Pressure Points

-Choices-

No.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Emma, freezing her muscles in a painful contraction. She could not feel her heart beat. She wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't, and she was seconds away from collapsing to the ground in a sudden death, because that's what it would be – death. If it were true.

The story continued, breaking news coverage of the tragedy at St. Bartholomew's hospital. It was a frenzy of reporters struggling to keep an ongoing narrative of the events as they unfolded. It was confirmed that the world's only consulting detective had jumped to his death, reasons unknown. Another body, of Richard Brook, had been found on the roof. Apparent suicide by gunfire. Emma was intrigued to hear of Holmes' sudden death, knowing that Moriarty had been off indulging himself the last several months. But when Richard Brook was identified, his picture was shown on screen. Moriarty. She didn't understand.

With shaking hands, she struggled to dial him. Over and over, panic escalating each time she was sent to voicemail. He was fine, of course. This was all part of a game. She was being silly. Why would they broadcast his picture, though they identified the man by another name? It was a technical error. The mistake would be fixed and the face of Richard Brook would be up on screen any moment.

But he wouldn't pick up his phone.

Emma dropped her mobile, clutching her face in her hands, and allowed her mind to race through the best and the worst scenarios. The room spun and her body quaked and her lungs were failing to inhale. But she forced herself to take a deep breath, open her eyes, and pick up the phone again.

"Em."

He answered on the first ring. "Seb, what's going on at Bart's?" she demanded.

"I don't know." She found no comfort in Sebastian's quick and wavering tone. "That wasn't supposed to happen. We're trying to get up there and sort it out, but Scotland Yard has the place locked down."

"What happened? Sort what out? What's going on?" She could hear her voice begin to raise into a yell. This was bad. She would not like Sebastian's answer.

"He shot himself, Em. Boss is dead – I watched him do it."

His statement had not fully registered when she asked, "What was he doing up there?"

"He had this plan, a plan to get Sherlock to kill himself. Fuck, Em – I don't know! I don't know why he would do that!"

"Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm across the street. Uh, Lucius is here with me. He's on the phone with the coroners. We're going to get him out of there."

Emma nodded, though she knew Sebastian couldn't see. Moriarty had bought himself a vast network, with lots of friends in low places. Everywhere. They'd get his body out safely, away from the prying hands and eyes of the law, and in the proper custody of his family.

It hit her in that moment, her string of thoughts, and the weight of the words she'd just exchanged with Sebastian. His body. He was dead. James Moriarty had killed himself.

"I'll call you in a bit," she told Sebastian, ending the conversation abruptly as a heaviness forced her to the ground. She fell hard to her knees, threw her arm out for balance as nausea sent her stomach tumbling. She stared but could not see. Her mind emptied of all but his face. Espresso eyes, wide smile of genuine amusement. He was always amused. He had the world at his fingertips, and yet he'd chosen to give that up. But for what?

He was dead. Deceased. A corpse on a rooftop waiting to be put in the ground. All that genius, all that creativity, the power, the potential for more, vanished instantly by the pull of a trigger.

As long as there was James Moriarty, there would always be Emma. Now that was gone. Finished. Without his fire, her world was cold, and it was empty. All was ashes. There was nothing left.

There were people in the world that deserved to die, and that's why there were people like her. It was a statement that had been drilled into her head since she was young. Recruited just out of school, she was ideal for her undistinguished resume, lack of any significant relations or social status, and an extraordinary ability to be overlooked. She was the perfect candidate to make an easy disappearance. They taught her how to be quick, cruel, and devious; how to lie, steal, cheat, but not tolerate others who do. She could kill, and not lose a wink of sleep over it, because at some point in their lives they had all done something to earn it, and she was simply karma making its rounds. She was a soldier, an extractor, a technician, a spy. She could execute a full grown man in a crowded room, and still stay for champagne. It took a lot of work to become what she was, but it led her to him.

She was assigned to extract information from him. She had him all to herself for three days. A suave, attractive businessman with an Irish brogue. He was eccentric, and talkative, and annoyed the living hell out of her. In return, she refused to feed him. Strung him up by his wrists and made him stand on the tips of his toes when she was in sight of him, locked him inside a small heated box when she wasn't. She had three days to get a name from him. The name of his boss, who had caused quite a ruckus in the corporate world by throwing contracts out the window and double-crossing his associates. His business was by word of mouth. No one had met him. No one knew his name, or what he looked like. He worked through middlemen, and so they found one for her.

He'd worn her patience to the bone by the third day. After giving her several false leads, she was prepared to kill him and start fresh with another henchman, though she would not be happy to go looking for one.

He knelt naked before her, bruised, bloodied, sickeningly pale and smelling of sweat, but smiling. "What is your name?" he asked.

"You don't ask the questions here, Jim, you know that," she said calmly, and bit her tongue when he laughed pleasantly.

"I like you, I really do," he sighed, shaking his head.

"And I'd like it if you gave me a name. A real name, Jim."

"What will happen when I do?"

She'd answered these questions before. Many times before. Perhaps he'd gone too long in that hotbox without water. "We will clothe you. We will feed you. We will let you get a good night's sleep in a very nice bed –"

"Can it be your bed?" He chanced with hopeful delight as she stared down at him. Instead of responding to the insinuation, she approached at a different angle.

"Let me remind you what will happen if you don't give me a name, Jim." She softened her voice, as though she were chiding a young one. Her brow rose and her eyes widened as she adopted the façade of mild sadness and regret for what would come if he did not cooperate. "I will hurt you. I will drown you. I will put you back in the box. And the next time I take you out of the box – I really can't say when that will be Jim – I will kill you." She concluded by pressing her lips together with a small nod.

His left eye was swollen shut, but he stared up at her through his right, dark irises blazing, daring her to follow through. How quickly his appearance could go from gleeful to threatening. In the blink of an eye. She noticed the change often. One eyebrow lifted, cracked lips parted slightly as he held her gaze, unblinking.

"How would you do it?" he prompted.

"Pardon?"

"Kill. Me. How would you do it?"

"Slowly," she said honestly. "You've been a pain in my ass. I wouldn't mind watching you die." Emma allowed that to hang in the air for a moment before presenting her final offer one last time. "His name, Jim, and you have the rest of your life ahead of you."

His features slowly began to soften, head bobbing lightly as he averted his gaze. After a minute of thought, he surprised her with a valid response. "Moriarty. That's the name, the only name you'll need. Do with it what you will."

She waited for a shift of his eye, a twitch in a muscle, anything that would catch him in a lie. He was a statue, staring up at her in unyielding resilience, waiting for her to make the next move.

"Moriarty," she considered the name as it moved on her lips. "That's what you're giving me, knowing that if I find out you're lying to me, I will kill you."

"Yes."

"All right," she responded with a stiff nod, and turned for the door. Her work was done. Let the desk dwellers do the rest.

"See you soon, darling," he called after her.

Emma did see him again, much to her surprise. A few days later she was summoned. Nothing out of the ordinary. On a Monday morning, anything could happen. She supposed it was a performance review, or perhaps another assignment so soon. But when she opened the door to the conference room, she did not expect so many sitting at the table before her.

Mr. Kassower, head of her company, was not present, but the fact that his assistant Mr. Cho was meant business was about to be dealt. Beside him sat another man that she did not recognize, though the stack of paper work and the lap top resting on the table in front of him said contracts, and therefore attorney.

Her eyes drifted over to the man sitting across from Mr. Cho. She did not expect to recognize him. Jim. Laughter bubbled in her chest at the initial thought that he might actually be trying to sue her, but she swallowed it. The swelling had gone down from his eye, the cracks on his skin scabbed over. The color in his skin had returned to a healthier shade, though the color of his bruises had faded to blotches of purple, yellow, and green in their ugly stages of healing. For what it was worth, he looked well in a tailored ebony suit, and she commended him for maintaining a steadfast composure despite all he'd been through.

"Agent, thank you for coming," Mr. Cho swept his hand in a gesture to take the seat beside his. She did, silently staring down the man across from her. He was to the right of Jim, tall, lean, slick ash brown hair and bright blue eyes. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin absentmindedly as he considered her.

"Agent, do you recognize this man?" she heard Mr. Cho say.

"Jim? Of course." She watched as the corner of his lips turned up in a faint smile at the sound of his name.

"You released him from interrogation three days ago, after he offered you a name."

"Yes."

"Tell us, what was that name?"

"Moriarty."

"Agent, are you aware that the man sitting in front of you is, in fact, James Moriarty?"

His smile had widened as he stared at her, and she glared back as she grasped the meaning of this new information. "You're Moriarty," she spoke directly to him.

"In the flesh," he said softly.

"Agent, Mr. Moriarty here is a valued colleague of Mr. Kassower, and he has offered a large sum to transfer your contract over to him. What you thought was an interrogation was, in fact, a job interview. It was a test to see if you had the qualifications he was looking for. Mr. Moriarty came out impressed. Well done."

"You let me torture you," she said, finding this situation difficult to believe. There were plenty of other tests he could have put her through, and he chose to assess the pain she could inflict on others himself. He was insane. The response he had for her was wide, innocent eyes, and an exaggerated shrug.

"I like to get my hands dirty every once in a while," he said. "It's fun."

The eyes of the man beside Moriarty remained downcast, though his mouth stretched into a lopsided smile.

"Tell me your name," the businessman said.

"I'm sure you already know it."

"Yes, but I want to hear it from you."

Her gaze swept over the room, to each individual man for a silent second. Names were identification. Ownership. Tools. Useful, but dangerous. "Emma," she offered, biting back a wince.

"Emma, here's my pitch: you work for me, I'll make you rich, and you'll be under my protection. Decline my offer, and you'll make me a very unhappy man, which in turn will leave Mr. Kassower quite disappointed. I assume a severance package would be in your near future."

She never took a threat very well, and she found it difficult to mask her annoyance. Emma blinked slowly, teeth clenched together tightly behind closed lips. She didn't know why he chose her, perhaps a recommendation from Mr. Kassower pointed him in the right direction. She didn't know the business he dealt, or the network he ran, but he had to be powerful if he could buy her. That wasn't how her company worked; they didn't raise fighters to sell them off.

But she knew what kind of man he was. Steadfast, resilient, ambitious. Fearless. He took what she dealt him in stride and with a smile on his face. He knew what she was made of because he chose to experience it firsthand. Not many would even fathom attempting to do that. His calm façade said that he knew much more about his surrounding environments than he let on, and the glint in his eye showed how much he was enjoying it. He promised both fortune and protection, and had complete confidence in his ability to provide. He wasn't asking her to join him, he was commanding her. She could work for a man like that.

"All right," she said, holding his gaze as his chin lowered in a slow, satisfied nod. "Let's do this."

She could count on two hands the amount of times they'd been alone in each other's presence. She didn't know what to do, neither did he, so they stood stiffly, side by side as they stared out through the open French doors leading down to the gardens of Moriarty's vast estate. It was Sebastian's now.

"I don't know what to say," she mused quietly, a sad smile stretching her lips. 'Goodbye' wasn't right; 'see you soon' felt like a lie.

"Where will you go?" Sebastian asked her, clasping his hands behind his back. He'd never asked her before then. She knew he'd hoped she would stay to help him protect Moriarty's legacy. She found that she could not, and he knew he could not make her.

"I don't know," she shrugged. Her flight that night was for San Salvador. She would not stay there. Emma figured she would eventually return stateside to lay low for awhile and allow herself time to grieve. She had not planned beyond that.

"Just take care of yourself, Em," he said, head turning to look down at her. "He'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."

"He's not doing a goddamn thing, Moran," she hissed. "He's dead."

Silence ensued, and she could feel his eyes on her, but was determined to avoid them, keeping her focus forward. "Right," he eventually relented.

"I should go," she said and took a few steps back, heels echoing against the hardwood. She hesitated, and then reached out to grip Sebastian's arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Be safe, yeah?"

He nodded stiffly, which she returned, and dropped his gaze to the ground. He had big shoes to fill. It would be a terrifying journey to go at alone, and part of her did feel guilty for going. She inhaled deeply, allowing a lingering last look at him before she left it all behind.