appeared to be a disused warehouse. I gazed open-mouthed at the lavish furnishings of the living area; a gigantic corner sofa that could easily have seated twenty, velvety and a pale grey colour, a huge flat screen television that almost encompassed one wall, a blood red rug about two inches thick, soft and fluffy. A gorgeous black grand piano stood in one corner of the room, and I bit my lip, remembering the baby grand back in my flat. Two of the room's walls were lined with overstuffed bookcases that held almost every book I could ever have wanted to read, and I found myself grinning at the sight of the leather-bound treasures covering the walls.
Moriarty stepped up next to me, and my grin faded as he glimpsed it and smirked. He brushed past me and slumped comfortably down onto the sofa, flinging his arms over the low back of it. I shuffled a little further into the room, and Moriarty looked over at me, an almost mocking half-grin on his lips. He stood and walked easily through the room, running a finger along the spines of the books he passed. He circled the room casually, coming to stand behind me. I stood still, trying to keep my balance on the crutches as I tried to figure out why he had brought me here. Was he taunting me? Showing me his life of comfort while I was stuck in that room downstairs? That's what it felt like.
He brought his face close to my ear, leaning from behind me, and whispered in my ear.
'It's nice, don't you think?'
I shrugged.
'Nice enough. Why am I here?' I muttered, beginning to feel irritated and nervous with him so close to me, his unwelcome breath warming my cheek.
'I though you might like a little more space.' Moriarty murmured. 'Do you?'
'This is for me?' I asked, disbelieving. 'Sure.'
'I want you to get used to this place. This is where you'll be staying. Bedroom is through there. No kitchen, food will be brought up, or not, if you misbehave. Bathroom is en suite. Look in the bedroom wardrobe for some new clothes; my shirt is looking a tad wrinkled. You'll have a few hours to yourself now while I go to deal with… something, but I will be back later and I expect a clean and properly dressed woman here when I get back. Do try not to disappoint me, that won't go well for you.' He said lightly, but I felt the weight of his words. He planted a swift kiss on the corner of my mouth before I could duck away, and disappeared back into the lift. I knew it would be pointless to follow, so instead I investigated the rooms, finding a Jacuzzi-sized bath and a walk-in shower in the en-suite, the bedroom having a ridiculously large king-sized bed, four poster, with pale cream curtains that hung down, completely obscuring the view of the silk-dressed bed, so that any person on the bed behind the curtains would be a simple blur. In the wardrobe I found every day clothes, all my size of course, so I pulled on a plain blue vest top, a cosy wool jumper and a pair of comfortable jeans with some fleecy socks that stretched round the bandage still on my foot.
Eventually my arms got tired of supporting me on the crutches, so I made my way to the piano and sat on the stool, propping up the crutches next to me. I lifted the piece covering the keys and rested my fingers on the cool white bars, closing my eyes and focussing on the melodies I knew by memory. I blocked out where I was and why I was there and began playing a sweet, lilting tune that my mother had played to me when I was sad as a child. My fingers flowed over the keys and I played for hours, losing myself in the memories of Mum and the soft music, ignoring the tears that slowly spilled onto my cheeks.
