Shadows of the Past (BBC Sherlock) -1-

5. Motive

This is crazy. I shouldn't be doing this. Why am I doing this?

I knew the answer: I had to know the truth. If I didn't talk to him now, I probably never would once he was locked up for good.

Guilt started to eat at me as the taxi headed for my destination. I knew Sherlock and John wouldn't worry about me—Sherlock especially—but I couldn't help but feel a little bad for getting up and leaving without leaving any note. I didn't feel so guilty once John got a hold of me by texting me. I lied to him through a text that I was roaming like the kind-of tourist I was, hoping to get some nice views in before the day was out. He seemed to buy the lie, like Mrs. Hudson had. I just hoped Sherlock couldn't detect a lie through text.

My shoulder throbbed lightly, like my body knew who I was going to see. Though he hadn't done the damage himself—he never got his hands dirty—he was the reason I was shot. I wondered if Moriarty remembered me. How can he forget the woman who attempted to shoot him?

I shuddered, reminding myself that, if I had been successful, I would have become a murderer. I would have been no better than Moriarty.

I remembered what he had done, all those people he had killed—not directly by his hand, but still, he was the reason they were dead. The man was dangerous, dangerously crafty. He was silently poisonous, like a snake or a spider. You never knew you were in danger until the poison hit you.

Once the taxi pulled up to the place, I took one large breath before I got out. I squared my shoulders, preparing myself. Don't be intimidated by him; don't make him think you're scared. Show him that you've changed, that you're still that same girl who tried to kill him at the pool.

When I asked to see him, the receptionist shot me an odd glance. I didn't blame her. Who would ask to see him anyway, after he had broken into the three most highly secured places in all of London? She probably thought I was his accomplice or something—that would explain the checks I went through. It was either that or it was standard procedure.

I was escorted by a guard, another precaution. I felt watched, like the guard kept throwing looks at me. I knew he wasn't taken aback by my attire, it wasn't anything revealing. If anything, I covered up almost every inch of my body with a navy blue turtleneck and jeans. I let my hair fall around my face, not bothering to clip it back.

It amazed me how Moriarty was allowed any interaction with the outside world. Did dangerous people like him get visitors, as vile as he was? If only the people knew just how dangerous he really was. What he had done last month couldn't compare to what he had done before the break-ins.

I had nothing to occupy my hands with; they kept patting my sides, fingering my shirt. Truthfully, I was nervous. Even though I said I wanted nothing to do with Moriarty, I had to talk to him.

I felt like I was confronting a fear as I was led into a secluded room. More like I'm about to be locked in a room with a caged animal.

The room was dimly lit, reminding me of the interrogation rooms that they always showed on CSI. For all I knew, this was not only a visiting room but an interrogation room as well.

I was left alone, having the door shut behind me. I took survey of the room before my eyes fell on my purpose for coming here.

He sat calm and collected, like he had no worries. His composed stature bothered me. Looking back, I wondered how on earth I had fallen for a man like Jim Moriarty. It was because he was a good actor. I fell for an act.