In addition to dealing with potential clients, as Sherlock Holmes' assistant Sophie had also been tasked with editing his blog posts before they went out on The Science of Deduction.

Though you wouldn't think it, Sherlock had atrocious spelling and grammar. Clearly not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he didn't care. In his words, his brain simply worked at a rate "faster than my body can physically match", and so with the luxury of an assistant, he chose not to put in the extra effort to slow down.

Because of the pride he had in his blog, he required her to be at 221B Baker Street while working on it, so he could keep tabs and add in any spontaneous bursts of input.

Just as Sophie was trying to work out whether Sherlock meant to put that you could identify a sex addict from his 'tan' or his 'tank' (neither seemed possible), a notification popped up, indicating an email.

Sherlock heard the accompanying ding, and rushed over. After glancing through a few lines of text, he snatched the laptop from her lap, angling it in so only he could read it.

"Is that my laptop?"

Soph glanced up, and saw John, laden with grocery bags. She rushed over to help, but also to avoid the certain lover's spat that would follow.

After a bit of back and forth, John gave up and harrumphed, sitting into the armchair. He flicked through a couple of opened letters, several stamped with big red boxes.

He groaned. "These are still here. I need to get a job."

Sherlock looked up. "Sophie, why haven't you sorted out our bills?"

"Did you ask me to?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why would I ask you to?" She blinked. He turned around impatiently in his seat. "You're an assistant, you should be assisting!"

"Right."

John, still hung up about the bills, leant forward. "Sherlock," he began softly. "If you'd be able to lend me some… Sherlock?"

He had his hands poised underneath his chin in consternation. "I need to go to the bank."

He left in a flick of his coat, and John eagerly, albeit confusedly, followed.

In the ensuing silence, the ding of her phone gave her a fright.

I met someone! Eek! Xoxo

A pool of dread grew in her stomach as she read Molly's message, knowing exactly who it was that she met.

Omg I'm so excited!

She paused, fingers hovering over the screen.

Omg I'm so excited! You should bring them round for dinner sometime. I want all the grisly details Jxxxx

No reason she couldn't at least keep tabs.

It had been almost an hour, and neither Sherlock nor John had returned from the bank.

She took the chance to snoop around, with extreme care not to touch anything, taking a few photos of the house and his belongings, sending them to Irene.

She didn't have direct contact with Moriarty; he liked to have a degree of separation to avoid any suspicion should Sherlock begin to catch on. So she would converse with Irene, and Irene would pass it on.

Sophie felt a little bad that she was betraying her friends' confidences, but it's not like they ever really spoke to her. Sherlock wasn't interested in the business side of things, and that disinterest extended to the one who dealt with it. John was a little better; making an effort now and then to greet her or ask her how she was, but it was clear he was infatuated with the adventures he was having with Sherlock.

She was making herself a cup of tea and staring out at the street below, when she noticed a black car pull up directly outside their front door.

She frowned; it wasn't John and Sherlock, and that car was suspiciously similar to the one that…

No. It was exactly the car that Mycroft Holmes sent out last time.

Sighing, she slipped on her coat and left the flat.

"Here's a thought: café. Park, maybe."

They were back in an abandoned building. A different one, this time a parking lot rather than a warehouse, but the gist was the same.

Mycroft smiled condescendingly at her. "I prefer to be…discreet when it comes to my brother. We have what you might call a complex relationship."

"Where do you even work?" It had been bugging her, how he had so many means, yet needed someone else to keep tabs on his brother.

"I occupy a minor position in the British government."

She sent him a dubious look. "How minor?"

He bristled. "What is dear Sherlock up to these days?"

A thought struck Sophie; a possibility of an out. This man was clearly powerful, and in a twisted way, he cared deeply for his brother.

Maybe he could help her.

He was waiting for an answer. "A brother who burned down his mother's house for the insurance, a couple cheating husbands, a lady who kidnapped her-"

"You know that's not what I mean," he interrupted, "so don't waste my time."

She opened her mouth, ready for a retort, then closed it again. If she wanted him to help her, she needed him to take her seriously. "Him and John are very close. John is addicted to the lifestyle he lives, and Sherlock loves having an adoring fan at his constant disposal."

He nodded, leaning heavier on his umbrella. "Does he seem…happy?"

Soph considered this. "Satisfied, maybe. I don't know what happy even means for him."

Mycroft's eyes gazed at something that she couldn't see. "Nor do I." He changed the subject, recalibrating his expression into something more stern. "He is not to hear of this, you understand?"

"I don't honestly think he realizes I'm there half the time." Seeing his insistent gaze, she continued. "I won't say anything."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a black business card with a single phone number printed in silver.

"If Sherlock gets in to trouble, or if you get in to trouble, this line is private."

He handed it to her. She searched his eyes, but could find no evidence of insight he might have about her situation, so she simply nodded.

He turned, and got into his own vehicle. The conversation was over.

When Sophie returned, the Baker Street boys were just about to leave. The living room was littered with scraps of different symbols and newspaper articles.

"I need you to go to the police station," Sherlock was ordering John. "Ask about the journalist; personal effects, something like his diary that will tell us his movements." As he was doing this, he was bundling John into his coat, much to John's annoyance.

Sherlock glanced up at Soph. "I'm going to Van Coon's PA, see what I can find." Without giving her a chance to respond, he hurried down the street.

John and her shared a look. Shrugging in defeat, he hailed a taxi cab and gave the order to go to Scotland Yard.

As the car pulled away, Soph's attention was caught by a flash. On the opposite side of the street was a lady taking photographs of the pair. She frowned, ready to alert John, but when she turned back, the woman was gone.

At Scotland Yard, an unfamiliar young man who John had introduced as DI Dimmock, was begrudgingly sifting through a suspension box, looking for the file on Van Coon.

"That friend of yours," he started implicitly.

"Whatever you're going to say, you're 100% right." Soph grinned at John's lack of an attempt to defend the detective.

"…He's a right sod."

"Not what I was expecting." Sophie considered. "You would've been fine if you had said dickhead. Asshole. Wan-"

Dimmock cut her off, holding out a worn book. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?"

John grabbed it before she could, opening it to the day of his death. Inside, a used ticket stub for a flight to China.

They gave their curt thanks, and headed out onto the Main Street. With his head buried in the diary, John didn't notice his roommate coming the other way, and the pair crashed into each other.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock relayed everything he had pieced together about a place Van Coon must have visited. Soph unsuccessfully tried to interrupt him, but never made it to the end of the first syllable.

John, tiring of the monologue, growled, "Sherlock!" The detective paused, caught off guard. John rolled his eyes and pointed. "That shop over there."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What? How could you tell?"

"Cause he wrote it in his diary, he wrote the address."

"Guess you're not the only one who can solve mysteries around here, huh?"

Soph's smug look fell as Sherlock glared at her. "Do you expect me to congratulate you on your ability to read?"

"Would be nice," she murmured, pouting. He huffed and started across the street, entering the Chinese antiques store.

She sighed and ran to catch up.

Inside, traditional music was playing. The cramped store was packed with trinkets, duplicates of trinkets, copies of duplicates of trinkets. The cutesy feel was somewhat disturbed when you could clearly see that nothing was unique.

"Do you want a cat?" The lady at the counter spoke up and held out a little lucky cat statue, complete with waving arm. "Ten pound, ten pound!"

Both men began to decline politely (one more polite than the other) but Soph rushed forward. "Oh, absolutely," she exclaimed. The other two men began snooping around while the lady's attention was caught on the sale.

She handed over the note, and the woman gave her a cat, still in a cardboard box.

She grinned and tucked it under her shoulder. Behind her, the store was empty.

She groaned and ran out onto the street, where John and Sherlock were winding their way around market stalls.

She caught up, and heard the end of what Sherlock was telling John. "…written in an Ancient Chinese dialect," they were now in a produce stall, checking all the price tags.

"It's a fifteen! The cipher, it's the number fifteen!"

"The line is a number, too, the number one," Sherlock declared.

Soph glanced between the two. "I could've told you that. One line is 1, two lines are 2, three are 3." Sherlock threw her a questioning glance. "I did a year of Chinese in high school. Why do you never even think to ask me anything on your cases? I may not be a genius but neither is John!" His face crumpled. "Sorry, John."

Sherlock said something else then, surely snarky, but the same lady in sunglasses, taking a photo, caught her attention.

She shifted the box to her other arm, blinking in shock when the lady seemed to almost disappear in thin air. She looked around them, but the lady was gone.

Sherlock and John decided to stay in the area for lunch to discuss what the numbers meant for the case, but Sophie had promised Molly she'd have lunch with her at the St Bart's cafeteria.

It was a weekly tradition; lunch together on a Friday, and it always brought a smile to her face spending some quality time with her.

Between Molly's odd hours, and Soph's new job, they were learning to make the most of the moments they did have together.

But the smile dropped when she noticed Molly had company. She had noticed Sophie; gesturing wildly for her to come sit down at the plastic bench, but Sophie didn't rush over as fast as she normally would have.

He had his back to her, and was wearing completely different clothes, but she knew it was him. Who else would it be?

"This is Jim," Molly proclaimed, "He's from I.T."

Jim turned to smile pleasantly at Sophie as she approached the table, sitting down beside her girlfriend. His hair was slicked back differently and his posture was relaxed and friendly. Still, she couldn't forget their last encounter.

"Hi, Jim," she returned weakly.

Molly had taken her hand in hers under the table, but was still making moony eyes at the man sitting across from them. "This is Sophie, I was telling you all about her."

"Only good things I hope."

He smirked. "The best."

A thought struck Sophie. He was putting an awful lot of effort into this ruse. He didn't want Molly to suspect anything. How far was he willing to go to keep it up?

He had used this as a power play, but the ball was in her court.

"I'd love to hang out sometime, get to know you better." She leaned in and smiled. "The new season of Glee just came out on DVD, and we were going to marathon it tonight. Would it be alright if he tagged along, Molly?"

He kept up the façade, but the smirk had fallen off his face.

Molly gave a little squeal. "I love it! I'll give you all the details, Jim. We can pop some popcorn, buy some ice cream, maybe I'll make us margaritas!"

Sophie grinned. "Are you a margarita man, Jim?"

He ignored her and turned to Molly. "I'll drink anything you ask me to, I promise." The sly wink he gave Molly didn't go unnoticed.

Soph changed the subject. "Anyway, Jim, tell me – did you go to Oxford or Cambridge for your Computer Science degree?"

"Sheffield," he countered, "I wanted to stay close to home, keep living with my mum for as long as I could." He reveled in the 'awww' Molly let out.

"Sheffield's IT program was shut down and merged with Lancaster almost twenty years ago. I guess you must be a lot older than you look."

The scolding Molly gave her was worth it to see the look on his face.

Molly excused herself to go to the bathroom.

To his credit, Moriarty kept up appearances for almost a full minute after she left. With the tick of the clock, the mask dropped.

He drew himself up, resting his elbows on her edge of the bench so that his hands came down on her arms and his face was centimeters from hers.

It was only now that she realized there were very few people left in the cafeteria.

"You are a very stupid girl," he growled. "I hope the satisfaction you get today will last you the rest of your life. Which, incidentally, won't be very long anymore."

The thunderous clouds in his eyes cleared, but his domineering stance remained.

"There are two things you must do if you want to live to see tomorrow."

She held his gaze but didn't reply.

"Break up with Molly, right here and now, and move in with Mistah Holmes."

She let air rush out through her nose that she didn't realize she was holding. Seeing his expectant look, she nodded slowly.

Abruptly, he dropped back and began finishing an elaborate tale he was supposedly telling.

Sophie felt a hand on her shoulder as Molly returned and eased herself back into her seat.

"Are you okay?" Molly questioned her, hand still on her shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she laughed nervously.

Fighting the tears of anger in her eyes, she glanced up at Molly, beautiful Molly. "Could we have a moment to talk in private?"

Jim butted in, his voice brighter than ever. "You can talk freely in front of me, I won't tell!" His smile held something dangerous.

Soph opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Is everything alright?" Molly was concerned now, gripping tightly onto her shoulder.

Sophie gently detached herself. "I…" She cleared her throat and started again, feeling goosebumps of dread rise on her arms. "I think we…want different things." Molly didn't understand. She continued on, breath shaky. "I'll go round to the flat now and clear my stuff. This relationship isn't working."

Her mouth trembled and she stood up, noisily scraping the chair on the floor. All was silent. She rushed away before he saw her cry, but she heard him comforting a now-sobbing Molly.

"You have me," he crooned, "you have me."

221B. We require an assistant to sort through some books. Come at once. SH.

She sighed, seeing her breath swirl in the cold evening air, and wedged her fingernails under the edge of her white plastic phone case. It snapped off into her hand, and a single piece of black card fell out.

On it, a phone number.

She looked up at 221B Baker Street. She was sitting on a metal bench across the road, looking up at the lights on in the upper window. She could just make out two silhouettes, rushing back and forth around the flat.

It wasn't too late to go along with Moriarty's plan. It was the safest way for her.

But where would it end?

That man, that evil man, was currently alone with her…ex-girlfriend. He wanted to destroy Sherlock, but she had met the detective over a week ago and hadn't seen any reason why.

She dialed the number.

It only rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.

"What emergency am I being alerted to today, Miss Walters?"

Last chance.

She sighed. "Jim Moriarty."

The car had come suspiciously quickly, even though she didn't specify where she was before the phone clicked.

Now, she was in a well-heated flat, though the lack of furnishings suggested it wasn't Mycroft Holmes' personal one.

He had assured her it was perfectly safe and completely private before egging her on to speak.

She told him about Moriarty. About Molly. She even swallowed her pride and told her about why she got in this situation in the first place; her relationship with the Woman.

But for some reason she couldn't articulate, she didn't mention Jim's interest in Sherlock.

Maybe she just wanted to keep Mycroft's attention on her safety rather than not his; he was a genius, she was sure he could handle himself.

He took everything she said seriously and calmly, and promised her his assistance.

Mycroft advised her to follow Moriarty's instructions (in her edited version, she claimed Moriarty wanted her to move in to Baker Street in order to keep her away from Molly), but he arranged for extra surveillance around the flat, and even a mobile phone she could use that tracked her location.

She was safe.

By the time they had finished speaking, the clock on the kitchen counter read 3:51. That was a.m. time. In order to avoid suspicion, she spent what remained of the night at this impersonal flat, and caught a taxi to 221B Baker Street later that morning.

When she arrived, both men were sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.

Sherlock began to catch her up to speed on the case, but John noticed something was wrong.

"Everything alright?"

"I, uh…I was wondering if I could stay here a few nights. Just on the couch, maybe?"

"Why? What happened?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading. "She just broke up with her girlfriend. Spent the night at a hotel, from the looks of things."

John expressed a sigh of empathy. "If it's any consolation, things haven't worked out so well with Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?"

He gave a bemused frown. "You haven't even been gone long but you've missed so much. Alright then, Sherlock, go on."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You've been wanting to gloat all morning, that even I can deduce."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but pulled her up a chair and began to impart the past two days' events.

As Sherlock ranted on, and John gently pushed over the plate of biscuits, Sophie could almost forget the situation she found herself in.

A young man outside spray-painted in blue an eye on the side of a wall.

Almost.

.

And that was chapter two!. A lot has happened, a lot had to go on for Soph in advance of the season finale!

As you may have guessed, it'll be a chapter per episode. Some chapters will be more eventful than others, just depending on what our Sophie is up to.