Chapter Six

Emilia finished the suspect screening at the station. No one matched the voice in her head that she heard. It was the only thing she could remember about the night she was almost killed. Now…

A few weeks had passed, and Mycroft had his strings pulled so tightly. The people tied to the strings even moved like puppets as they bent and broke to his commands. To how that man has so much power is beyond anyone…

Emilia was already in waiting as the so-called fashion show was almost to begin. She was frustrated, seeing as how this had to have been the idea that was come up with. It was starting to disturb her how she may die in a few moments. This would definitely clear her name, though, if they do truly catch the man responsible… if anyone is even suspicious of her past. Her name, which could easily be tied to her family, should have been the dead giveaway. Emilia reminded herself to look up Kyal later and thank him again, if she makes it through the day.

Emilia started thinking back to the past, when the last time she had 'modeled.' She was a teenager, and her mother asked her to partake in one show, just to see if Emilia had a feel for it like she did. Emilia was sixteen then, and to Emilia it seemed like a beauty pageant more than anything. She modeled, showed off talents, and read a prepared speech her mother wrote. By the end of the day, Emilia didn't like it, but her mother was so happy that she succeeded and won, she pressed more upon her. Emilia swallowed her pride and smiled for her mother, to make her proud.

A few months later, Emilia's parents were murdered and everyone blamed her.

Sherlock called in Lestrade to keep watch. The officer made himself appear as a stagehand to keep an eye on Emilia's dressing room area with all the other women. One of the strings Mycroft had arranged was for Emilia to have a room of her own, to isolate her and try to capture the culprit.

But on his own, Sherlock was alongside the stage, close enough to protect Emilia.

John had taken the safest and most responsible job of the whole scheme; sniper. It was honestly well out of his regular duties when plans unravel around anyone with the surname Holmes, but something he was once good at. He was located in the rafters of the building, unbeknownst to the guests of the occasion. He wondered though, if Moriarty was really the one who was to blame. To him, he thought the crime seemed too unlike his style, but there is no extent to what one human will do.

The show finally began, and the boys had to sit through an agonizing while of watching girls walk up and down a stage. Why was Emilia even in this when she was younger? Sherlock thought it was a stupid hobby.

"Announcing the return of an old favorite, Emilia Hayes," broadcasted a man's voice.

This was part of the plan, flaunting her out like this to get attention.

John put his finger on the trigger, released the safety. Lestrade put his hand on his gun holster. Sherlock gripped the edge of his seat in anticipation.

Emilia took one step onto the stage, and Sherlock's phone rang.

"What?" he bit quickly and quietly without checking the caller.

"You really think I'd fall for this?"

Sherlock's pupils shrank as his blood ran cold. That was his voice.

"What do you want with her? Why are you killing these people?"

"Ohhh, you think it's me killing the girls? Boy, have you got it almost all wrong!" Moriarty sang.

Emilia passed by Sherlock, her long hair flowed as smoothly as the dress she was showing off, and he looked straight up to where John was.

"Then who is it, who's came to you for advice?"

"Keep your eye on the birdie now!"

Moriarty hung up as Sherlock caught the lingo. His eyes were stuck to John, seeing as how he was now the target. How could he call him to safety without causing alarm?

Emilia and John, oblivious to what was going on, kept going along with the plan. Emilia on the other hand was getting too nervous. She glanced to where Sherlock was sitting and saw the alarm on his face, the panic. Something was wrong.

To give off a signal they should have made up in the first place, Emilia twisted her foot in a manner that snapped the heel on her shoe and caused her to fall.

A collective gasp was called from the crowd as they all rushed to their feet. The action had in fact alerted John. He moved his eye from the scope and just barely happened to catch the glare of a red laser pointing at his body. He engaged the safety and crawled away from his position on the rafter, slowly making his way to the ladder on which he used to ascend to his position. The red laser followed him, causing him to panic even more.

Sherlock watched Emilia's performance with one eye and kept the other on John. Emilia was fine, John wasn't.

Emilia laughed the incident off, peeled off the shoes and continued her walk to the end of the platform and back. Sherlock knew he had only moments before Emilia would be alone again. He would have to report to her room quickly if Moriarty still tried something.

He just still couldn't believe it. He was right (again), but knew instantly someone had hired Moriarty's help. 'Boy, have you got it almost all wrong!'

John touched down on the ground just as Sherlock reached him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, how's Emilia?" John asked as he started dismantling the sniper rifle and packing it away.

"We're going to her now. Come on."

Sherlock and John walked as calmly as they could. By now they certainly could have attracted attention to themselves, but John didn't see the red laser anywhere anymore.

Emilia returned to her room with a pounding heart. What happened for Sherlock to have such a distressed look? Did he see someone? Was she really in that much trouble? The stress caused her to drop to her knees before the vanity, her hand on a drawer handle. When the door opened, she started to panic all over again and pulled a handgun to point at whoever entered.

"Whoa, when did you even get that?" John cried as he put his hands up in defense.

Emilia dropped it to the ground and collapsed with it, breathing heavily. She's feared for her life too much today to be comfortable with it.

"Best be okay with it," Sherlock stated as if he could be reading her mind. "According to John here, spending a day out with me includes the most life threatening activities he's had since he was in the army. I like to call it work."

"What happened?" Emilia asked as she propped herself up on her hands and knees, then assumed a sitting position on her knees. She smoothed out the clothes she was instructed to wear, knowing full well now they were either ripped or ruined somehow due to her mischief.

Sherlock huffed. "We need to get out of here."

John watched Sherlock as he paced the entire room restlessly. "Who is it? Who called you?"

Emilia looked to John, then Sherlock, then at Lestrade as he appeared in the doorway.

"It's him. He called me."

"I'm gone, we're already gone," John spoke turning instantly toward the door. For all the things Moriarty has made them go through, John didn't want any more of it. It was totally time to go.

Lestrade went out first donned in his bulletproof vest under his clothes, and hailed a cab for the trio of his companions to use to go home. Once it was parked alongside the curb, Lestrade gave them the okay to get in. He had no idea why there were so jumpy about going home to a place where Moriarty could find them anyway.

John dove in with his sniper rifle in a duffle back. Emilia followed with Sherlock right on her heels…

But Emilia didn't make it.

Her scream was subtle to say the least, as a .308 caliber bullet shred through her shoulder. Her body fell backward onto Sherlock, where he caught her with shock. Her blood leaked down the front of his coat. For a moment he didn't know how to react. Was it him or her they were really aiming at?

"Sherlock, come on!" Lestrade yelled at him.

Sherlock picked up Emilia and jumped into the cab with Lestrade close behind. Looks like plans have changed.

"I'm with the police, to Bart's now!" Lestrade yelled while flashing his badge.

Emilia was whining as she was laid across the seat, her head in John's lap.

Sherlock was still in a mild case of shock; his mouth hadn't closed completely, his hands were stuck midair above Emilia, his eyes were wide with fear.

"Do something, John!" he called out, suddenly gathering his composure.

Lestrade watched Sherlock with clinched brows, amazed at the emotion required to act out like that. But his first priority right now was of course, Emilia.

"I'm trying my best!" John pressed his hands down on Emilia's wound. The bullet went clean through, but didn't pause for any bones or major arteries, John gathered. He cringed as Emilia cried out in pain from the pressure, but they both knew it was for the best.

In the back of his head, John had a horrible flashback to his own injury from the war. He appeared paralyzed to the other two men in the car, and his pressure subsided on Emilia's wound. John swam around in his head, reliving the memories of the shot in his leg all over again. He couldn't stop thinking back to how he felt as though he burdened his teammates with the weight of his body as the drug him back to base, how they had to use the best of their knowledge to attend to his wound like—

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?"

When John blinked back to reality, the cabbie and himself were the only people left in the car.

"Yes, I'm fine. Uh."

John looked around and saw they had already arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He scolded himself internally. That was possibly the first time he let himself delve that deep into his repressed memories.

"You going to be okay?" the cabbie caught John's attention again.

"Yes. You need payment."

"Your silver-haired friend told me to bill the 'Yard. I'll hold you guys to it, now. Just get out already."

John crinkled his nose and climbed out of the car and ran into the building. His first collision was with Molly.

"John, what's going on?"

"Oh, Molly, hello, uhm—"

"Someone said Sherlock came in rushing carrying a girl. What happened?"

"Molly, I'll find you downstairs later, for now I think its best we leave Sherlock be."

Molly tilted her head, preparing to ask more questions. The mousy girl lowed her head and nodded.

"Yes, you boys are always right."

John watched as the girl turned on her heel and made off back down to the morgue. John shook his head at himself, knowing he just upset the poor girl.

"It'll be fine," said another voice, distracting John from finding his two flat mates.

When he turned he saw Mycroft joining his side, umbrella on his arm.

"So what do we know now?"

"Do you always come to me because you know I'll be less evasive and aloof as your brother?"

"Sometimes. I think you know better," Mycroft chuckled.

"It was a trick. He made us believe I was being targeted when all along it really was Emilia."

"She's trying to be silenced. She must know more than she lets on."

"It's become a game now," John said stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. He glanced down at his slacks and found a large blood stain on his left leg; where Emilia was laying on him. "Moriarty contacted Sherlock. She doesn't know any more than she's shared. We put her in danger, today. Your ideas put that girl in danger."

"We all consented to this idea, John, do you remember? Keep me updated on her healing."

Mycroft took his leave then, leaving behind an upset and frustrated John Watson. For a brief second he thought, if I never would have moved in with—but he never finished that process. His life experiences he has had with Sherlock he would not, nor could not trade for anything in the world.

"Sir, are you with the party that came in earlier…?"

John looked at the nurse that addressed him.

"Could you tell me the name of the injured party before I let you join them?"

"Emilia Hayes, along with Sherlock Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Where the hell are they?"

Sherlock was pacing outside the room Emilia was in. John watched each step he took back and forth for almost an hour now. Lestrade gathered statements from them both, annoyed to a tee, and left. He had work to do back at the office now. The doctors were trying to eliminate the possibility of infection in her wound after discovering the bullet wound had been coated in an unidentifiable substance. Once tests came back though, the substance was a strand of poison that had been sweat off with Emilia's high body temperature. Sherlock determined that with the small dosage of that particular poison, Emilia would have simply gotten really sick for a week and then it would have subsided and left her system for good. But, Sherlock had stated in his frenzy of speaking, with the personnel as meticulous and thorough as they believe themselves to be, they feel the need to slot in more figures onto a bill that is going straight to Mycroft. Like hell if they expect any of us to receive such junk mail.

"Why won't you sit down, Sherlock?" John motioned to the seat next to him.

Sherlock eyed the seat as if it were the first time he'd ever seen quite an invention. But, once seeing the weary look in John's eyes, he took the seat.

The silence was heaven to John's ears, for now he didn't have to hear Sherlock's heels clicking on the linoleum. He was beginning to get a headache from his lack of food today.

"John?"

The former army doctor looked to the detective who was now pulling his legs onto the seat with him.

"Were you experiencing an episode of post-traumatic stress in the cab?"

John pursed his lips as his hands became clasped together in his lap.

"You haven't been seeing your therapist for the longest while, now that I think about it. That was the first time I've seen you have an episode like that."

"It's nothing to worry yourself with."

"I must say though, I didn't think that would trigger it. If anything, I thought—"

"I don't need to see a therapist!" John yelled out, louder than he intended to. "First, Emilia gets shot. Next, I have a memory—a memory , mind you, and then I upset Molly. Mycroft gets on my ass for not doing anything right, and now you want to dog on me for post-traumatic stress?"

"You upset Molly? Why?"

John shook his head and took Sherlock's pacing pattern before the former.

"Usually when I talk like this you ignore me."

"Well I'm at attention, now, Sherlock. I'm at full bloody attention. Is there anything else you care to ask me?"

Sherlock lowered his head as he thought about that question for a moment.

"I think we are out of milk again, would you remember to get some when we're done here?"

John threw his hands in the hair and treaded away to the end of the hall and back.

"We're really out of milk already?"

Just then, the doctor came out of the room Emilia was held in. Sherlock jumped to his feet and awaited news.

"She's stabilized now, and—"

"Of course she is, can we see her yet?"

The doctor looked at Sherlock with knit brows, but stepped aside and held his hand out to the door. Sherlock led the way into the room, John on his heels.

Inside the white room was Emilia laying on a bed, attached to a beeping machine. Sherlock frowned at the fact they had her attached to a heart monitor. Not like she needed it. Emilia was fighting sleep, or at least just waking up from being under.

"How are you feeling?" John asked the girl's side.

Emilia spoke to John with stuttering words and soft tones, all the while Sherlock remained a distance away from the bed.

He felt like he was overly excited to enter the room for no reason now. She was okay, so he could go now. He knew she was going to be okay, though. Something else pushed him to be so eager. For almost an entire second, he wished she would ask him to join her in bed to help her fall asleep again. But the thought was gone just as it had surfaced in his head.

While Sherlock was playing around in his mind palace, Emilia was waiting for him to join her bedside, too. John's hand holding hers of course was comfort in itself, but Sherlock would have been better. She scolded herself for thinking that, but maybe it was just the sedatives still lingering in her body that gave her the thought. Her shoulder started to pulse with a tinge of pain every now and then.

John read the pain in her face, and looked to Sherlock for assistance. What John saw instead of a bored man, was a confused man. John looked back to Emilia's face and found her watching Sherlock as well. The pair joined at the bed were more worried about the well being of the man further away than the own injured party.

Sherlock snapped from the depths of his mind and noticed the two staring at him. Catching John's gaze, he read sympathy. Sherlock disregarded it, thinking he didn't need that particular emotion. When his eyes caught Emilia's though, he felt like he understood everything in just that instance.

Sherlock left the room running.

So how are you all feeling about the story? I know the action is little and romance seems far off, but be ready for something in the next chapter. I feel you guys deserve it.

PS, kykyxstandler, you're awesome and I really appreciate you.

You guys are really nice stalkers, the lot of you. Drop a review, you weirdoes. :)

Also, Benedict's birthday is on the 19th. Is anyone else as excited as me?