TRIGGER WARNING: Death and respectful viewing of a deceased person.

The Lord said-
Go to the devil
He said go to the Devil,
All on that day.
So I went to the Devil
He was waiting.

Sebastian looked up in surprise when the door opened and Jim strolled through with the nonchalance of a monk in a parish garden. It was late – much later than Jim usually risked meandering around London. He hadn't received a summons this morning but figured one would come, so he had sat down to read while he waited. While Jim's expression clearly indicated he wasn't meant to be spoken to, it wasn't altogether scathing.

A moment later a small shadow followed. Seb let out an almost audible breath of dismay at seeing her again before he caught the look of pale stiffness in her posture, her tight lips. Tell-tale signs of a person who had just experienced a severe scolding – or in Jim's case, a gentle reprimand, really. He probably hadn't even resorted to threats, and yet the woman's usual glowing smirk had completely died away.

Apparently, she had received her instructions outside, because without looking at either of them she retreated quickly upstairs, still as quiet as a shadow. With that attitude she wasn't going to last.

Seb glanced at Jim. He had been around long enough to learn most of Jim's danger signals. He reasoned there weren't enough present not to risk a question.

"I guess the first thing is to teach her the basics? Unless you're hoping she gets shot next time you bring her out in daylight?"

Jim grunted, not quite an acknowledgement of his question. He threw himself onto the couch in the next room, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

"Does she know anything?"

Jim didn't answer. He just lay sprawled over the sofa, eyes shielded. To an outsider he might have looked exhausted, but Sebastian knew he liked to do his thinking in the dark.

Well, whether she could be trusted or not (and he vehemently suspected the latter) there were things he ought to know. He put the book aside and stood, nudging Jim's foot with his own. A corner of Jim's mouth twitched.

"Has she ever even held a gun before?"

Jim gave a loud sigh and dropped his hands from his eyes. They were far away, but he roused enough to say, "Doubtful. She's clever with a knife. Might be useful for poisons and bugs. Or at the very least intimidation. But I wonder…" he trailed off.

Sebastian gave him another nudge and received an irritated kick in return. Ankle-biter.

"I wonder if it's practical to give her one," Jim scowled.

"No shit," Sebastian laughed. If it were up to him, he'd have a gun on her whenever she was in the room. In fact, he would at least have one on hand whether Jim threw a fit about it or not.

Jim shrugged. "At least for the moment. I don't think she'd use it, but best not chance it until she's ready."

"You mean until you've got her?"

"I've already got her."

Something in Seb's stomach turned. "Sure you have. She lied her way into Holmes' circle and then lied her way back out again. That takes mettle. That's not even counting the scheme with the socialite."

"Meagre tools," Jim murmured, staring out into the warming morning. It was going to be another blistering day. The light reflected oddly in his eyes, as though he were a dozing cat, or if the eyes, his face, even his clothes weren't real at all, but cut glass.

"What are you doing with her now?" Sebastian said impatiently. "Letting her pick out curtains for the bath?"

A beat, and then Jim snorted. The glassy look remained, but his face regained the movement of a living being again. "Touchy, touchy, Bastian. If she's doing what she'd told, she's studying her roles. She's a sneaky little shite, though, so I wouldn't be surprised if she were peeking into the baths. She won't find anything. Hope you put away your toys."

Seb shook his head. "This is a stupid idea, Jim. What are you even going to use her for? If her family's got such an influence, what makes you think they won't try to fetch her back? Protect her from me, if they don't already know about you?"

Jim smiled slowly. "Rather," he drawled, sinking deeper into the cushions, "You're going to have to protect her from them, Seb. You were being facetious, but I wouldn't be surprised if she is shot at next time she goes out."

"What-?"

"Training program," Jim interrupted cheerfully. "You've done plenty of those, I know, dear, but I'll give you time to prepare since this is a special case. Start from scratch. I'm rather looking forward to it, myself. And Seb –" the glassy eyes cut at him—"Mind yourself."

Jim wasn't lying. He was extremely curious to see how his new little houseguest performed. But with Sebastian was suspicious and Elizabeth herself almost frantically skittish, it was best not to throw her upon the captain's whims right away. No need for both to be made ineffective at the same time.

Of course, Sebastian's seething wouldn't go away altogether. He would probably always be a little resentful, but tcddhat at least was par for the course, nowadays. But he had other things to think of now than the sniper's attitude. As long as she was known to the outside, she would be hunted for a little while. A vaguely reminiscent body drop might be enough to throw off the scent for a little while – but it couldn't last forever. Nonetheless, he had sent Seb packing off to the morgue. A little time was better than none, and he was surprised to learn he had quite missed the thrill of a little chase, a ticking clock.

Jim purposefully tread quietly on the upstairs corridor, craning to hear any sound.

The door to the study was cracked. Carefully he positioned himself close enough to peer inside. There she was, perched in the desk chair, hovering over the files he had left for her there. Her gaze was quite steady. The paleness of her earlier fright remained, but she had the steel of a focused student now, and it was less obvious how her blood had cooled beneath his words.

Unfortunate, but necessary. He didn't take to quivering people very well. When it wasn't funny it was distasteful, and yet somehow, on her it was even more unsettling. Even under pressure, even so little as he'd applied, her nerves were obvious, but her composure remained. She was in fear for her life on two or three fronts, so he reminded himself that any of these normal persons would certainly be as frayed as she was, but though he had told her to get a grip, it was an unnecessary order.

He wondered vaguely how much it would take to make her cry.

Without warning her head snapped up, and he thought she'd discovered his presence. But no – her thoughts were very far away. Thinking? Lord, her roles and alibis weren't that complicated.

Her expression shifted. A quirk of light came into her eyes, a little pull at the corners of her mouth. Her head tilted, and her teeth shone for a moment in a brief bite on her lower lip on its way to a grin. Even without makeup, without setting, in a beige little pantsuit and impractical heels, he got a flash of something different.

"I can hear you out there," her voice called. It was more relaxed, more teasing than her normal voice. If you knew her at all, you might think it was her – but tidily drunk, without so much as a slur.

He opened the door and found her sprawled out over the chair, ruining her usually perfect posture.

"Alexa Ryan?"

"Who wants to know?" She smiled at him with her little teeth.

Alexa Ryan. An alias character who would have dark hair and dark eyes, who would always choose boots over heels, jeans over a dress, who would chain smoke in the lobbies of hotels and in the taxi lane, get kicked out of pubs, and know how to deliver a tidy kick to the gut if one tried to trail her away. An effective ruse for a courier.

Something missing. Jim glanced down and raised an eyebrow pointedly. The girl in front of him glanced down too, and shrugged. Her tone shifted, the Rs pulling down into England's sharp, rhotic daughter.

"Sorry," she said, in a passable American. A native would notice, but it would take much longer for the average British citizen to hear the care in those Rs. "I hadn't gotten that far before I caught you lurking."

"It's an important factor."

"Rather obvious, isn't it?"

"Don't say rather; too formal for most Americans in casual conversation. And yes, it is. But it's part of the charm. After all, as you said: you're meant to draw attention. At least a very little."

"You left the habits and mannerisms section blank. You want me to fill those in?"

She was improving already. The "want me to" had already gained rhythm in her speech enough to flow smoothly into one Northern American sound: wanmeduh?

"Yes. You'll find them more fluid when they come from your interpretation naturally."

"Sure, baby," she said, abruptly presenting her first choice, her teeth flashing again. "By the way, you gotta cigarette? I'd ask you for a fag but from where I'm standing, I'd say I've already got one in front of me."

He couldn't help it – he threw back his head and laughed. She was going to be more than good at this. She was going to be fun. And Lord, he hadn't had proper fun in ages. He looked down again at her sly smile.

"Show me another."

The first order of business was that she had to be shown certain things, in a particular manner and in a particular order. She must be assessed, guided, and yet information must be carefully extracted, even if all else failed. He didn't think she was likely to – hers was the sort that was little used to failure.

He scowled in irritation and struck out a line on the notepad. He sighed, plucked his cigarette from the ashtray, drew a pull, and kept compiling with the cigarette smouldering in his fingers. That proclivity itself could be problematic. Her emotions were unpredictable and could even provoke violence and self-destructive tendencies, as he now knew. A bad reaction could put her out of operation for a time in the best case. Inefficient. Still, there was nothing wrong with that per se. In fact, if you could figure for a randomization of schedules there was even an algorithm that could eventually be-

"May I join you?"

Elizabeth had appeared before his eyes, a problem no longer simply in theory. She was standing like a child in the doorway of her bedroom, arms folded casually across her body, already half turned back as though, should he reject her, she wouldn't care the least bit. In fact, she'd probably like him to think she had important business to attend to in there.

He gestured vaguely to the chair opposite and went back to his note. Algorithm. Now then…

While he wrote, he watched in his periphery as she ghosted forward and sank into the chair carefully, as though there might be a pin in it. She had finally changed from her beige pantsuit that had been her protection today and yesterday into a lovely dark kimono, either black or navy, it was difficult to tell in this light, but whatever color it was, the lamp's dim light played with it and wrapped her body in shimmering water.

He underlined a word and said, "I see you've finally found the closet."

He was rewarded with a tiny scowl. She tossed a long braid over her shoulder and looked beautiful and haughty, even with tired eyes and clean skin. "I don't like men buying me clothes."

"You're fortunate, then."

Her expression furrowed. "Pardon?"

"Did you think I or Sebastian was going to stroll into Selfridges and select an entire wardrobe?"

"I didn't know," she said icily, "If you had prepared… previously."

He snorted and replied, equally as primly, "I don't make a habit of keeping the people in my employ in my house, not to mention those under my protection."

Elizabeth seemed to mull that over for a second, blinking her big eyes at the floor. Then she went back to staring at him as he wrote. "So you didn't pick out the clothes?"

"Lord, no. I haven't time for that. Besides, I believe I'm no longer an impartial witness to your wardrobe. Although she did make choices of impeccable taste." He glanced up at her robe, which she wrapped more securely around herself.

"She?"

"The woman from the service, Elizabeth. She was paid to do a job, fulfilled it, and was recompensed for it appropriately. Of course, she was made to believe she would soon be viewing several of her selections in several notable front pages."

Elle scoffed. "What, did you tell her I was a duchess?"

"Uncanny, you are."

If her expression was a treat, the blush was exquisite. Her folded hands convulsed, twisted together beneath the table.

"I suppose I should say thank you."

"It's polite."

Her eyes lit on him directly again. "Not for getting them, because I didn't ask and could have smuggled or bought my own. But they are tasteful and quite pretty, and many are exactly to my liking. So," she cleared her throat with the most delicate of sounds, "Thank you. The preparation was thoughtful."

He hadn't reviewed many of the garments, but from what he had seen, they were exactly to his taste, too. He didn't answer.

"What am I meant to be doing?" she asked suddenly. Her tone was fervent yet controlled.

"What you're told," he said simply. "Don't ask for praise, Elizabeth. This isn't an office, and while you can be called to perform at any moment, you needn't be afraid of official reprimands and a list of expectations. You will be called to duties when there are duties for you to perform."

"Well… I do hope you're inventing some," she said dryly, leaning back in her chair.

He glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "Sarcasm? Are you… sulking?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She blinked ruefully. "I'm bored."

Jim looked at her, at her hooded eyes and her clasped hands and her back against the chair, her bare legs and the wrap like silver around her little body. With a little sigh he stubbed out the cigarette. "Wrong answer."

Elle swallowed, stroked a line over her wrist with her thumbnail. He could see her nail polish just beginning to chip. "I'm bored, and… nervous," she murmured. "With nothing to do, I… I'm nervous."

Jim nodded. "Good. Go back to your room."

"What?" She sat up abruptly, fire lighting in her eyes.

Well, what? He had no sympathy for it. "You heard. You're nervous, fretful, and that's of no use to me. I am not going to assuage your errant emotions, doll. You need to find ways to nullify them on your own. So go."

Her lips tightened, but she rose as carefully as she'd sat and said stiffly, "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Will you need me in the morning?"

Jim smirked. "No."

"Good. I'm lying in."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He watched her turn and stalk away. When she was about to slip through her doorway he called, "One thing."

She paused. He stood up, tearing the sheet he'd been writing on from the book and folding it precisely into quarters. He made his way around the table and to her door, feeling her eyes on him like a watchful doe.

"Here," he said, and slipped the list into the pocket of the kimono. "You'll find plenty to do with that tomorrow. As for tonight, if you truly are bored, I have something more for you. It's quite fortunate, really, that you're available to assist."

"What is it?" But her mouth had set, hiding a secret smile. Even with the haughtiness, her gaze was luminescent.

"I'm bored, too."

"Well," she said sarcastically. "Is that my problem?" And before he could reply, she kissed him.

Sweat. Euphoria. Lungs burning. His insides liquid. He drew in shallow, exhausted breaths, savored the bliss of every nerve and muscle melting into relaxation. For a millisecond, his mind was still.

A sharp elbow on his rib, and he grunted. Her body weight hovered for a moment over him, and then she slid back up, dropping a kiss on his damp chest, perhaps an apology for the minor crushing.

A flicker of light illuminated her placid face. She'd gone for his cigarettes.

After regaining his breath, he took to toying with her long braid. "Feeling any less anxious?" he asked.

The tip of the cigarette glowed a few more times before she answered. Her hand settled on his head, nails scraped down gently.

"I don't think it's that simple anymore. It's more a matter of whether it's crippling or merely annoying."

He grunted again.

The smallest puff of air. "You've no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Go to sleep."

"Oh, no no." He felt her reach across him again, and this time her body followed, her naked skin sliding astride him.

His skin glowed with the friction. "And what," he said, gripping the braid, the only piece of her fluid form he could seem to grip, "Do you think you're doing?"

"You tell me, darling. You're observant, aren't you?"

He felt her breath on his navel, and shut his eyes.

She awoke alone again. Church and state. Elle settled down under the sheets, content to at least have the time for a lie in. Then she remembered the note.

Plucking it from the filmy heap of her dressing gown, she opened it. What kinds of tasks was she really to do for Moriarty? Murder and mayhem at the very least, surely. At this point she was grateful to be put to some use at all.

In his small, efficient handwriting, he had written:

Out tomorrow. Amuse yourself. Dinner?

There was a tiny heart after the question mark, as though he were a teenage girl. Her mouth puckered, in disgust, in amusement, in frustration. She dropped the note on the floor and walked, naked, into the closet.

When she was dressed and made up, she stepped out of her room, listening carefully. The house seemed utterly silent. No stirring from upstairs. It was early, but late enough for Jim to be awake, she supposed. He must be gone already then.

Her eyes fell on the table filled with debris. No, too obvious. She turned right and made for the stairs.

The six doors in the upstairs hallway were all shut, like some fussy grandmother's house. She considered. The first door on the right was the study, the one with the sunroof to the dining room below. In her short rummage yesterday she'd found nothing of interest. She tried the door opposite.

It was a bath, complete with dusty radiator, speckled mirror, and toothpaste dried into cement on the sink. Elle frowned. She was tempted to poke through the cabinet, but she wasn't yet that desperate. She shut the door and moved to the next door.

It was dim inside. Habitually she felt for a switch, and found one on a dimmer. It didn't give off much light, she thought, until she dropped her eyes from the ceiling to the bed. The lights were on a dimmer all right, hidden behind the black headboard of a bed with a single grey sheet on it, perfectly made with two black satin pillows.

Curious, she stepped in further. The room was spartan indeed - merely the bed and two bedside tables, one with a lamp and the other with a thin layer of dust. The tall windows had dark shades blocking most of the light.

A streak of white caught her eye and she turned her head to find a closet nearly as large as hers, with a whole row of shockingly white shirts. Brand new shirts, never worn. There were other colors too, and jackets and trousers, but the enormous row of white shirts hung quietly like so many watchful faces. Did he honestly toss any shirt he had ever worn? That was a level of prima donna self-obsession even she could balk at.

The closet was split down the middle by a large chest of drawers. Fascinated, she pulled open a drawer and found an assortment of tie pins, stuck into velvet. The next one held pairs of cufflinks. The top, socks and pants.

Why was she warm all of the sudden? It was just underwear for Christ's sake. But she had been shaken a little, by the neat but ordinary row of boxers and pairs of black socks. What had she thought she would find? It was just a man's bedroom, one who barely bothered to do more than sleep and dress here. She shut the drawers.

She took a breath, shook herself, and left to try the next two doors, both of which were locked. The last one, at the foot of the hall, opened easily, to a burst of sunlight.

Elle blinked in surprise for a few seconds before she could get a good look. When she did, she had to blink again.

Books lined the walls of a large room, easily the largest in the house, and the brightest, with streams of light coming in from the east window, falling over a large, rather magnificent desk. There were far too many books here - surely he can't have read them all. Nonplussed, she wandered to the desk to see if he was working on anything interesting.

The surface of the stately desk was clean, but beneath it there were many drawers. She thought for sure they would be locked, but the first one opened easily. More wiring and spare bits of copper, a small set of tools, and oddly, wrapped in a cloth she flipped open with a finger, a silver pocket watch.

The next drawer held pens and writing instruments - quite as many notepads as one man could use in a lifetime, she thought, and more unusual artifacts. She found at the bottom a handful of odd golden coins, and jumbled in one of the folds of a legal pad, an ID card for someone called Jarusalem Monib whose face she didn't recognize, though the photo was blurry enough to make her suspect it was a fake.

A small drawer next to that held cigarettes and tape, a silver ring, a pipe, two nail files, and a photo of a small family grinning at a restaurant. A baby's sock. Pens from various hotels completed the mess. In perplexity, she opened the last drawer, and with a check she recognized her own name on an envelope at the bottom of it.

It wasn't sealed, and in it was a note.

Caught you snooping.

Sebastian will meet you in the lobby at 4 for physical training. Until then, your school books are in the study - hereafter your place of work.

Revise well. Back at 8. Wear black.

Was he going to give all his orders by note? She was getting rather sick of it. Nonetheless, she left the library more relieved than she had entered it, knowing there wasn't much in the house to scare her, and better still, she had a task or two to fulfill after all.

Later, she would despair at ever having been so naive.

Jim's car arrived promptly to find her waiting. As he had instructed, she wore black - black clutch bag, black sandals, and a black, off the shoulder dress, tastefully cut, but so close-fitting he was rather jealous of it. While as composed as ever, she looked unusually shy when he appeared from the car to open the door for her. She took a step forward to climb in, but suddenly noticing something just beyond her head, he reached out a hand and caught her by the chin. Her face lifted, and then she was kissed, simply and directly, smelling as lovely as she looked.

"Showing off for an audience?" she asked, when he went so far as to slide a hand onto her arse. She smacked his hand away with her clutch with uncanny accuracy.

"Correct. Although-" She squinted, probably to see his expression behind the glasses, but his smirk was smug and she stared disapprovingly at it. "I'm rather glad of it now."

She rolled her eyes and slid into the seat, already opening her hand mirror.

Jim glanced up at the eyes tracking them for a half second more, then casually trailed away to reenter the car. He rapped on the partition and the car pulled forward smoothly.

"So?" she asked, closing the mirror with a snap, her already perfect makeup adjusted. Tiny pearls gleamed in her ears, though her neck was distractingly bare. She had a mastery of simplicity he admired. "Who was watching?"

"Hobbes or Locke?"

"Hobbes, of course. Your turn."

His fingers trailed along her collarbone wonderingly. "I did tell you to revise well."

Elle looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"They'll meet us there. Who gave you permission to look so devastating?"

She ignored that. "Meet us? Where? To dinner?"

"Bless you no, child. Your first exam. Think of it as another A level - except, you know, with real consequences."

"Jim," she said with tense exasperation, "You can't be-"

At his sharp look she halted, and seemed to swallow the scolding, though in truth he rather liked it.

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind telling me," she said slowly, with more venom than usual, "Who are we meeting, and what exactly do you expect of me?"

He finished his leisurely admiration of the amusing, lovely picture she made, fuming quietly in her dark dress and ridiculous shoes. Anger was good. She needed it.

"I only want you to handle him, Elizabeth," he said at last. "It's a familiar measure for you, I know, having witnessed an entire night of your efforts myself."

Elle raised an eyebrow dryly, but her thin lips relaxed. "Very well. What do you want from him?"

"Now that's the question to start with. I want his point of view - no more, no less." He shrugged as the car slowed and Elle visibly paled. "And the rest I'll leave to you."

Without a word, Elle gripped her little clutch with chipped fingernails and white knuckles, and rose from the car rapidly, before he could motion to the driver to let her out. He burst out laughing when she slammed the door shut, but regained composure enough to watch her stalk into the hotel they'd stopped beside.

The partition slid down, and Antony asked quietly, "Shall I follow her in, sir?"

"No," Jim said quite sober again. "No cheating. Drive."

Three-quarters of an hour later, Antony pulled up beside a different curb in a different alley, and Elizabeth got in, flushed.

"Well?"

"That was disgusting."

"Surely not the worst you've ever dealt with."

Her nose wrinkled. "No. But I hate a pig in a good suit."

"Lord knows how you put up with me, then."

"You're just not a pig, you're an ass." But her red lips curled ever so slightly. "He responded well."

"And?"

Elle inspected her nails with distaste as the car pulled forward. "He took a long time to get to the fact, but he's got the message and he's ready to capitulate. I told him the interest rate was now reduced by half, and the poor boy got quite clammy, but he still accepted, so I hope you don't mind it."

Jim barked out a laugh. "Did you even get him to tell you what it was for?"

"Not a whit. He could be selling coconut groves in the Sahara for all I got. What are you going to invest in him for?"

Jim allowed himself a second's smile at her sudden curiosity, the glint of success in her pale eyes. He could almost sense the electric succor that victory was imbuing her with. Lit up from within like this, she was indeed a striking resemblance to Adler - though so much less of a snake he disliked the comparison of that viper to his sparkling little protegee. "I'm going to show you."

"Good." Nearly preening with satisfaction, the traces of anxiety gone, her silvery head rested on his shoulder. "About time."

And because this little scene was rather touching, because it was against his better judgement and because of the little sigh that seemed to say it wasn't all bad, and all her worry was over now, Jim allowed the embrace, even bent his head and kissed her hair, as though he quite agreed.

The car stopped in front of a warehouse with a jolt. When Jim opened the car door Elle took a surprised breath and smelled diesel and metal and beyond them, she heard the waves of the river.

"Where are we?"

"Come," he said, in a voice so close to gentle that her skin crawled. It was too dark to see his face, and when she froze he reached for her and led her out onto the pavement by the hand.

In silence, she let him guide her through the dark over the asphalt, her heart in her throat. She had been on naughty excursions before, and knew this wasn't one of them. He walked with deadly seriousness, no trace of humor or guile left.

When they arrived at a locked door he raised her hand and used her finger to swiftly press a code that caused a deep clunk from within, and when he gestured for her to open it, he said only,

"M'afraid my prints are more valuable than yours, doll. Go on."

Obediently she pulled open the door. A flood of freezing air escaped, lifting goosebumps on her bare legs. Fluorescent lights flickered to life as the metal door shut with a reverberating thud and locked shut behind them.

The warehouse floor was lined with rows upon rows of metal tables, and a heavily chemical smell. Garishly blue barrels were clustered in a corner, and plastic sheeting seemed to hang from the ceiling and the walls for some unknown purpose. But she noticed all of that peripherally, remembered it only later in her bed when sleep abandoned her.

Each of the heavy tables held misshapen figures of blue and black tarpaulin, but their purpose was unmistakable. She could see the outline of feet at the bottom of each bag.

"Jim?" she whispered. Her lips were cold.

"That one," he murmured, and nudged her forward, pointing to a blue bag, smaller than many of the others, at the head of a row in the middle of the room.

She stepped forward in a daze. "I can't," she said hoarsely, when the bag looked even smaller up close. A perfect fit. "Don't make me, Jim. Please."

"You need to see what you negotiated for." His breath made clouds in the air. Elle lifted imploring eyes and found absolutely no sympathy. He looked merely curious, calculating. As she watched him he blinked.

More sternly, he said, "Not a request, doll. Open it." His patience wouldn't hold.

Her throat aching, she lifted a trembling hand over the bag, and with stiff fingers, pulled down the zip.

"She's beautiful," was the first clear thought in her mind. The second was that the girl in the body bag looked hauntingly, nightmarishly familiar.

"Elizabeth," Jim said sharply, for what she realized was the second time. "I swear to God if you faint-"

"She looks like me."

"Yes. We were lucky to find her."

Elle stared down at her, the horror and the shock fading slowly. The dead girl really was beautiful, she thought, and the longer she looked the more the likeness between them faded into the background. Her blue lips were a perfect matching pout, and their eyebrows were indeed similar, but her nose and her eyes were rounder, fuller. This girl would have had a loud voice, and her hair, she saw with surprise, was not naturally blonde. It was only discernible in her frosty eyelashes, which were dark at the roots. This woman didn't just look like her - she'd been made to look like her.

Overcome with a strong and sudden desire, she looked up at Jim and asked, "May I touch her?"

After a pause, he nodded.

Elle settled her hand very gently on the icy cheek. Her terror was gone now. This young woman could only be twenty, if that, and she was alone on an icy slab in a dank warehouse. She was tiny and thin, and yet the youth seemed already drained from her.

She looked into Jim's face, an awful question on her lips. Before she could ask it, he shook his head once. "No."

"How then?"

"Opioids, I'm given to understand."

Elle looked into the face again, the thin cheeks, the dry lips, all her clothes gone, and yet, she hoped, her pain gone too. Poor young thing. With infinite care, she zipped the bag closed again and rested her weight on the table, eyes shut.

After what seemed like an eternity she met his gaze. He was still studying her with intellectual interest, hands in pockets.

"Jim, please don't tell me she's to go into the river to pose as me."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's what you asked of me, honey. Did you think I didn't intend to deliver?"

"I know, but I -" she swallowed. "I was wrong."

"Oh?" The sardonic note was accompanied by the smallest tilt of his head. "Well, then, I suppose I've got to ask you again, then." He lifted her chin with his cold fingers. "What would you have me do?"

"I want her to be buried, cremated, returned to her family, whatever. If she has nobody else I will stand by her grave myself."

His smirk deepened. "Very well. And what else?"

She pushed his fingers from her jaw and gripped them tightly in her own. "I don't want them to think they've won over me. I don't want the world to think I faded away by accident or because I was foolish and flighty and young. I want to make them look at me. I want to make them suffer because they don't get a body to weep over and tell lies about. I want them to look at me and be afraid. I want them to look and - and think of you."

Both eyebrows lifted now, but she looked at him with grave sincerity, and pressed his hand to her lips.

"Jim," she said, choosing her words carefully. "If you need someone to… be your ghost, carry on your presence, as it were, I would be honored to do it. I'll do whatever you say. If you want to resurrect and send England into chaos, I'll be beside you every step. Only let me have a chance to bleed my family into the ground."

"Thought you didn't want power," he said, shaking off her hands. His tone was mild.

She considered a moment. Did she? She shook her head. "I still don't. But I have an influence I was born with, for better or worse. Jim," her voice caught. "I know you did this on purpose." He made no answer, but watched her cry with silent fascination. "The drugs that killed this girl paid for my ballet classes, my clothes, my education. I can't help that any more. But I can stop the bullshit that makes men like Elliot Spencer rich. Help me. Please."

Jim Moriarty studied her a minute more. Then he extended his hand, and when she took it she knew that this contract was heavier and more binding than the one they'd made in playful flirtation with blood and pocket knives. This one would kill her eventually - she wasn't so stupid as to suppose she wouldn't be an instant target - but at least this time, she was willing to take that chance.

"Sir," she said briskly. "I'm ready now. What will you have me do?"

Notes: I swear, I promise I wouldn't have picked such a cliche title if it hadn't been playing on my writing playlist the moment I finished this chapter! Until next time, dearies.