The boys upstairs

Order

Come home

That was all, just two words yet their effect is severe and instantaneous. You blanch and sit down heavily on your bed, mind racing and pulse quickening. Surely this was some sort of cruel joke, a sick prank? Comfort comes in delusional theories but you know, you knew perhaps from the second the text appeared, who sent it.

Twilight settles over the room as you lie back on your bed, fingering the cashmere blanket provided by Mrs Hudson. You mull for hours, ignoring the calls for dinner with the boys, darkness falling in your mind as surely as the moon appears outside your window.

On some level you were being dramatic. Jim had made no evidence that he knew where you resided, and honestly you had been expecting his attempts to reach out. So yes, you needed to calm yourself and get a grip. Falling to pieces over two anonymous words was irrational and unhelpful. The comfort is weak but it brings enough peace for you to sleep, but when you wake the next morning it returns like a wrecking ball to the stomach.

He wasn't asking, he never asked. This was an order, and it was dangerous to ignore orders from Jim Moriarty. Yet here you were, ignoring away. You were getting better at this. The next question was whether to tell Sherlock. You still, drumming your hands against the window frame. He would be intrigued and impatient, wanting to establish contact you expect. Which was out of the question. So not Sherlock.

John then? Another no-go. He would panic on your behalf- he has grown quite fond and protective of you these past two months, and would inevitably seek to do what was best, which would naturally involve telling Sherlock or insisting you go into hiding. In fact, he might even contact the police to keep you safe. So not John either. Involving Molly was out of the question, obviously. That left... Mrs Hudson? No she wouldn't keep anything from the boys. And that was it. Your four friends in the world.

Despair is cold and unforgiving as you slam the window shut against the faint titters of the morning birds. You hope they choke on their birdsongs.

You are pulled from your dark musings by the sound of a crash, pounding feet on the stairs and a hammering on your door. They don't wait for an answer before the door swings inwards and John is at your side, frantically scanning the room, hair mussed and face taut. His face paints fear across your heart which quickly drops to your stomach.

"John! What's wrong what happened?!" You demand as he turns breathlessly to you, tears pricking his eyes. He swallows and croaks out a single word that wrenches at you painfully.

"Rosie"

He scatters from your room and you follow, charging behind him up the stairs and bursting into his flat where Sherlock stands helplessly, expression silently torn. You don't talk, following John down the hall into little Rosie's room. You expected it, dreaded it but yes you knew what you would find.

Her crib empty, the room eerily silent, absent of the slow breathes of tiny lungs but it is still a shock. As is the writing in red letters across the wall above her chest of drawers.

Come home

Sherlock is behind you both, steadying John and leading him gently back to the main room. The distraught doctor places his head in his hands and makes a noise like an animal in pain. You exchange a pained look with Sherlock who is deep in thought, worry creasing his eyes.

"It's ok John, we'll find her" You offer helplessly as he wails into his hands. Whether he hears you or not, he makes no reaction.

"We will find her. We were left a clue" says Sherlock and John snaps his head up to glare at his friend.

"I don't care, about bloody clues. Find her Sherlock Holmes or so help me you'll die for real this time" he hisses and Sherlock raises his eyebrows. You shake your head to cut off his witty comment and he begins to pace. But you've had enough. Standing quietly, you make your way across the room until your hand is resting on the door. Then a white hand lands heavily on your own and you start. You look up into the calculating blue eyes of Sherlock and sigh.

"I need to go" you mutter nauseously.

"Where?" He says quietly and you look away.

"Listen, you can't ask me where but I need to go" you say, pulling at the door. Sherlock slams it shut, hand still covering your own on the handle.

"(Y/n) do you know something about the writing? About Rosie?" He says conversationally and you wince.

"No- really I don't. No. But you need to let me leave"

He can tell you're lying, anyone could, but it is John that speaks next.

"(Y/n)..." his voice is hoarse and you wince at the obvious pain underneath. "If you know anything..." suddenly his voice deepens and cracks "I swear if you know anything" he's threatening now, and you press yourself against the door as he rises from the chair. He knows you're lying too.

"John sit down, (Y/n) tell me what you know, immediately"

John walks towards you and you struggle with the door but Sherlock holds it fast. Your heart races as he glares at you but you can't quite meet his eyes yet.

"Please... I'm sorry- let me go" you say but now he looks furious. Gasping quietly, you spin on the spot and wrench yourself free from Sherlock's hold. In one sweep you have removed the gun from your coat pocket and have it pointed at John's head. Sherlock goes to step closer and you point it at him next. In unspoken unison, they raise their hands silently above their heads. You are sobbing now as you flick off the safety, hand shaking ever so slightly.

"Where did you get that?" Hisses John and you snuffle.

"It's yours"

Sherlock's eyes widen and he speaks carefully.

"(Y/n) you don't want to do this... I know you don't. Your hand is shaking, you've never dispatched a weapon before. Make your choice (Y/n). We can help you" says Sherlock, but your eyes are on John.

"(Y/n)... this is my daughter. If she is hurt and you are withholding information from me... I will kill you."

You sob and adjust your hand over the weapon, desperate and scared. And furious, mostly at yourself.

Jim knew exactly what to do, exactly how to get to you. To threaten you and scare you, to keep you at his mercy. The easiest way to destroy you was to turn your best friends in the world against you. It was probably so simple for him, probably took only a little thought, genius as he was. Yes you had your infamous memory but what did it matter when he could corner you with just a few words? It didn't. And that's why you adjust the weapon slightly and aim it at Sherlock's leg.

It would buy you enough time to run; John would stay to tend to his friend and you could be free. In the ironic sense of course, you were free to return home where Rosie would inevitably be waiting. You could save them all, all you needed to do was pull the trigger.

So you do, and down he falls.