Tomorrow Is Fading

You Better Run from Me

*BBC Sherlock

*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, etc.

AN: Gun by Chvrches

The chair in the office was too firm, cushions like sitting on a rock. If he could have switched out the chairs he surely would have. It was a little beyond him how anyone worked in the little room with dull walls, hard chairs, short desks, and narrow doors. It could make anyone develop a case of claustrophobia. It was no wonder people in this occupation burned out so often. Everything was gray and dull.

He rocked the chair back, keeping it off balance to keep himself awake and to prevent madness from setting in. The room was insufferable but the people in and out were worse. The urge to kill them grew with every passing moment. The only way to prevent the act itself was to fantasize in vivid detail about just how he might do so later. Fortunately no one was in and no one would be until morning.

His tongue flicked out, sticking slightly as he moistened his dry lips. It was too warm in the room and often too cold outside it, never a happy medium between the two. So typical!

"Oh, she's spooked alright!" Tom pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while eyeing the fingertips of the other. He liked to keep his nails uniform in length, loathed them being even slightly uneven. "I seriously considered the potential that I had given her heart failure when I arrived unannounced."

The low rumble on the other end was confirmation of amusement so Tom continued, "I've a few more things planned for her later, unless you think it's been enough. We have had a bit of fun."

"Oh, we could have a bit more. I believe we owe her a few more good turns." The phone buzzed only slightly when that laugh was translated into waves.

"Agreed." Tom let a jaw cracking yawn free, "Besides, games break up the monotony. She has always been a fun toy. I can't wait till we finally get to break her."

"Don't be so impatient, Sebastian." The other man chided, "The wait is always worth it. Waiting makes the end sweeter, watching them squirm as much as possible until the end, squeezing them until they beg for mercy is a little erotic."

The man had a way of describing things that made others interested in seeing things his way. Ever good with words, that one. He could sell his points to his listeners expertly, like the door-to-door vacuum salesmen in the long, long past days.

Tom could not suppress the grin that split his lips, "But you've always been a masochist as much as a sadist."

"Is there something wrong with that? Isn't that what makes it perfect, makes everything taste better in the end?" The sigh hissed over the line, "You don't want to rush a tasty morsel like revenge. This isn't just a game to play with her, no, not just a beautiful lie, it is better!"

"Much better." Tom agreed, his eyes nearly changing colors and they darkened, "But I'm not sure I can hold off as long as you can."

"You want your cake and you want to eat it too, don't you? The only way to enjoy the delicious dessert is to finish the meal! You want Sherlock roasted over the flames and grilled slowly until the fat is dripping off him... till he's tenderized. Dessert is the way to get to the main course as the main course is to get to dessert."

Tom huffed low in his chest, "I suppose, but I'm tempted to turn up his heat. As you say, they each owe us. I tire of waiting for it."

"You'll be glad you savored it later. You waited this long, what's a little more? When we make her dance and twist the noose tighter, you'll enjoy watching her die and love watching him in the flames as he burns alive."

"Let's light them up!" Tom nearly giggled at the pictures drawn in his mind.

"Soon, Sebastian. Savor it!" The line cut out, signaling the end of the call.

He could have said a proper goodbye, like normal people did. What was ever normal about any of them though? Normal was an illusion and normal was also dull. Tom preferred things as they were!

There was a good portion of waiting ahead of him and he was staring down the barrel of it, waiting until he could move. The task at hand was tedious for the waiting. Still, he was more patient than he let on, simply liking to be reminded by the skillful liesmith.

This new target would be a bit boring and that was what actually annoyed him. His partner would be having more fun on his end than he was. Granted, Tom had his fun, enjoyed every second of the game, which was why he was reluctant to be moved from it.

Though, after the last encounter, it was best he steer away from Holmes. If dearest Molly had not stepped in when she had he shuddered to think what might have been deduced next. It had all been dropping too close to home as it had been. Somehow, the Sherlock-persona hid slipped enough that Sebastian had been bleeding into his roll of "Tom." He could not afford to be given away that easily to the consulting detective when there was so much more left to do! Best stay away from Holmes, indeed.

Lestrade crossed one leg over the other, slapping his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning back in Sherlock's chair as he stared at the two men. John was sat in his usual place, fingers drumming his knee as he stared pointedly at the skull on the mantle. Sherlock was busy pacing in front of his wall of pictures that meant little to anyone but him. The crime scene photos had pins stuck into them but only the consulting detective would know what they were about. None of them seemed in a pleasant mood but that was just slightly understandable under the circumstances.

John was dressed in his usual attire, as was the Inspector, but Sherlock was in his sleepwear and his usual robe. Comfort apparently needed for these deductions. Interestingly, he looked no less professional, managing to make anything he did look normal and seem ready for the office. This was the man that entered the palace in nothing but a sheet, totally unfazed.

"So," Greg tossed to word out like a declaration, "you're sure about this? It's not just some old follower of his?" He threw his feet back to being flat on the floor, leaning his elbows on his knees, "I mean, you did see him shoot himself, yeah?"

"Yes..." Sherlock scowled at the wall, pressing his steepled finger tips under his chin, "I saw it, but that does not mean everything."

"Well, it means quite a bit to me, Sherlock! Shooting yourself in the head is pretty damn permanent, so my years in crime would suggest!" Lestrade arched his brows, waiting for something a bit better to come forth.

"Something was off from the beginning, I just could not place it." The low voice muttered, still not bothering to look at the other two.

"Off?" John's eyes fluttered closed, "What do you mean off?" He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand, "Never mind that. If he's alive, what the devil is he up to this time? How are we supposed to stop him, that's what I'd like to know!"

"Moriarty is picking his way through the people involved in the trial." The Inspector frowned, unsettled, blood obviously running cold, "Does that mean he'll go after the jury members he blackmailed too? Witnesses? What about his attorney? How far will that go?"

Sherlock still did not bother to look at them, mind almost visibly working up a fury as he stared ahead, "Doubt he will care about the jury. The lawyer... maybe. I would check on the guards from the trial though, if I were you."

Lestrade sighed, resting back into the chair in resignation, rubbing at his temples to try to sway the headache brewing.

The familiar rapping of Mrs. Hudson sounded on the door, "Sherlock, John?" Her lilting voice traveled through the door, "I've got someone here you might want to see, but I'm not sure you'll exactly want to see her, considering everything. I'm not really sure how you will feel about it but she seems to think she can tell you something useful." She was babbling to the door the way she sometimes did when she knew for a fact they were close enough to hear.

Sherlock did not so much as twitch, not moving to open the door for her.

John rolled his eyes, "I'll get it." He muttered, shooting Sherlock a glare as he tossed himself to his feet and strolled to the door, tossing it open.

The elderly woman smiled lopsidedly at John, "I wouldn't have shown her the door but she said she has information about him. I didn't think I could risk turning her away if she was telling the truth, which is unlikely, considering."

A figure brushed lightly past the little woman, gently moving by her without permission. John, however, was nearly bowled over by the mousy little woman, ginger hair pulled back into a tail, jeans and a cheap jacket she obviously threw on, looking very much the same as she had the night John and Sherlock had broken into her flat handcuffed together.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here to hire you. A matter of mutual interest, you could say." A nasal, sickly kitten's purr was stroking all three men the wrong way instantly the minute she spoke.

"Kitty Riley." Sherlock's voice had taken a plunge into the depths until it was a dark growl, his eyes narrowed as he stared holes into her, eyeing her round face with clear disdain.

John stammered a minute as he stared, "Y-you! What the bloody hell are you doing here?" He had a death grip on the door, holding it like he intended to toss her right back out.

"Oh, not this bloody mess again! She's got some nerve!" Lestrade glared first, shook his head, and then hid his face in his palm. "Think we all had enough the first round, more even!"

"That's what I said!" Mrs. Hudson interjected from the door.

"Hold on!" She held up a hand, "It's not what you're thinking." The words were so rushed they were hard to understand. "I need your help!"

"Oh, no!" John shook his head, voice tightening the way it did when his anger was spiking, "You are the reason all that happened, the reason that man got as far as he did! You don't get to walk in here now and try again!"

The anger and desperation was spiking, the coils in her shoulders tightening as she opened her mouth to let fly some colorful comments of her own.

"She doesn't want an interview, John." Sherlock's calm, even voice connected with John as well as Kitty, stilling both, "No news paper, even the lowest of the tabloids want her, turning on their own shark, after such a public fiasco." He neglected to mention he thought Mycroft might have even blackened her name a bit out of spite, "The best she has now is working at a coffee shop in the morning and an antique store in the evening. Coffee stains are on her sleeves, some in the seam of the front, and older ones on her pants the wash could not totally clean; no one spills coffee on themselves that often unless it is work related. Recent burn on her right hand. She reeks of coffee beans too, I can smell her from here."

"And what gave the other away?" She drawled in that thickened, nasal tone.

"Dust on your jacket?" The elderly woman ventured, interested and still invested in the conversation as she slipped in to attempt to sit in on the goings on, headed for the kitchen and probably the tea pot.

John slammed the door with a good deal more force than was ever needed but Sherlock continued on as if no one spoke at all, and in his world, they surely had not.

"Moriarty's whore, didn't they call you? Made some puns about what you 'swallowed' for him, if memory serves." Sherlock continued, frowning slightly as if trying to remember something despite the fact that he forgot none of it.

"You kept up with your reading while you were away, then." Kitty nodded grudgingly, but mainly unaffected. "But I'm not here to talk about either of our falls from grace." Her eyes did widen at that, John and Greg going positively stiff, "I didn't mean that as a pun, it just came out."

The blue-greens eyes fixed on her, ignoring her words, "You have been threatened, something big enough to make you run to a place you knew you would not be welcomed when the original broadcast was not enough to have you pounding on my door." Sherlock, clad in his lounge clothing and robe looked oddly so much more regal and in controlled than he had any right to for a man in his living room rather than a courtroom, "No doubt you thought he might overlook you considering you were his 'friend' and thus elevating you from the hit list. Something changed, an attempt on your life, I would hazard a guess."

She grudgingly nodded, "Rich-Moriarty took a few shots at me. I dug one of the bullets out of the wall, if you want to see."

Sherlock actually grinned, his voice dropping low again, "Is that so? Now why would he bother to shoot at you, Kitty? You make enemies of some rather bad people, don't you!" None of them missed the dangerous hint in his words or voice, the brimming hate he still held for her, and they all found themselves wondering what he might do with her.

The lights in the flat were all on but she still felt like the darkness was clinging to every corner. There would be marks in the carpet from her pacing by morning, she could be sure, but she could not hold still. Toby had paced with her a while before he gave up on her returning to bed. She was surprised he stayed with her at all after she literally kicked him from the bed in her fit.

Every time she blinked she was terrified she would open her eyes to see Moriarty standing in her living room the way he had been in the dream. She could see him everywhere! No one in the world could fight a ghost and this one was more than a slight threat of being more real than she cared for.

A real ghost could hurt her, could hurt the people around her, could use everything he knew against them. He lurked in her mind like a shadow and walked the halls of her home courtesy of memory. If she had only known how she would later regret the time she let him come to her flat for that movie, the third date, she would have done it all differently. How had she been such a fool? She should have just moved!

She regretted confessing some of those fears to him that night; like the near drowning incident when she was five at a public pool that had her secretly terrified of a death in water. His first kill was in a pool, ironically, that might be nostalgic for him, good god! She should have known it was an odd question for a man to ask. Thirteen year old girls asked questions like those, but not grown men on dates unless they had reason, as a rule.

How had she been so utterly taken in? Because she wanted to be? Because she wanted to believe he was interested in her? Because she thought she saw a familiar loneliness in him and thought they could help each other somehow? To date, she was not entirely sure how it all happened.

What was more, she could not understand how she could have let him as close as she had. Her walls had been down with the man. Unlike most of the men she tried to chase Sherlock from her heart with, the thought had once crossed her mind that if she gave it enough time and let it flow, she had the potential to care for him. How had she been so bloody insane?

That was what had her more afraid than anything, how close he had been to being under her skin. Now that he was alive and back, he would use it all because he was too brilliant not to have seen it. He would use it all and it would be a slow drag to kill her, like drowning a thousand times.

A tear streaked down her face, her breaths coming in shaking gasps. He could drive her to a panic attack without even being in the room in person. Her own mind did much of the battle for him. That was how he worked though, she supposed. Spider webs.

The first part of the dream had been bad enough, him killing her slowly and horribly, but once that table with John's dead body appeared, things had only gotten worse. She nearly lost the milk she drank just thinking about it.

And Sherlock.

Her subconscious was cruel, making her live every moment she feared the very most! Dreaming of being tormented herself had seemed bad in the beginning but she finally woke herself up screaming "stop!" Waking up did not erase anything, it only made reality and a dream bleed together in her mind.

Jim reminded her of everything she ever told him about Sherlock, everything he gleaned from his time with her that he had been able to twist. According to him, Mycroft was not the only reason he knew so much about Sherlock. He said, "I owe it all to you, Molls! You were so helpful!"

The sobbing began anew even though she tried to contain herself. She was reaching for her phone again even though she knew the absolute absurdity of it. It had been a struggle not to call him just to hear his voice and assure herself he was alright. Her fingers brought her to his name again and the unsent text she typed earlier, or rather the fifth draft of a text. The last thing she settled on was: "So, how is the case going?" An innocent enough text, very innocent, and a good question too!

He would be up, even at this hour, he always was when he was working. Never slept on a case. How he managed not to let that mind go dull from lack of sleep was a mystery, no pun intended.

She gasped, eyes widening when she realized she pushed send. That was a mistake, a stupid mistake! Of course, he would never answer it, so it was fine! Her head sagged, chin hitting her chest. Thank goodness she did not accidentally send any of the other messages about how worried she was or how frightened... didn't send the very long message about how sorry she was.

He wouldn't answer.

She glanced at the clock, frowning at it. What if he really did not answer her? Could she actually ever relax? Perhaps she might follow it with a comment about the fibers, something to catch his interest, something to make him reply. She might even shoot a theory at him, make him correct her if nothing else.

Yes, she should do that! He would respond if she annoyed him, that way she could at least feel sure he was well and alive. If she knew he was alright she could go back to bed. If Sherlock was well that would mean everything was going to be fine.

What could she ask? What could he not ignore?

Molly squeaked when her phone vibrated in her hands, a violin -his tone- sounding at her. She chewed at her lip as she opened the message with a shaky set of fingers.

Go to sleep, Molly. -SH

Her body relaxed slowly, a smile curling her lips thankfully. He was alright! Not dead! Thank God! Sherlock was just as always, up and irritable. If she squinted, she could spot a hint of him taking care of her in that text. That order was his way of saying all was well and gruffly telling her to relax. A giddy laugh bubbled up from no where and she felt utterly foolish for how happy the text made her. She really was a schoolgirl at times!

I mean it. Go to bed or I might catch you sleeping on the job again. -SH

With a wry grin, she shot him back a response, "Goodnight, Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Molly got to her feet, inexplicably calmer after that. She was oddly calm, sure Sherlock would have it all in hand. He would not be caught a second time by that man. This round, he would be ahead and he would be on top. Moriarty had so little to fall back on now. Sherlock obliterated his entire network, he would be working mainly alone now. It was different than before. His own people had lost faith in him. He had no one and Sherlock had the world.

She headed to the bathroom, turning on the water in the tub, making sure it was hot as she could get it before she slipped in. That bath she had planned finally seemed a good idea. The heat melted the rest of her tension away and let her just relax. It did not take long before she accidentally fell asleep. Falling asleep in the water was a horrid idea but she was too relaxed to fight it.

How long she was in that water was not really known to her, but she jolted awake, heart pounding like she might drive herself to heart failure when she heard that voice echoing inside her head.

"It's dangerous to fall asleep like that, Molls. Never know who might slip up on you. You might drown!"

Molly was up, scrambling out, water pouring off her, reaching for her towel just before she slipped on the slick floor. Her knees burned from the impact but she was on her feet in another beat anyway, towel swiftly coiled around her body as she burst from the bathroom.

Her wide brown eyes scanned the living room in a frantic search, his face peeking down at her beside the bath so vivid she was utterly positive it had been real. But no one was in the room, nothing was out of place. She sagged in place, ashamed of how terrified she had actually been. These dreams were going to drive her mad.

A shiver ran up her body as a breeze hit her damp skin and she rubbed at her arms, teeth already chattering. The curtain fluttered to her right and she glared at the offending open window, surging forward to slam it closed with a vengeful growl. What was it doing open anyway?

Her jaw suddenly went slack as the realization hit her. The window had been open. It was open. She had not opened it. She never would have even left it unlocked at night, especially now.

Molly whirled, absolute terror freshly pumping in her, "Tom?" She ventured as she slowly tiptoed toward the bathroom where her phone was mixed in with her clothing, "Sherlock?"

Please, she prayed silent and desperate prayers, let it be one of them!

Oh, her eyes fell on the closed door to her bedroom. The door had been open when she went to bathe. Tears sprung into her eyes as she struggled to take breaths, stopped cold where she stood. The bathroom door was right next to her room, she would have to walk beside it to get to her clothing or her phone. She did not want to! She did not want to!

There was little choice. If he came at her, she should be able to get into the bathroom and slam the door just in time if she ran. She could make it, she could! She had to get her phone, had to tell Sherlock! Telling Sherlock was the priority and she knew it. She had to warn him! That though swallowed her other reasoning, because she had to make sure Sherlock could stop him!

One foot slowly inched forward, readying her to bolt. Heart jumping to hear throat, she screamed when the world suddenly went black, body jolting back, every light in the house gone out at once. She positively shrieked when arms wound around her waist and chest, pulling her back against a hard chest. Her mind registered the feel of leather gloves on his hands digging into her flesh as she writhed in his hold, desperate to get away. She twisted, craning her neck to at least see his face, she had to see his face to know exactly how panicked to be!

When she did catch a glimps, there was nothing there, nothing but the slight gleam of eyes. God, it was a ghost!

He stilled her to stone with only a quiet, "Shhh..." breathed into her ear.

AN: Had to bring Kitty in because I was curious what happened to her after Moriarty was revealed! Wasn't everyone? I mean, Anderson was totally ruined and we have not even seen Sally since the fall! No mention of them at all!