"M…Moriarty," she struggled out, barely above a whisper as she dropped her head back again, unable to hold it up any longer. What little energy she possibly had after all her fingers were broken on one hand escaped her after having been strangled. It was as if death was cheated in that moment and took everything but her life.
She couldn't see his reaction but she knew a smile had appeared on his face. "Jim. I insist. Always a pleasure to meet a fan," he said sardonically, kicking the severed head on the ground away as he approached her. He squatted down to meet her eyes. "Emma Marin. Hard to find anything on you. Even Timothy over there knew almost nothing. But it was still enough to save your life."
She curiously tilted her head up to look into his eyes. She didn't know where this was headed, but it was sure to bode ill for her. His smile widened as he reached out to touch the top of her shattered hand. Her trembling intensified as she saw him pull out a Swiss Army knife. She turned away, unable to look at what he had in store for her next. But to her surprise, she felt a sudden freedom in her limb. She quickly turned back to his hands to see him cut away her restraints.
"We can prove very useful to one another. Quid pro quo, right?" he said, the last sentence uttered very quietly an inch from her each. It made her shudder, feeling like Clarice from the Silence of the Lambs, except with herself locked up and Hannibal glaring hungrily at her.
"I already told your men that you're not getting Mycroft from me," her raspy, dry voice responded.
He chuckled as he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a syringe filled with a clear substance. "It's not Mycroft I want." He slid the needle into her forearm, her own body too weak to pull away. "Sweet dreams," was the last thing she heard before exhaustion began to seep in. Jim's smiling face began to blur and was soon disappearing under the heavy veil of sleep that was instantly pulled over her.
Light flowed in through her closed eyelids to awaken her from her slumber once more. At first she thought she was in the same room and she mentally cursed those fluorescent bulbs. But something felt different this time. It was far more relaxed than she had felt in what seemed like years in that dungeon.
She opened her eyes, struggling to awaken her brain as well, still groggy from whatever Jim had injected into her bloodstream. As awake as she possibly could be at the moment, she sat up and found herself on a king sized bed under a fluffy duvet comforter. At first she thought she was dreaming as her mind was still hazy, but she found that it wasn't the case. Her right hand was bound completely in a thick white cast and she no longer felt the pain, but a full bottle of painkillers on the black nightstand next to her seemed to be the cause of that.
She looked around the room and found it was as large as the entire first floor of her own little cottage. Most of it was empty space though, other than the large bed with dark gray satin sheets, her nightstand, and a black desk with a computer desktop upon it. Next to her was the source of light – a window that took up an entire wall, showing the beautiful day that lay beyond. The scenery was similar to her cottage though, as nothing could be seen but yards of empty grassland.
She repeatedly tried to shake off the heavy fatigue that filled her body and swung her legs over the bedside. Still in the same filthy robe she was wearing the day she was captured, the only difference she could see was scarred bruising on her wrists and ankles from her restraints. She held onto the bed as she attempted to stand, having been out of practice for what she was sure was at least a week. After getting some of her strength back, she weakly limped over to the desk with the computer on it and attempted to turn out. It remained unresponsive. She looked all around, made sure it was plugged in, everything was hooked up and yet again no response. She threw her fist down on the keyboard in frustration and looked around the room again.
There were two doors along the wall that she had just noticed. She hurriedly hobbled over to the one opposite the window and found it to be locked from the outside. She went to the second door, which opened easily and revealed a clean backroom with white tiles, white marble vanity and sink area, shower, bathtub, everything. Brand new product of every type lined the vanity and on its matching chair sat a folded up piece of silk. She held it up and saw it was a brand new robe, a similar style to the one she was wearing. Thinking of Mycroft's snide comments, she couldn't help but wonder if that's what everyone considered to be her staple style.
Seeing no other option, and being able to smell and feel the days-old sweat and blood on her body, she turned the shower on and hopped in, careful to avoid getting water on her cast and using only her non-dominant hand to do the washing. This had not been her first experience in waiting for broken bones to heal.
After drying herself off and putting on her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and jumped in surprise at seeing a figure against the daylight in front of the window. She felt herself go cold again as he turned around to face her.
"Healing well?" he asked, slowly walking toward her. He was in a darker suit than the one she last saw him in with a dark red tie. He must have just been at a special meeting to look so intimidating.
"Well enough," she responded, before noticing the next addition to the room: a wheeled cart upon which was a jug a water, a fruit platter, some bread, and cheese. She wasted no time to dwell on Jim as she began downing glass after glass of water. Her hunger could wait, but thirst left her about ready to start drinking the shower water moments ago.
"You're probably wondering why you're still alive and why you're here," he began, sitting on the edge of her bed facing her. She responded with an interested look as she popped a grape in her mouth. "I need you to find certain…information for me."
"Have you tried Google?" she asked, sarcastically. This earned a light chuckle from him. "Mr. Moriarty, I explicitly remember you saying we could help each other out. If this-" she opened her arms to indicate this room "-is what you offer as payment, I decline. Kill me, if you must, but I'm not going from being someone's bitch to being someone worse's bitch."
He clicked his tongue in disappointment. "And I thought your life would be sufficient payment. Kids these days. Nothing's ever enough," he mocked, a fake exaggerated frown on his face that made her involuntarily roll her eyes at his dramatic manner of speech. "Luckily for you, I can give you what you actually want." He stood up and slowly walking toward her, stopping just when he was looming over her figure. "Your little friend disclosed that all you want is freedom. Little birdie just wants to be free of her cage, am I right? One small favor and I can give you that. Just look at how long it took you to find me."
Her eyes ran over his face, studying it to see what she should make of the offer. She was tempted, but enough to trust Jim Moriarty? Then again, he seemed more sincere than Mycroft. It was unfortunate that a consulting criminal's promise held more credibility in her mind than a major employee of the English government's.
Seeing her hesitate, he continued. "Don't worry. It's not like I'm asking you to kill someone. Not that you would mind," he added with a smug look.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?" she asked, taken aback by the snide comment.
"Oh, come on. Not exactly a secret, is it? Military from a young age, despite a wealthy upbringing. Outstanding service at the academy. I'm the last person you should hide your…bloodlust from," he uttered, taking a lock of her hair and twirling it around his finger.
She slapped his hand away from her and took a step toward. "I've changed."
"Someone's in denial," he sang out. "But that's besides the point. I'll get you your precious freedom. All I want in return is everything you can find on Sherlock Holmes."
She stepped back, unsure of what she had just heard. "Sherlock Holmes? That would be Mycroft's…"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"And what makes you think I'll take the job?"
"Curiosity." She scoffed. "Or I just kill you now."
She studied his face once more, weighing her options in her mind. This is what she always wanted, no? And all he wanted was someone's life story in return. No violence, no risks, and then she would be free to roam the world on her own, doing whatever she pleased with whomever she liked.
"You have yourself a deal," she finally said.
He smiled and took his phone out. With one tap, the computer on the desk came to life. "Good. I want everything you can find. His own phone records, records of people referring to him, previous clients, cases, everything."
"Except Mycroft's, of course," she warned.
"Of course. You can go on protecting your little master," he mocked with his usual grin. With that, he turned and left the room, leaving just the liveliness of the machine on the desk for company.