The Girls That Don't Belong

Feyre Blaise

Feyre followed behind the raven haired man with her head down, her blonde hair was in soft messy curls and her blue eyes shined with a sad light. She nodded as he spoke to her, but stayed silent, looking up on occasion to watch the windows for a sign that someone else was there, hopefully to get her.

They came to a stop and the man spun around, walking up to her. "What is it? Do you really think that Sherlock would come for you?" he asked her, sarcasm and malice filling his voice.

Feyre looked up at him and nodded, "He doesn't care for me, but you lured him in for a game, he's going to play if it's started." She lied at first, pretending to know the truth, spitting out the words with a hatred that would be mistaken and thought to be directed to another person. Her acting was immaculate, and her words, full of spite and hatred, were a lie.

The man laughed, "You're right, he doesn't care for you, he won't save you unless it's to play the game," he replied to her, tilting her chin upwards, "He lied, and I see you saw through his words."

She backed away and pulled her face from him, "All geniuses lie, only another can see through it." As she spoke she poured hatred into the words, anger filled her eyes, and only someone who knew her better than anyone could see the hope behind the anger.

He rolled his eyes as he thought of what to say to her before turning around and walking to a table in the middle of the abandoned building, a warehouse that reeked of death, a smell that Feyre hadn't dealt with in almost a year, she would much prefer the scent of roses and mint, sometimes the ocean, but always roses and mint. Still the smell comforted her as much as it disgusted her, and somewhere in the back of her mind a voice told her that it wouldn't be too bad to go back to killing people, getting paid for the quick job.

She ignored the voice and sat indian style in a chair, closing her eyes and remembering what 221B was like, any day without a case Sherlock would be conducting a experiment, shooting at the wall, or pestering Feyre who would have been reading, drawing, or, if lucky, sleeping, something she didn't always do. A day with a case the flat was busy, papers everywhere and clothing was always inside out or backwards, sometimes Feyre found herself wearing one of Sherlock's dress shirts, almost always the purple one, with shorts that hid under the shirt, half made sandwiches pushed to the counter so the table could be of use. Feyre smiled to herself for just a minute as she opened her eyes, spotting the moving figure through a window.

She looked to the man, Moriarty, who was busy at the table. Her interest spoke for her, "What are you looking for, the hydrogen or the blend, I can see that the table was set up wrong." she said blandly, "Everything on that table is wrong, even the colors were assigned wrong, pink for antidote, yellow for poison, and blue for tricks. From the looks of it pink is yellow, yellow is blue, and blue is pink."

Moriarty turned and looked at her, "Do you ever shut up, it's easier this way." he hissed at her, half expecting the woman to flinch at his voice, surprised when all she did was shrug.

"Well obviously I can see it is easier, but you still seem very used to the other way, maybe you should go ba-" Fey was cut off as she was back-handed, she could feel the blood in her mouth, 'Must've bit my tongue and split my lip.' she thought, spitting the blood to the ground and standing up. "I'm sure you could do better, doesn't even hurt much," she was back to acting, spitting out a lie, her face was in pain but luckily enough she enjoyed it, enjoyed it enough to laugh through the pain as a gun fired from the doorway.

The two people turned to the door and Feyre beamed for just a split second, a tall pale man was standing there, gun pointed at Moriarty, eyes trained on Feyre.

"Blaise, you're dripping blood onto your shirt, I thought that was your favorite." the man said, nodding to her, "The pants I know you could care less about, Mrs. Hudson must have something to help you get the blood out of both."

Feyre nodded and started walking towards him, "I'm very well sure she does, dearie, but I'm not very fond of this shirt much anymore, we can just toss it." she yelped as she was pulled back against Moriarty's chest, a gun to her head.

"Leave, Sherlock, or I'll shoot the lying brat." He pressed the gun, harshly, against her temple and dug his nails into her to hold her against him.

She frowned, "Do let go darling, you mustn't keep trying for me, it could hurt whatever ego you have left." She interrupted what Sherlock was about to say and pulled the gun from Moriarty's hand, effectively pushing him to the ground and pointing the gun between the two. "Alright boys, this is how it's going to go, you two are going to stand there together and tell me what you've done for me in order not to die. Either one of you dies, both of you do, or neither of you do and I leave from both of your lives, Sherlock do toss the gun to the side, I wouldn't want to hurt that pretty face of yours."

Sherlock tossed the gun away as Moriarty stood up,  "Fey listen to me, Moriarty brainwashed you, killed your family, he has never done any good for you Fey."

Feyre looked at Sherlock and pointed the gun at Moriarty,  who smirked. "Feyre what has Sherlock done for you, besides giving you a home and food and a job, making you happy...," he trailed off realizing that what he had just said was a mistake, as the bullet hit his chest.

Sherlock ran to Feyre and carefully removed the gun from her hands. She broke down crying and he carefully helped her into a sitting position on the floor pulling her to his chest and wrapping her in the black trench coat he was wearing.

Feyre sat there as he hugged her, police flooding into the room, her mind was full of mush, the only thing she could hear clearly was Sherlock, telling her to breath and that it would be okay, she wouldn't go to jail or be charged for what she did, it was going to be put down as self-defense.