It was dark before Jacob bothered Hannah again. She sat pensively on her bed, her legs folded beneath her and her hands clasped in her lap. She heard him enter. He was carrying a tray with a two mugs of hot chocolate and a rather large slice of Hannah's favorite cake along with two forks. He set the tray down in front of her, before coming to sit beside her, their backs to the headboard.

His fingers slipped to the back of her neck, feeling the tense muscles. He massaged the muscles there, causing Hannah to let out an involuntary moan, and for a moment she forgot where she was.

/

Sherlock would often get bored. Being home most of the time, not being able to work on cases while letting the shock of his death die down, he tried to find projects to do around the house. Hannah sometimes found his projects annoying, the ones where he would be loud, rearranging furniture or hovering as she cooked their dinner.

Often while she was reading he would slip behind her, settling her between his legs so he could read over her shoulder an article in a newspaper or to see what book she was reading. His fingers would slip under the back of her shirt, running them up and down the soft flesh. He would lightly press on the spots he knew she grew knots in or where she tensed the most.

His breath would be hot against her neck, fingers slightly chilled against her skin he would begin to knead her muscles. Hannah loved these moments, the quietness of the house, the peace she needed to read, she would find herself wrapped up in Sherlock. At a particular knot in her lower back she moaned, leaning her head back against his shoulder. Her book fell shut in her lap as his lips pressed against her shoulder.

She turned to press her lips to his cheek, ghosting them across his cheekbone. His lips soon met hers and she allowed a breathy moan to pass her lips. His fingers slipped around to her stomach and she giggled at the ticklish sensation. These moments of just Sherlock and her. The moments that wouldn't happen had anyone else been around. The secret care Sherlock spread over her made her feel so important. To him she was.

/

But she wasn't with Sherlock. She was with Jacob and Jacob was not Sherlock. His fingers were rough all over, not just on the tips where Sherlock was a bit calloused from playing the violin. His touch didn't burn with patient desire. It didn't spark the flame in her stomach. It wasn't as intimate as Sherlock's touch, it was impersonal, meaning that to her, Jacob's touch made her feel nothing. Jacob must have sensed it for his hand dropped from the back of her neck, to rest behind her on the bed.

Before she could stop it, words poured from her mouth, "Why did you do it?" She could feel his body go rigid beside her. "You helped him." Her voice cracked. "He killed both of our families and you helped him." She turned to look at him. He turned and sat on the side of the bed. "Jacob?" She was careful not to jostle the tray, turning to face his back she reached for him. "You were my friend..." Her hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped, in a quick motion he had her wrist twisted and was facing her. She screamed in pain.

"I had to!" He exclaimed. He tugged her from the bed and she stumbled, falling at his feet. "I had no choice." She whimpered as he tugged on her wrist.

"You did have a choice."

"No!" He yanked her from the floor by her wrist, causing her to scream again. He threw her to the bed. "You couldn't just let it be could you?" His voice was tense and rough. He was angry and at her. "I did all of this for you." His voice was a low growl. "I even took you away from that haunted house so we could be together just like we should be." She tried to put some distance between her and Jacob. "You can't just accept the present and do away with the past." Him looking this way was truly terrifying. She could feel her heart hammer against her ribcage. "Those psychopaths both wanted you, but I knew that we belonged together. As long as I play patsy I could get close to you again, I was able to rid both of them for you!" He flipped the tray, sending it crashing into the wall, mugs shattering. She flinched away from him, crawling higher on the bed, whimpering as she put pressure on her wrist.

"Jacob, please!" She cried.

"No!" He stomped over to her and gripped her by her hair. He stared into her eyes and his face softened seeing the fear. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and slipped past her temples and into her hair. His anger seemed to subside, if only for the moment. His voice came out almost as a whisper. "I'm sorry Hannah. You must learn not to upset me like this." His hand never loosened its grip in her hair. "If you mention it again, I will have to punish you even more so than I will now, do you understand?" She whimpered and nodded. His lips pressed softly to hers and he released her hair, her body falling limp on the bed. "You are going to clean this mess up, and then I want you to return to this room and you are not to come out until I tell you. Understood?" Hannah soothed her aching scalp with her good hand and nodded silently. Jacob took one last look at her, as though he wanted to say something else, but turned and left the room.

Hannah cradled her wrist to her body, the skin already beginning to bruise. It was tender to her touch. She looked over at the shattered mugs, the drink staining the carpet, the cake left a train down the wall. She had to get to a phone and quickly.

…

Sherlock groaned, he pressed his fingers to the area under his nose, bringing them back to see the blood that was gushing from it.

"What the fuck Sherlock!" John yelled. He lifted his friend from the floor and pushed him far away. "What kind of shit was that?" John's fists were tight to his sides, knuckles white. A spattering of blood was on his right hand.

"That's not important right now." Sherlock walked into the kitchen and grabbed a paper towel, tipping his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You faked your own death and that's not important?" John was furious, which was to be expected. Sherlock sighed. "Hannah knew didn't she." Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"She knew that if she told you that you would be in danger." Sherlock wiped the blood off of his nose. "I made her swear not to tell you." John looked around at the home that had changed drastically since the last time he was there.

"Well, where is she?" Sherlock ran a napkin under the tap and wiped away the rest of the blood. "Hannah?" John called.

"She's gone." Sherlock stated. He tossed the napkins into the trash. "That is why I called you." John stood opposite Sherlock in the room. That is when he really looked at Sherlock for the first time since seeing him. Sherlock seemed healthier, he had more weight on him than John had ever seen him have, not that it was a bad thing. Sherlock seemed almost normal. His hair was a bit longer, but John assumed Hannah cut it regularly. The last thing he noticed was the panicked expression on Sherlock's face.

"She's been taken."

"Yes." Sherlock frowned.

"Where were you?" Sherlock seemed almost ashamed of himself. He was blaming himself for not being there to protect her.

"I was looking for Moriarty's base." He paused. "Moran took her... Jacob, or whatever you want to call him." Sherlock leaned against the counter, waiting for John to process everything.

"You've been living here with Hannah this whole time?" John's eyes met his and he nodded. "You're with her aren't you?" Sherlock felt a blush creep up his cheeks, willing it to go down.

"We have to find her John." John nodded accepting his friend's avoidance of the question as a 'yes' answer.

"Where do we start?"

…

Hannah placed the remainder of the shattered mugs and plate on the tray. She had set a stain remover into the carpet and cleaned off the wall by the time she heard Jacob put on the television. He had left to buy these supplies for her soon after he left her in the room, returning twenty minutes before to toss the bag of cleaning supplies on her bed, giving her a longing look and then leaving the room once again.

He had a phone. She knew this because he would occasionally take it out and check a message from someone or answer a call as he stepped from the room. This hotel room had no phone, none that she had seen. The phone might have been removed by Jacob before he brought her here. She had to get the phone from his pocket. She would have to get closer to him.

Her punishment was isolation. She thought she could walk the tray and broken glass to the kitchen, but knew she would have to immediately return to her room. She knew she could do something in that span to turn the tables in her favor. Something.

So she collected the remnants of the mess and the bag of cleaning supplies. She quietly walked down the hallway and into the small kitchen area, she dumped the tray into the trash, placing it on the counter. She then set the bag next to it. Jacob was mindlessly watching a show on the television. She stood awkwardly in the doorway. She knew she would have to play along to get him vulnerable enough for her to take his phone.

She walked hesitantly into the room. "Jacob?" She kept her voice soft, he made no motion to acknowledge her. He was positioned in the middle of the couch, his legs apart, hands resting clasped between them. "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier." She slipped into the seat next to him, splaying her fingers on his thigh, rubbing it soothingly. She rested her head on his shoulder. "Can you forgive me?" He placed his hand over hers on his thigh, grasping her fingers with his. He turned to look at her and she tried to look as innocent as possible. And then he kissed her.

In another life, another time, another place, Hannah and Jacob could have been together. The both of them could have grown up, married, and popped out a baby by now. This fact wasn't lost on Hannah. She wondered if this sickness in his head, the one that made him obsessive, was a symptom of the virus called Jim Moriarty.

Had their families not died, had her elder brother not have met Jim, Hannah could imagine them being together. She knew that it wasn't a far possibility. But as she lay wrapped in his arms in the dark of the night, she couldn't help but think of how if her family had never encountered Jim Moriarty that she would not have met Sherlock.

She wondered if it was kismet. Was she always meant to meet Sherlock? Or was it the twist of fate that led her to him instead of with Jacob. Sherlock and Hannah's relationship was slow moving and she wondered if it would have been the same had she not met Jim. So many endless possibilities and all of them spinning around in her head, she couldn't fall asleep. She was wound too tightly in his arms to get to his phone which lay in the kitchen charging, but she knew if she stayed up a bit longer she might be able to slowly work her way out of his grip and into the kitchen.

She slowly shifted herself to her back, slipping from the bed took about ten minutes. She stopped by the side, watching as he snuggled into her pillow. She tiptoed from the room, slipping past the door and crept down the hallway to the kitchen, where his glowing mobile rest next to the coffee maker. She picked it up and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She dialed a familiar number and waited.

"Hello?" The moment she heard Sherlock's voice pick up on the other end she felt a great relief spread through her body.

"Sherlock." Her voice was watery, and she felt her eyes tear up.

"Hannah!" She heard a shuffle on the other end, "Where are you?"

"A hotel in the middle of London, Jacob he-" She heard footsteps walking down the hallway. Jacob.

"Shhh. I've called John, we're coming to get you. Just... be careful." She screamed as a bang sounded on the bathroom door. "We are coming Hannah."

"Hurry!" And then her line went dead.