Pressure Points

-Moving On-

He was ordinary, but his intelligence and wit was sharper than most, so he figured she'd spent time working for the government. Maybe military, but most likely intelligence by her keen desire to keep quiet about her past. She let him believe that because as long as he did, he would never ask her to elaborate about where she'd come from and the things she had done. He never did. The past was the past, and the sins she may have committed were between her and God. She suffered, mostly silently but sometimes not, and he made it his personal responsibility to be there whether she needed him or not.

It surprised her daily how content he was with not knowing the complete truth. He cared only about the woman she was now, with him. For him, this was calm, quiet, beautiful Emma, with an excellent eye for detail and the most thrilling hunting partner he'd ever recruited. Her laugh was electric, her movement light and gracefully calculated like a choreographed dance. She was a mystery to him, but she was his, and he was smart enough to see a gem when he had it, and wise enough to understand that it would turn to dust in his hands if he chose to tempt it.

She met him when he hired her on, a guidance counselor for the bitter youth. Every high school needed them, and she had the credentials, or at least faked them. He was handsome, a bit older than her, previously an instructor in English before he accepted the role as principle. He reminded her every day how much he loved her. Brought her flowers to work, read her poetry underneath the apple tree in his backyard. They laughed in bed together to the monologues of late night talk show hosts, fought over money, and made love like it was the only thing left to do. He was the gentlest human being she'd ever encountered, and to have him be hers was a terrifying honor.

She was on Ambien for the hard nights, Xanax for the hard days. He understood that many of her experiences were the stuff of nightmares, and his patience with her was unrelenting. He held her in silence, and absorbed her anger like a sponge when she lashed out at him. He was not Moriarty. There was no extravagant lifestyle, no power, danger, excitement. He did not set fire to her skin with just his touch. He was tender and traditional in the bedroom. She could look him in the eye without drowning in the passion and ardor of his gaze.

It took a long time to come to terms with the fact that she no longer desired such a life. Emma could not remember a time before she had blood on her hands. She'd been recruited so young. Broken down and rebuilt into the soldier they needed her to be. She didn't know how many had died by her hand. Never remembered their names, their ages, the crimes they'd committed – if any at all – and if they'd deserved their deaths at all. It had never affected her, until she met Matthew.

He loved her, and for that she loved him. There was no judgment, or suspicion. He took her as she was, and was content with it. He opened up his home and his heart to her. He shared his faith with her in hopes that she might find comfort in it, and she was appreciative. She knew that her love for him would change in time; alter, transform, grow until it became something she could never live without, and she could feel it increasing each day with him. She would lose him if he knew the truth. She had been a part of a terrifying scheme, and had done horrible, horrible things, for which she would spend her whole life repenting. She wanted nothing more than to protect him from that truth, about this world, and about her.

Emma looked up at a hollow knock on her office door. A moment later, Matthew stuck his head inside. "You busy?" he asked.

"Not really," she replied with a shrug, absentmindedly moving the cursor around an empty computer screen.

"Good." He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He opted for a suit, despite it being casual Friday. One of his nicer fits, she noticed, by the crisp creases of the flawlessly smooth charcoal gray fabric. Two buttons over a starch white dress shirt and a diagonally patterned tie, colors ranging from white to black, with a variety of grays in between. She lifted an eyebrow in interest at his choice of wardrobe. "I have a proposition."

"Oh?" Emma asked softly, watching as he took several steps to lean against the edge of her desk, a light smile on his tanned face.

"I have a meeting with some district execs this afternoon, so I'll be a little late getting home. You can take a nap, get all dolled up, do whatever it is you do, and when I get home we'll go somewhere nice. What do you say?"

She brought her hand up to her mouth, and laughed behind closed lips as he gave her a wink. Going somewhere nice meant enduring a half-hour commute into the city. The last thing she wanted after a long work week was to battle traffic and a chaotic street grid for a meal. But payday had been yesterday, and their anniversary was just around the corner. His eagerness to please was ever present, and she could not find it in herself to disappoint him.

"Sounds wonderful," she said, watching as he bit the inside of his bottom lip to tame a satisfied grin.

"I shouldn't be home any later than six. Also, do you want anything for lunch? I forgot it's shitty tomato soup day."

Emma did not forget, and so said, "I grabbed fajita leftovers. They're in your mini fridge."

He'd just opened the door again when Matthew paused, a small huff of adoration escaping him. "That's why I love you."

She took advantage of the fact that Matthew was working late to do the same herself. The end of term was quickly approaching, and student schedules weren't going to create themselves. She worked until she absolutely couldn't anymore, and locked up her office to hurry home.

She had no one but herself to blame. Her mind was too preoccupied with the way the sun was quickly setting, and how cold the night might be, and if she should dress for warmth or test her strength against the climate in something far more flashy for her fervent fiancé. She thought of whose car they should take, and where they should go to eat, or if he already had a place in mind and if he did she hoped he'd made reservations.

This was her life now. Routine, common, safe. There was no reason this day was unlike any other day, which would have forced her senses into a state of alert. She had no reason not to occupy the forefront of her thoughts with such trivial matters.

For this, she missed the glow of light illuminating the window of the upstairs bedroom. She overlooked the fact that the front door was already unlocked, and the violin melody drifting down from above. She absently assumed that Matthew had beat her home, parked in the garage, but if she'd only thought about it for a second, she would remember that Matthew never parks in the garage. If she'd only allowed herself a second, she would recognize that while Vivaldi, Bach, or even Mozart would not have been strange, the melody she heard was Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto. She would recall the only person and the only place her memories of it belonged to. It might have saved her life.

Instead, she dropped her purse on the foyer table, kicked her heels off and jogged up the stairs, looking forward to taking off her stockings and letting down her hair. She elbowed her way through the cracked bedroom door, fingers already working at the pins securing her bun. She leveled her eyes to the man sitting at the edge of the bed, prepared to ask him about the outcome of his meeting. In that instant he turned his face, and she found herself choking on a sharp intake of breath.

Ghost.

The thought was fleeting, because it was her only initial explanation. That was not flesh and fabric. She would reach for him and he would pass right through her, because he was not truly there. He was dead. Bones in a casket, because they'd buried him.

"Hello darling." She gasped at the familiarity of his low drawl, and the way the pits of his eyes searched the length of her. "Still alive!"

And alive he was. With the same pressed suits, the same slick black hair, the same five o'clock shadow. Like his absence the past two years had only been a dream.

Emma wanted an explanation. She wanted to know how he'd survived, why he disappeared, why he'd abandoned her. She wanted to know why he chose to reveal himself now. Even more, she wanted to know what that meant for her, and the fear of his answer kept words from forming.

He was not pleased with her lack of reaction. He stared at her, shoulders slumped, jaw working tightly as he waited for her to say something. His patience soon dissipated. "What, are you just going to stand there gaping?"

She shook her head briefly, attempting to gather some senses. "H-how?" she was able breathe as she blinked hard.

Moriarty shrugged, shifting his attention down to the mobile in his hand for a moment to silence the symphony. "Mr. Holmes thought he had me beat, so I had to prove him wrong. Made a few last-minute revisions. Amazing, really, what a few Hollywood tricks can do."

Fear and anger traveled icy hot paths over her skin. He dropped his head back as his gaze drifted along the ceiling and over the wall décor. "I let Sherlock run around closing some of my old loops in Eastern Europe while I've been…expanding." He paused for a moment to grimace, then continued, "He's gotten himself into a bit of trouble, it's forced me back in the game."

Emma pressed her back against the wall as he rose to his feet. His eyes swept over the room again as he smiled lightly. "I was a bit surprised to hear you were back in America playing house," he said. "Got the car, the home, the job, the fiancé. Adorable." Moriarty's expression twisted with a mixture of disappointment and disgust as he turned away from her to pace over to the window. "I expected you to be doing something a bit less…boring, with your time."

Two fingers parted the sheer white curtains to one side as he stared outside in silence. Her instinct was to run instead of reach for him, which was painfully confusing. She thought him dead, but he was here now, and that should have been enough for her. He'd been everything to her. And yet his presence now provoked such apprehension her body shook and her head swooned. She wished him gone, terrified of the passing minutes drawing closer to Matthew's arrival home. He was not safe.

"Suppose it doesn't matter!" Moriarty exclaimed as he let the curtain fall back into place and turned on his heel. "It's time for you to come back."

The fateful words. Her eyes closed involuntarily as she exhaled slowly.

"What." When she opened her eyes again, he was only a few feet away from her. "Don't tell me you've actually enjoyed – this -," his gaze shifted back and forth in emphasis of their surroundings. His brow furrowed with disbelief, and then lifted as he began to chuckle with amusement. "Oh, I understand," he sighed. Moriarty licked his bottom lip as he cupped her chin. "You're mad, aren't you. Look, I couldn't tell you I was alive, because you would have stayed with Sebastian. I needed you away, I needed you safe."

"You were dead."

"Pardon?" He tilted his ear to her as she cleared her throat.

"You were dead. I had to move on. I can't go back to that."

He straightened to his full height, lips tight as he considered her. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he mused. "You're angry, I get that. But you really shouldn't say things like that to me."

"I mean it-"

The slap was sharp, immediate, and unexpected. The force of his backhand knocked her head against the wood doorframe, and she groaned against the combination of sting and dull ache. It had been years since she'd felt such a pain. It was not easy to grow used to again. She cupped her hand against her cheek, wincing as she made to slip through the door.

"Don't run, darling," Moriarty warned as he slipped off his suit jacket. "That would leave me alone with Matthew, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that." He grabbed her and hauled her up into his arms tightly. She remained limp against him, too smart to fight. "My beautiful Emma," he cooed, shifting her higher. "I wonder what Matthew will say when he finds out the truth about you. Liar. Thief. Killer. I wonder what he'll say."

Emma squirmed in his hold. "You want me back, James? You have me back. So let's go."

"Naw, I think you're just saying that." He tossed her down onto the bed, and began to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt. "I think you only say that because you're selfish. You're selfish, and you want to keep me away from him. You forget, what's yours is mine, love."