Hiya. I'm starting to get the hang of this, which means I might turn some of these future prompts into longer one-shots ;)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Irene paused for a moment, taking in the weight of his words. Escaping death at the hands of the most dangerous man in Europe was quite an admirable feat, but to escape again under these circumstances? The smooth glass vial in her hand started to feel as heavy as the decision she had to make.
But when did Moriarty ever play fair.
She leveled her gaze up to her old employer's ashen face. His eyes looked hollow, and dimmer than when she last remembered seeing him at the Savoy, which seemed so long ago. She looked back down at the pistol in his hand, and noted that it was shaking. Weak.
"It feels terrible, doesn't it?" She finally said, looking back into his eyes, "to slowly waste away, to be unable to get up some mornings because you are just too weak to do so."