Mia

I remained suspended, trapped, between two worlds - two states - half awake and half dreaming, until the darkness finally succumbed to the light and I awoke. I knew immediately that I was in the hospital; the room was infiltrated with white light and the air was tinted with the unmistakable scent of bleach. When I glanced to my side, I found John sitting in an armchair beside me. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling softly to the rhythm of his breath. Despite his seemingly placid state, his face was etched with anxiety – even in slumber, he was troubled. He was still dressed in the same knitted jumper he had worn yesterday and, despite everything that had happened, the sight of it made me smile.

I sat up, wincing against the intensity of the harsh fluorescent lights above, and forced myself to think. I had been unconscious for some time – that much was clear; the sky outside was brushed with pink and orange, like a palette of water colour paints: the beginning of a sunrise. I was alive, though something within me told me I perhaps should have been dead. John was by my bedside…but where was Sherlock? The last thing I remembered, before slipping out of consciousness completely, was the feeling of his arms enveloping me. My vision began to blur, everything that surrounded us becoming distant and distorted, but I concentrated on his arms – the scar close to his wrist that almost resembled the shape of a crescent moon, and the faint smattering of freckles I had never noticed before. I had never been so close to him before…and I remember feeling sad at the fact that something so horrific had to occur before such a wonderful thing happened. The strangest thing was that, despite the pain, I felt happy. It was almost as if everything I had ever known suddenly became insignificant, because being there wrapped in his arms just seemed to compensate for every inch of darkness and misery…

But where was he now?

From my bed I glanced out of the glass surrounding the room, half expecting to find him slumped outside on one of the chairs, but found no one. He must be back at the flat, I told myself. Where else could he be? …And yet, the way he had held me tightly against his chest, the way he had whispered those words into my ear, told me that he would be here to see me when I awoke. Around Sherlock, I had constantly balanced on a rope that frayed and unraveled and shook; I had never been sure of anything. But when he had found me in that room, there had been something within his eyes that had filled me with certainty.

And just then, my heart lurched violently against my chest. I had assumed that he had left the old bookshop long ago but…what if he had never left at all?

In his sleep, John shifted. His sudden movement almost seemed to mirror the sudden doubt that had flooded into my veins. I remained very still, careful not to make a sound, and waited. He did not stir again, appearing to remain deep in his slumber. Reassured by his deep breathing, I stumbled to my feet. There was a drip attached to my arm, fluid being directly fed into my veins. I bit down on my lip, hard, and tore it out. For a moment, my vision clouded and the pain ran through me in recurring waves of shock and I felt very faint at the sight of the red beads of blood that fell across my skin. Don't look, I told myself. Don't feel. Just run.

The corridor was deserted, though I could hear the echoes of footsteps faintly in the distance. At first I staggered, unaccustomed to remaining upright when I had been immobile for so long, but then I finally regained my balance. I did not encounter anyone at all, until I came to the reception and waiting area. I stopped running and drew to a halt, struggling for breath. The waiting area was empty, devoid of people, but at the front desk there sat a receptionist with neatly filed nails and a blonde chignon and a bored expression. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned to find me standing in the doorway and frowned.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"

A sense of urgency gripped my heart. There was a clock hanging on the wall, and the sound of its ticking only increased my desperation. Time is running out.

"I-I-" I stared at her, helplessly.

"You're aware that patients are not permitted to leave their rooms until seven o'clock?" She questioned, with a perfectly raised eyebrow.

"I…I did not know that." I said.

"Well, it's five thirty." She retorted.

"It's just…I couldn't sleep." I said. "I was in a lot of pain."

"A nurse will be there to check on you in a short while and give you another dose of medication, I'll call one now." She went to dial a number on the telephone beside her.

"No, no!" I shrieked. She looked up at me and blinked, as if she couldn't quite believe me but I was past caring. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and calm myself. "No, that won't be necessary. I just want to go outside and have a cigarette, if that's alright?"

"A cigarette?" She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose it's your lungs, not mine. I shouldn't really permit you to be wandering around the hospital so early in the morning, but you're obviously quite distressed and in need of some air. Go, but when you come back I'm going to need you to return to your room so that I can send a nurse over to check on you."

"Thank you!" I said, breathlessly, and hurried outside before she could change her mind. I walked slowly until I had safely disappeared out of sight, and then I began to run.

The air was cold, frozen, and the wind lashed at my face and tugged at my hair. My skin was covered in goose pimples, and yet the blood beneath was hot and throbbed with a mixture of fear and desperation. It was still very early so the streets of London were not exactly busy, but they were certainly not empty. I was still dressed in a white hospital gown, having not found my clothes anywhere, which caused a few people to glance at me in confusion. Most, however, did not even give me a second glance. I had learnt the hard way that the majority of people simply did not care. But how could I condemn them all for wanting to remain within the confines and safety of everyday life? They were blissfully ignorant of the danger and darkness that surrounded them, and a part of me envied them.

The Owl & The Pussycat, to the naked eye, appeared to be as it was. The little shop was closed, of course, but there were no signs that anything out of the ordinary had happened there. It almost seemed hard to believe that lurking behind its walls lay a darkened cellar, the mere thought and memory of which filled me with terror. I glanced around me, but the few people that passed by remained in a state of oblivion. Or, if they did notice me, walked on without a second thought. I tried to open the door, but found it locked. At the hospital, I had been so consumed with desperation that such a thing so small as a locked door never even occurred to me. And yet now, there it was. An uncontrollable anger filtered through me, clouding my mind with a deep rage, and I began to tug and wrench at the doorknob as hard as I could and then, when that didn't work, I pounded my fists against the door until my knuckles began to ache. A strangled cry rose from my throat, and despair sank through my chest like an anchor to a boat. It was hopeless. People were staring now, barely bothering to mask their concern and contempt. I ignored them, racking my mind desperately. What would Sherlock do? Think.

Glancing around desperately, my gaze fell upon a brick that had been dislodged from something and was simply lying on the pavement. Break the glass? I bit my lip and looked at the window doubtfully. I'd be able to break in, but the noise would be bound to attract attention from both passers-by and Moriarty's henchmen who would come before I'd be able to do anything at all.

Ridiculous, I heard Sherlock's voice flood through my mind before I could help it. Don't be so obvious.

And that's when it struck me.

I took the brick in my hand, finding it to be less heavy than I expected and warm against my palm. Slowly, I walked to the door and pulled the string hanging beside it. It was an old-fashioned doorbell that, when pulled, caused an actual bell to ring inside. I had noticed it the first time I had ever come to the bookshop with Sherlock…only at the time I'd deemed it insignificant. I distinctly heard the sound of the bell ringing and the silence that followed which was almost palpable. And then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps. I had planned to hide, duck behind the wall just next to the shop, but I no longer felt fear – instead, an odd sense of calm that allowed me to remain still.

I watched the shadowed figure move through the darkened bookshop, their movements deliberately slow and cautious. A single shaft of sunlight that filtered in through one of the small windows – the only source of light within the shop – caught the silver surface of the knife in his pocket and caused it to glint. They attempted to look through the keyhole to see who it was that had caused such a disturbance, but I had already obscured it with my hand. I heard them curse under their breath when they found nothing but darkness and then, finally, they cleared their throat.

"Not open." They said, gruffly.

I said nothing, only waited.

"I said we're not open." His voice was louder this time, more irritable.

Again, I said nothing.

"For fuck's sake." He grumbled and I heard him fumbling with a set of keys. I took a sharp intake of breath and mentally began to count down from five.

Five…The keys jangled as he attempted to select the right one.

Four…He found the right key and fitted it into the lock.

Three…My grip tightened around the brick.

Two…The lock clicked, as I took one deep breath.

One…The doorknob turned.

The door swung open and the man that stood before me was one I did not recognize, but one sight of me standing there caused him to immediately reach for his knife. But I was faster. I had anticipated his movement. Before he could retrieve it from his pocket, I lunged. With as much force as I could manage, I slammed the brick against his head. A guttural moan escaped his throat as he staggered against the doorframe. I didn't linger, pushing past him as hard as I could. There was no time for guilt, or remorse. He was one of them. Any remnants of compassion and mercy had been drained from me during that time I had spent locked in that darkened room, with the eyes of the people who simply watched and said nothing.

My heart beating hard against my chest, I surveyed around the room desperately. The wooden hatch hidden beneath the floorboards was still open. I descended the narrow set of stairs that hung from it in such a hurry that my hand grazed a protruding nail, but I had no time to dwell on the throbbing pain in my hand. I had to keep going. I had to find him. Faster and faster, I lowered myself into the darkness and, finally, found myself in the dank and narrow corridor. There were a few doors, but I did not recognize or remember which had been the room I had been trapped in. I knew that it was only a short matter of time before more of them came. I stared around, helplessly, not knowing what to do or where to go.

At the very end of the long corridor, there was another door that faced me. It also appeared to be slightly ajar, but what intrigued me most was the fact that golden light seemed to be emerging from it…sunlight.

And, then, I knew.