It's gone pretty well. I survived this week, and she goes home tomorrow! Sherlock was surprised to feel a little twinge at the thought of Lissie leaving. The week really hadn't seemed that long.
He looked at his phone and saw that a client in John's case had agreed to meet with him in an hour. Perfect!
"Lissie, you'll be alright by yourself for a few minutes, won't you?"
"Yes."
As he scrolled through old messages, he saw the old ones from Moriarty. Perhaps he was being overly cautious , but…
He pulled up Moriarty' s mugshot. "If you ever see this man and I'm not with you, call me. "
Curious, she started to question him but he realized he needed to leave. He dashed into the den to get his paperwork.
She was standing wistfully by the door as he left. Something about the pitiful figure guilted him. Uncharacteristically, he gave her a little side embrace. "I'll be back soon, okay?"
"Okay," she said, delighted at the show of affection.
He left, and she locked the door behind him.
Trudging upstairs, she flopped on her bed and stared about the room blankly. So she would have to leave, after all. It was crushing, to have found her father and then have him slip through her fingers, but...at least she had found him.
Restless, she picked up Rilla of Ingleside , and began to read. Minutes slipped by.
An odd creaking noise startled her. Instantly alert, she slid off the bed and snuck noiselessly down the hall.
She nearly shrieked when she saw an enormous man standing in the kitchen. He was not the man - Moriarty - Sherlock had warned her about, but he looked dangerous.
Thankful he had not seen her, she backed away, planning on running upstairs, locking herself in her room, and calling police and Sherlock.
She backed into something cold and metallic.
Stupid, she berated herself as a man holding a gun to her head marched her into the living room. Still, she was a courageous, resilient girl, and not one to give up easily.
"I don't believe you have any bullets," she cried in a show of spirit.
The man holding her fired. A nearly - silent shot, and a bullet thudded into the wall behind her.
So he had a silencer! She'd hoped the firing would alert someone. Too bad.
She yelled. Weren't you supposed to yell a man's name so burglars thought you weren't alone? "Help! Sherlock! He-"
The larger man twisted her arm painfully. "You be quiet or I'll give you something to shut you up." Both men wore gloves and surgical hats and booties. It was obviously so as to not leave a shred of evidence.
He pushed her towards the window and fire escape, ordering the other man, who he called Mutt, to call and inform "Boss".
Shoving her down at the table, he began to dig in his pack. "Keep your hands on the table where I can see them," he ordered.
Perfect. The table was covered in a thin layer of dust. Good old Ms Hudson had forgotten to tidy again.
2 men, she scratched. Guns. Whatever else could be vital? If only she could leave some clue.
Unfortunately, she was dragged up before she could finish. They did not notice her writing.
Mutt held a syringe. She tensed, ready to fight, to run, but the big man had her in an iron grip. "I suggest you relax your arm. It will be some much easier than a struggle." Mutt shoved the syringe in her arm.
It hurt. Her whole body went limp, and before she succumbed to the drug she felt herself being lifted out onto the fire escape.
When she awoke, she was in the back of a car. She squinted her eyes and hoped they hadn't noticed she was awake.
By twisting and turning, she determined she was in a car with darkly tinted windows. A partition separated her from the front seats. Her head hurt. How long had she been here? It felt like hours. What did they want from her? Could these be the enemies Sherlock had mentioned?
The car was turning. It came to a screeching halt. Her door was jerked open, and a blindfold put around her eyes.
She was being dragged somewhere. But where was she? She focused all her energy on listening. Bird song and wind in trees. A sheep bleating. Somewhere rural.
She had been able to feel the sun on her face; now she felt cool darkness. Were they indoors?
Steps.
She pretended to stumble and felt about. Stone. Hmm.
Rather unceremoniously, she was flung to the ground. Her blindfold was removed.
She was in what resembled a dungeon or a prison. Stone walls, cell doors. It was a small and empty cell block- four cells. But she was not in a cell - not yet, anyway.
Sitting in front of her was a man with eyes that bugged out. She recognized him.
"Moriarty," she whispered.
Struggling to her feet, she faced him.
He was smiling, a creepy, pleased smile.
"What is your name?"
She didn't answer.
He frowned. "What is your name? Come now, don't make this hard for yourself."
She stated at him in silent challenge.
Beckoning, he summoned over Mutt.
Mutt pinned her arms behind her back and waited.
"What is your name? Who is your father? I need a little confirmation before we play our game."
When she didn't answer, Mutt slammed her down into the stone. Her entire face felt like it was on fire. Was her nose broken? She wiggled it gingerly. No. But her lip was split and bleeding.
Before he could hurt her again, she said, "I'm Lissie."
Moriarty smiled. "Ahh, now you play along. What is your last name? And your father?"
"I don't know my last name," she told him truthfully. "Really," she added as Mutt advanced.
"Lucky. I believe you. But who is your father?"
She could not, would not bring Sherlock into this. They had to be holding her to use against him in some way. Thinking fast, she said, "I don't know. Currently I'm posing as Mr. Holmes' daughter to help him with a case- he needs to pose as a father to get into a school."
Moriarty' s eyebrows twitched. Did he believe her?
"She screamed for Sherlock when Jock grabbed her," Mutt supplied helpfully.
Oh, she had forgotten that. Where was Sherlock? She hoped he was alright.
"We shall see," Moriarty said finally. He walked over to a desk in a dark corner. "Bring her here, Mutt."
"I better get paid for this," Mutt grumbled.
He pushed her into the dark chair. Moriarty sat on the other side. He pushed pen and paper towards her.
"Write Dear Sherlock," he told her.
She complied.
"Now tell him you're in trouble, and bad old Moriarty has you," he laughed. "Feel free to be more expressive. You can't possibly give him any clues.- unfortunately, you haven't inherited his powers of deduction."
"I'm in a manor house in Dorset county," she said aloud.
His face contorted. "How-"
"The distance from London. The sheep noises. The soft ground from rain. Old stone walls."
"He - Sherlock- taught you," Moriarty snarled.
"No, really I didn't know I could. So my guess was right?"
"Write what I say."
She knew whatever she wrote would be used to lure Sherlock here, and she hated every word.
"Your letter will be delivered to Sherlock with clues as to your whereabouts. Eventually, he will come here. You will be my own against him."
"Why?"
"When a criminal is the cleverest in his field, slipping past authorities and brilliantly planning things, what does the government do? They'll accept his offer to show them how it's done.
It's all an act, see. Using information your Sherlock gives me, and my already brilliant mind, I'll seem to have a knowledge of all crime in England. By helping the government, I will be in close contact with influential people. Eventually, I will bribe some, threaten some. Then, using my power, I can access any government item in Britain. I have a network of 'friends'. I can easily erase their pasts. I can do whatever I want, appoint whomever I want, as the most powerful man in England."
You're telling me this because you expect me to die," she said slowly.
"You don't miss much. Perhaps you are more like your father than I realized. And yes, once your father has been persuaded to talk, I won't need either one of you. Back to the boring side of the angels."
"You're mad."
He sneered in her face, shutting the cell door.
"Don't worry, I'll be back."
She sank to the stone floor. "Sherlock," she cried. She remembered how he'd embraced her this morning. "He was learning to love me, and Moriarty ruined it all."