When she swallowed the substance this time his hands left her. She looked into his eyes. Full of questions. Her throat was too rough from being unused for anything other than swallowing for a while that she couldn't voice any of them.

She wasn't falling back asleep this time. Instead of her eyelids growing heavy she actually felt how she became increasingly awake and alert to the world around her. She wriggled her toes. Not paralyzed. Thank goodness.

"Sorry it had to come to this" he left the feeding syringe on a small plate sat on the bedside table and dried his hands with a handkerchief. "We need you alive, remember?" he reminded her. She nodded and lay back.

The remnants of her dream slowly vanished into thin air as just that.

"A week has passed; come" he extended his hand to her and pulled her out of the bed; answering one of her many unspoken questions. Her muscles were weak and he practically had to carry her into the sitting room. Something that didn't seem to suit him.

She jumped at the sight of Mycroft sitting in John's chair and John standing on the floor next to it. Sherlock lead her to the couch where he she sat her down. She gave him an apologetic smile. Knowing she had been a bother.

"Miss Jensen; my brother has informed me of your case. I seem to have jumped to… conclusions" Mycroft explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. She blinked. Confused. "I will contrary to our first arrangement be of assistance if I can". She squinted her eyes. She stifled a yawn. Still groggy from the drug.

"What is happening?" her voice was barely audible and she felt nauseous. That sickly sweet taste of that mystery concoction Sherlock had forced her to swallow was overpowering.

"I think what he means is sorry" John offered himself as a translator. She nodded.

"You were pretty convincing though; could have fooled me" Mycroft let her know tiredly.

"She did" Sherlock reminded his brother. Glancing fondly at Mira. She remembered John's words about these two and their childish feuds. She could see that now. And she had been Sherlock's pawn.

"Well it's half true though" the elder brother retorted. Mira heaved a sigh.

"That was not prostitution" She still felt weak but she couldn't not comment.

"Oh it wasn't?" Mycroft raised his brow. "Then what else would you call taking money for sexual favours?". John was looking straight at her too. She shook her head and propped herself up using the palms of her hands. She was scared she might fall back asleep. She had slept far too much for her own liking already.

"It wasn't sex… she was experimenting" she shot Sherlock a glance. "Much like our arrangement" she ran a hand through her hair and cringed. She needed a shower. It was horribly greasy. "But that's all in the file I'm sure" she took a deep breath.

"Yes I know" Mycroft said and her jaw fell open. No. just no! The anger building within her erased every sign of fatigue.

"Who haven't read that stupid thing?" she hugged her arms. Her eyes shot daggers at Sherlock. How dared he torment her like that? Why couldn't he just resort to beating her with a riding crop?

"I haven't" John let her know. A small comfort at least.

"You know it's important that I know what I'm dealing with here, miss Jensen" she was informed by the man in the grey suit. Sitting in John's chair. She was burning to tell him to stop using her last name to patronize her like that.

"You are unbelievable" she rolled her eyes. "You've just had me drugged for a week, god knows what for… and here we go again. What… I mean what is going on?". She glared at Sherlock. Even he must have been able to read the anger and desperation on her face.

"You'll be pleased to know we are close to tracking down the men who are following you" Mycroft took a sip of his liquor.

"Does this mean we can do this without exposing the secret?" she perked up. A small smile on her lips born out of a feeble hope.

"Dull" Sherlock shook his head.

"It wasn't enough shooting him, was it? Brother?" Mycroft spited the detective who rose to his feet that very instant.

"Don't 'brother' me" Sherlock's voice turned dark and Mira bit into her lip. "And no it wasn't". Mycroft put his glass back on the table.

"He was still my … father" the word didn't sit right in her mouth. Perhaps it never would.

"He didn't care about you!" Sherlock turned to look her dead in the eye.

"Oh didn't he?" she got on her feet too. She was just finding her footing. "You said he kept that file out of sentiment! It must have meant something!" she raised her voice.

"SIT DOWN!" Sherlock bellowed at her. She practically fell back into the couch. His hands had balled into fists. She was honestly scared of him. Her chest cramped.

"Sherl-" John was interrupted by Sherlock's icy cold eyes glaring at him.

Mira was shivering. But she began chuckling.

"Aren't you adorable?" she commented on the feuding brothers.

"Miss Jensen I…" Mycroft looked at her in bewilderment. Sherlock was just standing there. Glaring at her. His chest rising and falling.

"Leave, now" Sherlock looked at his brother "You too, John. Mira you stay there" he instructed them, pointing at them like a conductor of a play. Mycroft reluctantly got on his feet and left. Shaking his head at his brother's childish outburst. John shot Sherlock a worried glance and out of the door he was as well.

…

"Here" he walked over to her. She was still shivering. Desperately trying to predict what was going on. But who could with him? He grabbed her hand and prised it open. He returned her rusty razor blade to her. Mira's mouth opened. Eyes widened.

He sat down and watched her sit there. Frozen. Unsure what to do with the tool, the old 'friend', in her hand. It felt like it was on fire.

"Cut yourself" he steepled his fingers. Observing her.

"Sherlock… I…" her hand closed around the dirty, sharp piece of steel.

"It's an experiment, just cut yourself please" the 'please' was spoken half-heartedly. She didn't move. She couldn't.

"Cut yourself" he repeated the order coldly.

Her fingers where shaking as she put the blade against the skin of her scarred left forearm. She couldn't look at what she was doing. She kept her eyes locked on Sherlock. Too ashamed of what she was doing to herself. She liked the familiar feeling of the pressure. She hated that.

Her two front teeth sank into her bottom lip as she applied just enough pressure to her own skin for the blade to pierce through. Her fingers stopped trembling instantly. She swallowed hard at the sensation. The sting and the instant gratification. The pain giving her a sort of thrill.

She felt sick to her stomach. She dragged the blade along her skin; leaving a long cut. She didn't have to think; the movement was built into her fingers just like the phone number to a good friend might have been. This was second nature to her. She repeated the same cut three times to be sure it was deep enough and she put the blade on the table in front of her. Her eyes closed. She never looked at it but she knew the razor had her fresh blood on it.

She felt the blood slowly trickle down her arm. The hairs standing on edge. She took a deep breath. She could practically feel how the pain shooting through her serrated nerve endings was giving her pleasure. A pleasure she had tried so hard to forget about. She felt as if gentle hands welcomed her back into a world she had been running so far to escape from. She felt the calm inside. The nothingness that was so much better than the alternative.

"Why?" she whimpered. Tears filling her eyes as she looked at him. His eyes locked on her arm. She couldn't help but wish she would wake up to him feeding her. That this was just another stupid dream.