I have infinite creativity. I have infinite motivation. And although opportunities may be limited, I do not intend that fact to so much as give me pause. I made him a promise. I will keep that promise.

He promised me too, many things, but I forgive him his betrayals. The person to whom he made those impassioned declarations was a figment, a few sketchy charcoal marks on a much-used canvas, intended for a temporary illusion. I was obliged to continue, after I uncovered his ... interesting mind... and I confess I was amazed to find that despite my incomplete portrayal, he filled in all my blanks for himself. For a while, I was, in his mind, the perfect woman – the only woman. And who does not wish to be perfection, in her lover's eyes?

I forgive him for turning his back on Irene. But – now – shining his light on that woman, this is harder to swallow. She has not the capacity to appreciate him in any but the basest sense. The waste shocks me.

I am angered by his rejection of Moriarty. A personal anger. My research told me to expect this. My knowledge of him, however, led me to believe that my resurrection would effect a softening of his attitude towards my so called crimes.

When it did not, I made him a promise: to hurt him.

He practically begged me to kill him but I will not allow him anything so finite, so limited. Death ends suffering, and he needs to suffer in order to regain an appreciation of me. When I have tortured him out of his foolhardy attachment to that woman, I will offer, again, to rescue him.

The mark of the warrior: grace in victory.

I have waited only to be sure that he would not take the coward's escape again – the quick drop onto the street and into a syringe. But months have passed and my spies tell me there is no indication of a relapse. And so it is time.

My plan is crude. It need be nothing else. It will gain me money, which assists with power, and it will put an end to the woman.

I need not dirty my own hands with any part of it. Others are standing by to execute my designs. I could remain aloof in my glass tower and await the rewards which will fall into my lap, into my bed.

But today I saw her kiss him, a nothing, an amateur kiss from a person who is unaccustomed to extracting the required response from the recipient. The kiss was of no consequence. Except – I also saw, where the woman did not, his expression as her lips brushed his skin. His look was – tender. Protective. I saw – though it disgusts me to admit it – pride, a kind of revolting possessiveness from him to her, as if he had somehow created his own admirer.

And so I will be taking part in this little game I have prepared, with a relish I have rarely experienced. It enlivens me, sharpens my mind, brings a keen hunger for the kill.

It is time for that woman to stop.

Author's note: read this after Declarations 5 if you like, as the two stories feed into one other. -Sef