Hello everyone!

Thanks a lot to GiraffePanda2 and Animalfeelings for reviewing!

Please enjoy the next chapter, which at first sight looked very much like a filler, but still I think it's quite nice to read. I hope you will like it and will be eager for the next one, one of my most anticipated ones and maybe yours too ;) As usual, I ask you for some comments to leave, just to tell me what you think of it.

In case that I may not be updating for the next days, I just warn you that I will be off for a short trip to Italy.

Ciao amici,

peerme

YOU MISS ME

JANUARY

I gulfed down another drink, my hand resting on the side of my neck, leaning across the table already. The alcohol flushed through my whole system, letting my limbs tremble and tingle, my mind swirl and my stomach rumble dangerously.

I wasn't used to drinking, everyone knew that. But there was no quicker way to distract me from what had happened the past weeks and especially the last night. Anthea had been around very much after, well, after what I have done and had barely left me alone a mere second. I was sure she had never kept watch over me so intensively all day. But I guess she had all reason to.

I've been very well holding my ground and keeping myself together, but just because I mastered the skill of procrastinating. But last night there had been no escape from finally facing what I have done.

Haven't I been calling Beppo the worst kind of living beings that walked the earth? I had just reduced myself to even worse than that. I was the vermin that had no right to call herself a human being. But I had enjoyed it, for god's sake! I had enjoyed the power of holding a life in my hands, of being able to let it trickle through my fingers if I just stretched them apart widely enough. And Sally had been just the poor girl who almost forced herself to be my first victim.

Yesterday, they have found her. They have found her corpse. Her flat-mates returned from their Christmas holidays and found her in the flat, already being dead for several weeks.

I sobbed a little and ordered another drink at the bar where I was sitting. The barkeeper gave me a worried look, but proceeded in pouring me my liquid oblivion.

Inspector Lestrade had come up to our house at Pall Mall, telling me the horrid news of my best friend's demise. Apparently, it had been suicide, he said. A soft chuckle escaped my lips. We had indeed done a good job in preparing the scene.

Sally had been found in her bathroom, having received her death by hanging herself on one of her towel rails. Found dead, apparently by suicide. Found dead where I had put her.

Found dead where I had killed her cold-heartedly.

A quick devilish smile ran over my face as I called the barkeeper once again.

"Haven't you had enough for this night? A pretty young girl like you shouldn't waste herself.", he said and looked over my miserable figure, leaning forward to point at the bottle he was moving away from me.

"Believe me, there's nothing better than getting wasted."

For Inspector Lestrade, everything had been more than clear as he had found the letter. A letter which Anthea had written in a perfect handwriting that resembled Sally's so much that neither I nor her companion could tell it apart. Sally apparently wrote in there that Pietro's death had been too much to bear and that she was regretting how she behaved towards me, that she betrayed our friendship, had absented herself from me and that she even wasn't sure, due to her heavy medication, if she still had the ability to tell things she imagined and got worked up about apart from what was reality. Perhaps it was enough to allay the suspicion against me and Moriarty and decrease her credibility, especially towards the Dean. After all, Anthea managed to let the letter look quite incoherent and written in a very unstable state of mind.

Additionally, Inspector Lestrade told me that Sally had indeed had a lot of her sedatives in her system. So I guessed she wasn't herself very much when she had attacked me with her knife. Everything seemed to be perfect. A perfect murder.

I didn't know how I managed to endure the talk with Lestrade so calmly, so apparently unaffected, a little touched perhaps, but nevertheless not as shocked as I should have been. But as long as the police didn't suspect anything, I felt quite safe.

Anthea, her henchman and I had taken care that we had left no trace in Sally's flat, that everything was clean and clear before we would take our leave. So there was nothing to fear as long as the affair that Moriarty and I were accused to have, remained a secret. And Sally's letter would help to keep it as such.

I sighed heavily and emptied my glass, throwing a bunch of pounds onto the bar table. Unsteadily, I got to my feet to finally take a leave. I stumbled back and forth, giggles escaping my lips, everything blurring before my eyes. I had never been so drunk. Actually, the last time I had been that drunk had been back in March last year when I was with Moriarty at Pietro's party.

Moriarty.

James Moriarty.

His name echoed in my head and sent hot chills down my spine. When would I see him again? When would he give me his reaction to what I have done? Anthea had been silent and quiet for the past weeks, only clinging to my heels and following me everywhere. But last night, she had disappeared out of the blue, taking her day off, as soon as she heard that Sally's corpse had been found. Perhaps there was still much to care of, regarding that matter.

I stumbled forward, almost falling over and ran right into the doorframe of the exit.

"Are you okay?", the barkeeper yelled, but I just waved my hand at him, grumbling a few words and steadied myself again. I felt something tickle at my temple and reached after it. Great. I felt warm blood on my fingers and pressed my sleeve against the wound on my forehead. Slowly, I continued my way outside and reckoned that the new day was dawning. People were already on the streets, going to work or heading after whatever business they had to do.

I didn't believe I had actually pulled an all-nighter, but according to my blood alcohol level, I wondered that I could even manage to get on my feet, even when swaying and walking in serpentine lines.

I didn't even bother to take a cab and walked home in a slow pace. I had the strange impression that everyone I passed by stared at me with big eyes and disdain. But I knew that drunkards always were despicable to behold, even if it was a young woman my age.

I bumped into a gentleman, as I waddled around the corner, who was just reading the newspaper in walking and we both fell to the ground.

"Watch out!", he cried, collecting all the loose sheets that were scattered on the ground, while I still tried to get on my feet. As he rose above me, I on my hands and knees, he looked at me and frowned. He quickly looked at the messy paper in his hands and then back at me again.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!", he said, throwing a deprecating glance at me and walked off, not even offering me help to stand up. Some bystanders watched me with big eyes as well, but I just stumbled onto my feet again and headed home as quickly as I could.

Tears dwelled up in my eyes. Maybe it was also the alcohol speaking.

As soon as I reached Pall Mall I leaned at our door and breathed deep. Hopefully I was lucky and my dad wasn't home. Not that he had been the last days anyway. He seemed to be very busy, but I even presumed that it had to do with Moriarty as well. The Dean had told me that my father was after him and I feared that in the course of it he would find out that Professor Moriarty was accused to be involved with me intimately.

Would Moriarty reveal anything about it? Would the Dean inform my father about who was the one Moriarty was involved with? I knew that everything was just going to the worst for me. I was on my way to hell, paving it by my own reckless and gruesome actions.

After what seemed half an hour of myself trying to poke the key into the lock, I opened the front door and slowly walked inside. But I didn't come far.

My father was standing in the entrance hall, watching me with glaring eyes, his lips a thin line. His posture and strong gaze immediately let me wish the ground would open and swallow me up.

"Dad...", I mumbled, my voice hoarse and dry, my body swaying and my eyes trying to keep watching him, but suddenly I felt my exhaustion and fear worsen my already weakened state of mind.

"Asking you where you had been seems preposterous, but I would have never thought I would find you in a drunken stupor.", my father said, his voice slow and harsh. I hunched back a little, till I bumped against the door, sliding down a few inches while leaning against it.

"Sally is dead.", I whispered, a loud sob building up in my chest.

" I don't care."

My gaze shot at his face, my mind suddenly hit with the frankness of his hard heartedness and I felt my body tremble with fear even more. My father was a compassionate and reasonable man. He would not ever give me such an answer. I had to fear the worst.

"But I do care for something I was told yesterday. Something told by James Moriarty."

"Professor Moriarty?", I asked innocently, staking all my hope on one card - ignorance.

"Are you his mistress?"

The question hit me like a punch in the face. I had never prepared myself to this situation. Especially not in a drunken state. What should I say? To which extent could I tell him the truth?

"A professor and I? You know I would never do that!"

"I'm talking about James Moriarty."

I tried to plaster a dumbfounded look over my face, as I pretended to not understand whatever he was talking.

"I can't follow you, dad. He's a professor, I've met him sometimes at university..."

"Are you related to him? What do you know of him?"

"I still don't know what you mean!"

My father took some quick steps up to me, his cheeks flushed of anger, his hands holding a bunch of newspapers.

"He has told me otherwise. Moriarty told me that you are related."

"There is no relation, I barely know him!", I cried.

"There's been enough credibility for the university to expel you, Moriarty has confessed everything and your best friend even accused you of being intimate. So tell me the truth!", he yelled, but I just pressed myself against the door, tears running down my cheeks, my head swirling. If I only had been sober, I would have been able to defend myself in a better way. But I found it so hard to keep everything a secret. How easy would it be to just give in and tell my father everything that had changed and bothered my life the last months. How easily could I cleanse myself from sin and clear my name, blame everything on the criminal maniac that my father already knew so well. After all, Moriarty was the one who threatened my family, the one who was easily to be believed of being guilty.

"But we weren't intimate with each other!", I hissed, my heart sinking into my boots, "I swear I haven't had such a relation! I haven't been sleeping with him!" I knew that might have been far too much information for my father, but I had to be as honest as possible just to convince him of the truth.

"Oh, really?", Mycroft grumbled with a voice draining with supreme contempt, looking down at me as if he didn't recognize his own flesh and blood anymore, "Well, have a look at this and reconsider your blatant lie."

Angrily he threw the bunch of newspapers to the floor and I had to bow my knees to have a look at them. What I saw there, let me almost fall out, my heart throbbing with pain and shock. I was on the front page, lurid headlines plastered all over them.

'Holmes' niece dating mastermind Professor?'

But those headlines were nothing. Far worse were the pictures. Pictures, of which in my wildest dreams I would not ever have thought that they could exist. Pictures, that let someone suggest things that weren't even happening.

One paper showed a picture of me in Moriarty's arms, his hand on my hip, my face deeply buried into the crook of his neck, another he and I getting into his car. That had happened when Moriarty had driven me back home after Pietro's party. But that was already enough for people to support the rumours.

The next one even showed us both in Moriarty's office, Moriarty's back towards the camera, me kneeling in front of his pelvis, grabbing one of Moriarty's thighs, my head just at the right height and angle that would make people suppose me being very dedicated to him. Once again, the situation had been completely different, I had just fallen to my knees just because he had almost strangled me to death.

But who would know that. How would my father know that, especially if Moriarty had planned everything to look exactly the way he wanted.

This was it. Moriarty had always said that he wanted to destroy the Holmes family, and I was no exception. I was the first to be officially humiliated, and my father and my uncle with me in the course of it. I had not expected that it would happen so soon, that everything, from the very beginning had been part of his plan. That he had used every encounter to his liking, saving up every opportunity to harm me.

What had I been expecting? That I had gained his favour, was safe from his moves just because he liked to assort with me from time to time? That I had really impressed him as he had wanted me to? Was he secretly greeting my attempt to join his side by trying to be all naughty with taunting smirks? Maybe, Irene Adler had been right from the very beginning. I was lucky to at least have survived Moriarty, regardless of whatever else he could do to me.

I rummaged through the papers, tears falling down on them, my head shaking heavily.

"He betrayed me.", I mumbled, slowly getting onto my feet, looking up at my dad. But all he gave me was a disdainful look, his lower lip trembling with ire, his eyes watering of disappointment. "He betrayed me all along."

Sharp and stinging pain spread all across my right cheek and I hardly managed to keep myself upright, my ears buzzing and my stomach almost turning over. A stifling cry escaped my lips as I lost my balance and fell back, right onto my buttocks ungallantly. I just stared up to my father with big eyes, not being able to believe that he had actually hit me.

Not that hitting me was already enough, it was also one of his few reactions that I had received at all from him. At least something. For all those months and years he had already left me alone, had not really cared about anything, not about my feelings, my personal life, my wellbeing - this was at least proof of his affection towards me. Because he cared about me. I snivelled loudly and let out a deep sigh. My father still loved me. But I was doing exactly the opposite to maintain it.

"If you're really so closely involved to Moriarty, you could at least follow his example. He endured my slaps better than you did.", he snapped at me.

"Father...", I moaned.

"Don't call me that."

"But I haven't done anything wrong! Why would you believe such infamous rumours, such gossip rags?

"I believe what I can see with my bare eyes. I believe what is presented to me in black and white."

"Why would you believe him rather than your own daughter?", I asked almost pleadingly.

My father's eyes narrowed as he continued to look down at me, examining my every facial feature, just as if he desperately tried to read the truth from my eyes.

"You know perfectly well why I believed his words."

My body trembled dangerously, but I was hardly able to control my emotions, unfortunately still under the influence of the drinks I had that night. But could I reveal to my father that I knew of Moriarty's identity? There was no way I could really do that, without admitting that I had kept a secret from him. Did he try to imply with those words that he suspected me of being well aware of Moriarty's criminal nature?

I looked down to the floor. I could not tell him the truth. Everything would be over for me. If I pretended to just have known Moriarty as Professor and maybe really have fallen for him, I could still count on his support. But what if Moriarty told him everything? My father would know immediately that I lied to him.

"I am so sorry, father. I have been seeing Moriarty lately, but there has been no relationship, not intimate relationship at all. I knew something like that would ruin me, I really tried to avoid it. But everything went wrong, I couldn't see that -"

"Shut up, Sharon.", my father hissed, kicking the papers on the floor, so that all their sheets were scattered everywhere. "The damage has been done none the less."

"To what? All that had been damaged was myself, and I take full responsibility for it! But I will prove that people are wrong, I will proof that Sally had been accusing me wrongly, I will show you that I have done nothing wrong regarding James Moriarty."

"How will you prove Sally's been wrong? She's your best friend and gains credibility from that."

"She has left a letter that explained everything."

"How convenient, isn't it?", he mumbled, his forehead wrinkled and his voice getting very low. I knew he was deep in thought, perhaps considering if he should ask me frankly about Moriarty's identity. Perhaps James hadn't been opening up as much as I believed.

"You know that the sudden revelation of your 'affair' with Moriarty and Sally's death happened in only two days time. People could suspect everything. Now, with Sally's having left a letter and gone for good, your situation may not be as bad."

"What are you trying to say?", I stuttered, trying to appear as shocked and fearful as I could be, without revealing that I was it indeed, "Are you trying to say you believe that someone has killed Sally?"

Mycroft just looked at me, raising his eyebrows and I let out a shocked gasp, clasping my hands before my mouth, but my father sighed heavily.

"You cannot believe that I killed my best friend!"

But luckily, my father shook his head. "You are not in question, Sharon. The only man being able to do that is Moriarty himself. Maybe Moriarty is not the man he pretended to be in front of you and I have enough evidence for that.", he said, studying my every reaction to what he told me. My heart pounded heavily in my chest and I tried to appear choking for air, appear shocked and terrified.

"Do you think someone could go that far only to maintain his reputation?"

"He'd rather done it to damage yours."

"But he told me that I was safe with him, that I was not his target."

I suppressed the urge to clasp my hands before my mouth, just hoping that he would noz reckon that I as good as disclosed my real position and knowledge to him. But this was my father, I could not betray him. Not till the very end at least.

But instead of a massive outburst of rage, Mycroft just became very quiet, looking at me with sober realisation, his face a pale mask.

"Maybe you should really go finish your studies in Germany. After all, now that you've been thrown out of university, it may be your single option.", he mumbled slowly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Does that mean you just send me away so that no one could suspect me of having committed a crime? Or would you even help me cover up a murder, in the case I really committed one? Just paving me the way to escape from a horrible crime, not receiving condign punishment?"

Mycroft suddenly bowed down to kneel in front of me, looking at me with searching and sad eyes, his facial features relaxing, revealing nothing but exhaustion.

"You are my daughter after all, I do care for you. For you future."

"There's no future for us, I've already told you that. We are no family. We ceased to be one after mum's death.", I murmured, trying to escape his gaze.

"Indeed... But my care and love for you stood the test of time.", my father said and leapt forward, embracing me with his slender arms, pressing me hard against him. A sudden feeling of regret rushed through my chest and seemed to press me to the floor, weakening my body. I felt sorry. Not for what I have done, but somehow for what I've done to my dad.

"You closed up to me, you were distanced and unconcerned, just left me to the mercy of Anthea's keeping an eye on me... You've grown to be a stranger... You've become weak and soft.", I hissed, nevertheless also clinging to him, digging my fingernails into his back, drawing him even closer. As his hand slowly rubbed over my spine, finding its way up to my hair, his fingers entangling within my mane of black curls, I felt an uncommon feeling surge up within my stomach. His hand led me to bury my face in his suit, taking a deep breath. He smelled of his usual cologne, the one that my mother had always bought him for Christmas, and I smelled the aggressive detergent that the cleaners used for his suits, smelled fresh and salty sweat and as I nuzzled even closer, I could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.

It felt so much like home.

Something I haven't felt for much too long a time.

My stomach rumbled, my breath hitched and I felt my whole body tremble. I tried to free myself from my father, grabbing his arms so hard that I thought my nails would rip his suit, just struggled to release myself from him. I could only answer his questioning look with silent reluctance, panic surging up inside me. I stumbled onto my feet, ignoring my father calling after me, trying to calm me down. Everything was too much for me, my father embracing me and caressing me was the final straw that let my guard down completely.

I stormed up the stairs, only arriving in my bathroom just in time. Mere seconds later, I found myself hanging over my toilet, throwing up violently, as if my body tried to turn its insides out. My whole body tensed up, shook uncontrolledly, every spasm letting painful shudders run over my body.

After quite some time, as I only suffered from dry heaves any longer, I heard someone approaching my room from the hall. But it was not my father who had come to look after me. I sank to the floor, my muscles sore of the heavy contractions, retching and coughing, desperately gasping for air. I felt my body being covered in sweat and could hardly find the strength to wipe my hand over my mouth.

Anthea stood at the doorframe, her arms crossed and had a slight amused smirk on her face.

"Sightseeing?", I gasped, robbing over the cold tile floor towards the shower, but surrendered midway between.

"I guess I enjoyed the sight of you in the newspapers a lot more. But I could get used to you crawling down at my feet."

"Where`s my father?", I asked hoarsely, not even acknowledging that she had replied to my joke at all.

"He's left, perhaps for the Diogenes' Club."

"Just help me get into the shower, would you?", I rasped, as I failed my second attempt. As she came to grab my arms supportingly to stand up, being able to rid myself of my clothes, I felt her chuckle beneath me. Perhaps she enjoyed it seeing me in such a desolate state, just paying me back that I had brought her in a miserable situation when calling her about Sally's murder.

"Why are you back?", I asked, as I just stepped into the shower cabin, not caring that Anthea was still there. I guessed, after all there was worse for her than seeing me naked.

"To keep an eye on you.", Anthea said and left the room, just to return shortly after, some fresh clothes in her hands, "And to support you."

I didn't really listen to her, though I knew she referred to two different tasks from two different men she was allotted with. I just let the hot water run down my body, imagining that it would wash away everything that I had on my mind. I let my sore muscles relax, massaged my limbs and breathed in deep the scent of my shampoo.

As I had cleaned myself up and dressed again, I found Anthea sitting on my bed, skimming through all those horrible magazines and papers that bore my picture on the front page. She seemed to have a great time, laughing about the whole affair.

I approached her and let my gaze wander over all those papers, until I found one particular name that caught my attention. Kitty Riley. Apparently she had been the one writing the most revealing and scandalous article, that was even prevalent in some other papers. I should have known. Something like that could only be penned by one and the same author. I skimmed the text quite in a rush, until I found a line that drew my particular attention. Kitty Riley confirmed that she had a respectable source confirming the established truth of everything she disclosed in this article. Someone named RB. The initials rang a bell inside my head, but the alcohol still clouded my mind and I found myself thinking for ten minutes before I had it at least at the tip of my tongue.

After quite some time thinking, it finally hit me. These initials could be very well linked to one person who was mentioned to me by Irene Adler. Someone I should consult, if I wanted to know more about James Moriarty.

I turned around to Anthea, who was still smirking from one ear to another, but she returned my gaze curiously. She raised her right eyebrow questioningly, as she must have read the eagerness and excitement in my eyes.

"Anthea, can you tell me anything about someone named Richard Brook?"

Anthea's smile, believe it or not, got even wider and she put away the newspaper slowly.

"I thought you'd never ask."

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