First, let me apologize for keeping everyone waiting for so long. I can't tell you how busy I've been, because that would be really boring. But I'll do my best to update more regularly, alright?

Enjoy!

Irene laid absolutely awake, eyes fixed upon the ceiling. The newspaper was left sprawled out on the floor besides the bed; face down so the only articles in view were adds requesting people for services and the like. What did the paper matter though? What did the reporters know about him? Where was the proof that they were right?

They knew nothing of course. After all, they described him as, "The most brilliant detective London has ever seen," and "A hero to us all," and "The most ingenious man to ever help the Yard."

Perhaps these were true to them, she rationalized, but they failed to mention the complete truth. Say, how he was truly just a child on an emotional level, sometimes almost alien to having feelings at all. The way he would go to extreme lengths to prove he was superior, to have the last word. How he was an addict; to morphine once in a while, to the fight, to adventure with his loyal Watson, to me. She bet the reporter didn't know his tendency to be ultimately bored and poison, explode or shoot things (not when she was around of course, but the evidence was oh to clear). They didn't have a clue to that he didn't mean to be a hero at all. He simply was in the position to which he would become one whether or not he chose. But it was clear that most people disregarded that and thought him to be one anyways. Even Irene did sometimes.

With their information regarding Moriarty's status of being dead, it was quite possible they were wrong about Holmes' as well. It hardly helped, however, that the only subject her captor was very inclined to discuss was how he had witnessed the detective's head bash against a rock during the fateful fall. But where would he benefit from telling her the truth?

In a short summary, the woman felt absolutely powerless, and she loathed it to its core. Not only did it infuriate her that she was refused from any peace of proven information, freedom from the tiny, plain room, or any antidote to help assist her in her recovery, but she was left to self-pity and her own thoughts. She was left to pray for someone to find her, and that was weakening. Even wishing that her detective was alive made her look like another sniveling woman. In her head, she thought herself to be not so different from one anyhow. The disease, while only replicated, had affected her whole body. If she simply lost the will to fight it off one day, it was obvious she would die.

Truthfully, Irene was getting much better than previously when Moriarty paid her his first visit. She could now sit up to lean on the head board and eat on her own—not to say that it was still difficult. Drinking, of course, she could too; though The Professor thought it quite amusing to serve her the same tea she drank in the restaurant.

Things seemed to go normally for what she guessed was a week. Someone would come bring her breakfast of toast and warm tea in the morning, and a couple hours later, Moriarty would arrive with lunch. At night time a maid would come check on her healing process, lower the lights and leave her with dinner before leaving.

Upon this morning however, the same man with the moustache had brought her up a tray of breakfast as usual. Though three hours later, when The Professor typically came, there was no one to be entering her room.

Irene propped herself up with another pillow to put her head against the wall. She didn't hear anyone making their way up and down the hallway, so she assumed perhaps he had nothing for her that day and went back to trying to sleep. This, of course, was only a half-hearted attempt for there was truly nothing else to be done in such boring surroundings, limited to bed. Though, physically still exhausted, she allowed herself to drift off into the dark corners of her mind.

The woman opened her eyes to the sound of the door opening, and commanded her body to quickly start up again. For it wasn't Moriarty standing at the door this time, it was another; a gruff appearing man with short brown hair and a thick moustache and beard. While he was not covered in dirt, it was quite obvious he used to, with weathered skin and an expression that looked like a grimace. She quickly recognized him from being there at the restaurant, a sharp shooter The Professor had gotten a hold of somehow. However it was not those things that caught her attention most, but the hungry stare in his eyes that gazed over her.

"Colonel Moran, correct?" Irene asked, managing to sit herself up again. She did her best to appear stronger than she felt at the moment, which was very tired and pained with a burning sensation in her chest.

He gave a very slight nod, grimace falling into a bit more of an eerie smile. "Yes, Miss Adler. I s'ppose ye don't know why 'm 'ere, 'ey?" He spoke with a strong cockney accent, raising his heavy eyebrows.

In response, she simply shook her head side to side, gripping the white sheets beneath her hands. Her hand slipped up the sleeve of her dress, only to find that her revolver and knife were taken. The same result was found on the other.

"See, The Professor 'ad other business he needed to attend to," He took a step forwards to rest his hands upon the back of an arm chair, "Don' worry though, 'e made sure 'e 'ad someone to watch ya. An' that someone's me."

It was quite obvious to her now of what exactly he meant. Moriarty had left her as a present to his faithful servant, and a present she was to become. "I believe his only duty, Colonel, was to bring me lunch. And I'm quite hungry now, it's quite late actually," She spoke calmly, even as he took another step forwards.

"I think we can wait a li'le for some food. After all, miss, I'm a bi' hungry for something else…"

"Not today, I think—nor any day, Colonel." Irene pushed the rest of the covers from her legs and quickly swung them over the side of the bed. Not giving a thought to the waves of darkness that hit her, she immediately pushed herself back up onto her feet. The world around her tilted violently, and her vision began to blur heavily. It wasn't long before she felt the mattress press into her back as gravity protested.

He gave a chuckle, advancing further, "Nah, not today. Ye ain't well enough says the boss. Quite easy to see that as well."

Relief quickly flooded her as she put a hand to her pounding head, closing her eyes tightly in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

"Won't keep ye waitin' for too long, Miss Adler, promise. In the meantime', try ye best to recover."

The door closed in several seconds, and the world went black.

Next chapter will have Sherlock for everyone, don't worry. Hope you liked it!

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