27 - Late Night Meeting

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A/N - Hiya! Sorry for taking so long with this chapter. I have about 5 different attempts at this chapter but I thought this one was best in the end. It's a bit of a long one so grab a snack, make some tea/coffee, sit down and enjoy!

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Elizabeth had fallen asleep shortly after John had departed. Of course, beforehand she had left the window open, but the moment she sat down on the sofa (which was her bed for next couple of evenings) all of the exhaustion from the day hit her as though someone had successfully landed an incapacitating hit.

As 1am quickly approached, Irene managed to get into 221B through the open window. She couldn't help but think about all the people in her life who had underestimated her abilities and had called her nothing but a pretty face. Little did they know, she possessed skills they never thought possible for 'a woman like herself'.

Once in the flat, The Woman's gaze fell upon a sleeping Elizabeth. She couldn't help but think the thief looked sweet in such peaceful bliss. Little did she know that she was enduring the complete opposite.

Elizabeth only wished that the exhaustion brought her happier dreams than the nightmare she was enduring:

Elizabeth was sat in the chair that Sherlock and John normally had their clients in. The overwhelming feeling of being unable to move unnerved her. But then Sherlock appeared, pacing in front of her, John too, sat in his chair. It was quiet. She found she couldn't speak. When she did try, no sound came out.

Then Sherlock stopped and turned to her. The look in his eyes accused her, of what, she didn't yet know, but the gaze made her stomach turn.

"I thought you said you didn't kill?" Came Sherlock's worryingly controlled, quiet question. He looked as though he had been betrayed.

She tried to speak again, yet still found she couldn't. How would she ever be able to defend herself if she couldn't argue back?

Sherlock shook his head, and expression of pure disgust gracing his face, "I was wrong about you. You're a murderer. A fickle coward and a liar. I should've known you were still working with Moriarty all this time."

Elizabeth wildly shook her head at the accusation. It wasn't true. She hadn't - she wouldn't kill anyone. Of course, she knew that she hadn't told them about the phone call she had received from Jim...then, when she did remember that, the reality dawned on her. She did kill a man. She had killed a man by speaking.

Lestrade walked in, accompanied by a pair of handcuffs, as did Mycroft who strolled into the room, a smug look about him. He had been right about Elizabeth. A leopard could never change its spots.

"I told you, Brother Mine, not to get your hopes up, didn't I?" The older Holmes sneered.

Sherlock kept gazing at her with this, not angry, but disappointed glare. It broke her heart. She felt the tears gather in her eyes as Lestrade cuffed her hands and finally broke her free from the feeling of being frozen in place by standing her up. She couldn't even defend herself. It was true after all.

Mycroft strolled over to her, leaning in close to her face as he hissed, "I did say thin ice, Miss Parrish."

The moment Lestrade had walked her out of the flat, she had appeared in a cell. Cold, dark and damp. She was alone. She had lost her voice. No one cared. It scared her, it truly did. And again she felt the tears slip down her face as she slid down the wall, trying and failing to keep calm.

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