Author's note: I found a picture of a model on the internet which I thought sort of looked like my OC, so I messed around with it a bit to make it the cover pic for this story. What do you think?

Moriarty insisted that Samantha should finish eating before allowing her to see Paolo. Random acts of kindness were one of many of his bizarre traits, but Samantha figured that any action Moriarty made, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, was made only to benefit himself in some way. After all, he did go through the effort of kidnapping her and the only person she had ever considered family. Her heart ached when the image of her mentor chained and beaten flashed in her mind.

"If you know Sherlock is alive," she said, trying dispel her upsetting thoughts, "why haven't you killed his friends like you initially promised?"

"Oh I've tried," Moriarty replied, suddenly animated as if afflicted by some injustice, "The bastard has some means of protecting them. And if that wasn't bad enough, half the clients I sent looking for him are either dead or missing."

"So what, you need me because I'm more disposable?" Samantha said accusingly.

Moriarty glowered at her.

"I need you because you don't exist," he responded quietly, "Sherlock will have no way of tracing you back to me. You have no records. You're the perfect tabula rasa."

Samantha gave a snort.

"I haven't missed you one bit," she said, finishing the last of her bread.

"You think I had any desire to see you again?" His tone of voice caused her to look up. "I wanted you dead. I still do, but it so happens that I need you."

Samantha hesitated, sensing the danger in his words.

"How do I know you won't kill me after I help you?" she asked tenuously.

"You don't. But I can guarantee the only reason I have for killing your friend is if you don't cooperate."

She understood. She knew Moriarty never killed just for the sake of killing. He couldn't care less about Paolo either way but he had every reason to kill Samantha.

He stood suddenly, extending one hand towards her.

"Visiting hours are now open," he said, contrastingly cheery, "Shall we?"

Samantha placed her cup and plate on the coffee table and stood alongside him, refusing to take his hand. His arm dropped back to his side and he turned on his heels marching forward toward the basement entrance.

Paolo's cell was only a few doors down from Samantha's and was manned by that despicable Russian woman. Samantha glared at her, her hatred for Moriarty's pet swelling in her chest. Abramovich responded with a cruel smile and unlocked the cell door, moving away to give access. Samantha stepped inside, observing Paolo for a moment. He was still chained with his arms up and his head hung between his shoulders. She had never seen him without out any fight in him. The Russian must have worked him over pretty badly. She knelt before him, clutching his face between her hands and raising is head towards hers. Much of his face was purple and swollen. He stank of stale sweat and his blond hair was crusted in blood.

"Paolo?" she whispered, a sadness washing over her.

A barely audible moan sounded from his throat. His head felt heavy in her hands as if his neck couldn't support it.

"Paolo, it's me. What happened to you? How did you get here?"

Another moan and then forcibly through a hoarse whisper he spoke, "Sam." He seemed to go limp then as if saying her name had exerted all of his energy at once. Samantha bit her lip. Seeing him in this state broke her heart. She hated Moriarty for putting him through this when his only crime was being close to her. She was angry now. She needed to take control of this situation. She stood, turning towards the door where Moriarty was standing and lunged for him. Her movement was cut short by Abramovich who stabbed her in the throat with outstretched fingers. Samantha gagged with the shock and the pain, clutching her throat protectively. Her disorientation had caused her to drop her guard, allowing the Russian to lock her in position from behind, pulling her hair back to expose her neck.

"I really don't want us to fight," said Moriarty, unfurling a roll of material he had produced from his pocket. Inside were a row of syringes individually tucked into long, narrow sleeves. He took one syringe which was filled with a clear liquid and popped the cap off the needle.

"No," Samantha croaked, pulling fruitlessly away from the Russian's grasp. She didn't want to be put under again, not when she had just started to recover from the effects of the last drug. Abramovich's grip tightened.

"I don't hold it against you really," he continued, testing the syringe, "But I do need you to behave while you're here with us. And I do recall that you have a penchant for escaping on me."

"No!" Samantha cried, squirming as hard as she could within the woman's clutches. She felt a sting in the side of her neck as Moriarty leaned in and injected the substance into her vein. He continued talking but his words seemed distance. The drug seemed to kick in almost instantly and the last thing Samantha remembered was a wave of light-headedness wash over her.

She found herself on a cot when she woke, lying between a pillow and a duvet. She bolted upright as a surge of nausea hit her. Spying a metal waste basket across the room she made a dash for it and hurled what little contents were in her stomach. She reckoned this to be a side effect of the drug that was injected into her. She gagged and coughed, her stomach contracting in painful spasms when there was nothing left to throw up. Trembling, she sat on the edge of the cot and sipped at the glass of water that had been left on the bedside locker. She had to get out of here.

Looking around, she noticed a single window on one side of the room. It was dark outside but that told her nothing of the time. It could have been six in the evening or six in the morning for all she knew. The window was shielded by heavy metal bars eradicating any hope of an easy escape. She tried for the door instead which was surprisingly left unlocked. Much to her dismay, however, she found herself facing Abramovich who was carrying and automatic rifle.

"Can I help you?" the Russian asked flatly.

She could have rushed her, taken her gun and made a run for it…but she was still trembling, her knees buckling under her weight, there was not much chance of getting away in one piece.

"I was just looking to talk to Moriarty," she replied dejectedly.

"Not until morning."

Samantha was expecting her to elaborate but when she didn't say anything else she just nodded and closed the door again. She slid to the ground with a sigh. So it was night apparently, not that it mattered. Time really didn't hold much relevance to her right now. That all to familiar feeling of defeat at the hands of Moriarty was sinking in all over again. She thought of Paolo and the conditions he was living in. It made her feel guilty about having somewhere warm and comfortable to sleep in despite what she had been put through. She crawled to the middle of the floor and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling until sleep eventually came to her.

A familiar sting in her neck woke her. She opened her eyes to see Moriarty standing over her with a needle in one hand. She bolted up, clamping one hand on her neck.

"What did you inject me with this time?" she cried.

"Oh relax," he replied patronizingly, "It will help flush the toxins out of your system. You'll feel better in no time."

Samantha noted that the waste basket and bed clothes had been taken away. How long had Moriarty been in this room unnoticed by her? The thought made her shudder.

"I need you to take a leave of absence from your work," Moriarty said as he dropped a manila folder in front of her.

Samantha glanced sceptically at Moriarty as she grabbed the folder and flicked through it. The documents within were similar to a mission briefing and there were also fake identification templates ready to be forged.

"We'll have you scrubbed up, give you a hair cut and get you on the first plane to London. I'll be observing your progress and will be in touch with objective updates."

Samantha gave a huff of amusement.

"You sound like my boss," she said, leafing through the documents.

Moriarty crouched to her level and she met his penetrating gaze.

"I am your boss," he said, "Our contract is verbal and your payment will be your friend's life spared."

"And I thought my other boss was a dick," she muttered. She paused as she found a photo of a familiar fair-haired man. "Is this-?"

"John Watson," Moriarty finished for her, "I need you to stay close to him while you're in London. I have a feeling he's got a guardian angel out there, and if he does I'm pretty sure that angel will lead me straight to Sherlock."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Samantha drawled in mild annoyance.

"It shouldn't be too difficult considering you've already paid a deposit for a flat on Baker Street."

"Ah," she said pulling up a photo of the flat block in question.

"Home, sweet home," Moriarty sang.