𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖈𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓, jim moriarty

𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗜 𝘄𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘀

♱ ♱

A T H E N A' S P O V

I laid here wondering how much time had passed since Klaus had exited the room, leaving me to my slumber. I try to grasp this thing, this insect in my mind that stops my brain from feeling. I try to feel something, like those who feel jealous of those who can fall asleep with no worry. I should feel like that. But I can't. A phD in Psychology and an IQ of 187 and I can't relate myself to the world while they succumb to the silent embrace of sleep. It's a peculiar irony, isn't it? While others surrender to the comforting oblivion of slumber, I am left to grapple with the enigma of sleep. Due to me not being able to feel, I let myself create those who can. Hailey Grey. A 22 year old girl who likes to babysit her neighbours kids. Suddenly, I'm her. It's easy now. To understand. Feelings. Hailey feels sad when her boyfriend cheats on her. Hailey feels happy when her coffee tastes just right. With the mind of Hailey, and all the other "people" I create, I feel whole. The only downside of this is that it is temporary. Once the mask is taken off I'm back to being boring Athena Holmes. And that's why I normally never take it off.

As I lie here, staring into the darkness, I cannot help but ponder the nature of this universal phenomenon. What purpose does it serve? Why do we succumb to its siren call night after night? Is it merely a biological necessity, or is there something more sinister lurking beneath its tranquil facade? If it is, then am I lucky?. Am I lucky not to fall into any trap that lies for me when I close my eyes?

The concept of sleep fascinates me, not because I crave its restorative powers, but because it represents a vulnerability—a state of unconsciousness where the mind is defenseless against the unknown. It is a realm where dreams and nightmares intertwine, blurring the lines between reality and illusion. I remember the last time I dreamt. Not that I remember the dream, of course, but the feeling. I cant explain this feeling, because I can't understand it. Not anymore at least. Now I only picture things in my Mind Palace. I guess thats a reasonable substitute. And every time my body fears to shut down due to exhaustion, I must feed it drugs to finally be able to do so. It's not healthy, but what can I do? Die from exhaustion?

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of thumps running up stairs. I sigh, my brain already raking through the possibilities before it lands on one circled in red.

Mycroft.

I had barely closed my eyes when the door
splintered open, and men in black suits stormed in. Their faces were stern, their eyes unyielding. I sprang up, adrenaline surging through my veins.

"Ms. Holmes," one of them barked, "you're coming with us."

"It's barely been a day, has he lost his mind?"
I protested. Protocol was clear: when exposed in the field, an agent must lay low. I glanced at the sleek black car waiting outside, its tinted windows concealing secrets. My mind raced—Mycroft, my elusive brother, had orchestrated this. I had no choice but to follow his every whim. That idiot! Wait until I give him a piece of my mind.

I hastily grabbed my coat, frustration coursing through me like an electric current. As I stepped out into the night air, my senses on high alert, I couldn't shake the feeling of being cornered. Fuck it. Why should I hear him out after I risked my life for him to just screw me over like this?

Before I could make my escape, Mycroft's voice sliced through the silence. "Athena, wait."

I turned to see him striding towards me, his usually composed demeanor slightly frazzled. "Mycroft," I greeted him curtly, my irritation palpable.

He caught up to me, adjusting his suit jacket with a sense of urgency. "I know you're irritated but there's more at stake than you realize," he insisted, his tone urgent.

I folded my arms, skepticism written across my face. "And what could possibly justify this intrusive interruption?" I shot back, my frustration boiling over.

Mycroft paused, his expression grave. "Sherlock's safety is paramount," he explained, his voice softening with concern. "I believe Moriarty is still alive, on the contrary to Sherlock's beliefs."

"Don't be stupid Mycroft, it isn't a good look. Moriarty is dead." I say.

"I just think theres a possibility-"

"Tell me he's dead." I look at Mycroft's face. Tense, but not because he's lying, but because he's worried. Oh god. If you even exist. He's telling the truth.

"Okay let's entertain your theory. If Moriarty was really alive, when will he strike first?" I question.

"That's what I've been trying to say. It seems that there is opportunity found at the wedding of Mary Elizabeth Morstan and John Hamish Watson in which Sherlock is attending as the best man."

"Hamish? Seriously?" I snicker.

"Athena. You need to-"

"Oh no." I say, dragging out my words.

"You need to let me speak" Mycroft says, agitated.

"I know what you are going to say. You want me to go to the wedding and look after Sherlock."

"Well?"

"Count me out."

"No, No. There is no out here. You will attend and you will make sure that Sherlock is safe 100% of the time, do you understand me?."

I look at him in the eyes again. I've dug myself into a deep hole this time. Scratch that, I've been in this hole since birth. "Fine"

"Good. Now get in the car, Anthea has your dress in there."

Shit. His comment makes me look up in the sky and realise dawn has already broken. "It's morning already?"

"Morning? It's nearly afternoon. Hurry up and get in the car, you're going to be late."

"Oh all right, quit your nagging." I open the passenger door and sit down, Anthea sitting opposite me, holding a dress in a plastic cover on her lap. She looks over to me.

"I'll close my eyes. I promise."