Lilly had been enjoying her summer holiday immensely so far, opting to spend much of her time sprawled across her mum's sofa watching reruns of Doctor Who and blogging with her friends on Tumblr between her twice-weekly voice lessons. It annoyed her mum to no ends that Lilly spent very little time out of doors, but she worked all day and therefore had no say in the matter, which suited Lilly just fine. She got to eat whatever and whenever she wanted and take long baths with the laptop she got for Uni on a tray.

On a particularly hot and sticky afternoon in July Lilly had been lying on her stomach across the length of the sofa and flicking around in pursuit of the Doctor Who: A Christmas Carol rerun (she had been bothering her voice instructor to please let her learn Abigail's song at the end of the episode for her solo ensemble performance at the end of summer) that was meant to be on, when suddenly the telly flickered into blackness.

Lilly cursed and sat up, thinking that perhaps her mother had really taken it upon herself to put some sort of control on the television so Lilly would have to go out and socialize, and irritably tied back her dark red hair with every intention of calling the cable company. She'd done it before when she was fifteen and her mum had blocked all of the best movie channels because there was too much nudity or something stupid like that; she did a spotless impression of her mum and was so politely charming on the phone that no one ever said no to her.

Just as she is raising the phone receiver to her ear the picture comes back, but there's something else on that wasn't before. It looks like an ad for a terrible scary movie, the image green with night-vision tech and a woman with long hair between 30 and 35 crouching, handcuffed, to the floor of a small stone room. She was blinking against the light shining in her face from the camera, looking around the tiny room, and breathing fast. Lilly put the phone down, huffing impatiently and waiting for the voiceover or dramatic music or for the woman to be dragged off-screen.

Instead, the woman timidly called out, "Sherlock?"

A high, cruel laugh echoed around the small room and bounced out of the speakers, making the hair rise up on Lilly's arms. The ad was really running long; maybe it was a special feature sort of thing? She pulled her laptop close and opened it up to Google the TV programs for the day, and instead found her entire Tumblr dashboard cluttered with remarks of What the hell is on my tv, Isn't this a Graham Norton skit? to My telly changed! BARROWMAN! and then Who's the nutter and the bird?

Frowning, Lilly picked up the remote and tried to turn on the news. The channel changed, but it was the same image of the woman and now the legs of a man in very expensive shoes. The woman stared at the floor beneath her with a look of grim determination plastered across her young, lined face, until the toes of the expensive shoes tucked themselves under her chin and forced her to look up. Lilly felt a slither of fear crawl through her chest.

"No, sorry, my dear," said the man in the shoes, his voice carrying a high, teasing Irish lilt that made Lilly's skin crawl. "Though, you know, Sherlock?" A hand appeared and tapped on the lens of the camera, temporarily obstructing Lilly's view of the woman. When it drew back she could see the sudden understanding and fear in the eyes of this Sherlock person's friend. "I do hope you're watching this. It's gonna be good."

Lilly looked at her computer screen again. What the hell is going on? Is this some new Fear Factor show or something? followed by the inevitable: I DON'T CARE ABOUT THIS MOVIE JUST PUT DOCTOR WHO BACK ON I HAVEN'T SEEN THE CHRISTMAS SPECIAL YET and finally, thankfully: You guys. I think this is real.

By the time she had scrolled through the new posts on her dash the man in the shoes had gripped the kidnapped woman by the hair and forced her to look into what she seemed to think was a light, unintentionally squinting right into the eyes of the British population. "Say your name," says the man in the shoes.

The woman does not shake, and does not cry. "You already know my name, or are people you wire and strap into vests full of Semtex so forgettable?"

Lilly cringes when the woman is slapped, refreshes Tumblr with slightly trembling hands. Oh god, this is sick.

The woman closes her eyes for a moment to gather herself. She cringed when the man hit her, but otherwise has shown no sign of real fear. "My name is Joanna Heather Watson," she grinds out between gritted teeth.

"Tell the good people about yourself, Jo," continues the man, sounding sickeningly amused.

For the briefest moment, the woman – Jo Watson – looks confused. "The good people? You…oh, you utter bastard!" she snarls, fighting her restraints for only a moment before one of the expensive leather shoes rests atop her head and pushes it down onto the floor. Jo shifts around uncomfortably, her ear to the ground and her bottom swaying in the air for a few seconds before she loses her balance and ends up lying on her side.

"Now, now, Jo, Daddy's patience is short today," says the man in the shoes in a viciously calm voice that reminds Lilly of the mother in Mommie Dearest. She squirms on the sofa and refreshes Tumblr again. No new posts; it seems that everyone is frozen in fear with her.

Jo looks like she dearly wants to make some sort of snappy retort, but seems to realize that wouldn't be the best idea with his foot still so precariously placed on her head. "My name is Jo Watson," she says in a voice of forced calm with underlying quakes of fear and anger. "I'm an ex-army doctor. I served in the military for eight years. I live in London. Satisfied?"

Lilly can practically hear the smirk rolling across the face of the man in the shoes. The face that hasn't shown itself yet. She realizes she's shaking and gets up to get a glass of water, but freezes in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes still locked on the TV screen as the foot comes off of Jo's head and the man begins pacing slow circles around her prostrate body. Lilly sits herself back down, feeling that a drink can wait a while.

"That'll do for now, Joey dear," he says in his frighteningly soft voice. "Now, how much do you wanna bet Sherlock is watching telly right now? Would you bet your life on it, sweet pea?"

"Shut up," Lilly found herself growling as the man's voice rose to a falsetto when he said "sweet pea," clenching her hands into fists on top of her thighs.

Without another thought she pulled her computer closer and opened a new Tumblr post. What the hell is going on? We have to stop this maniac before he kills her!

"Come on, Sherlock," called the man, tapping on the camera lens again, "are you paying attention? You call me within the hour or our little woman is going to burn. I gave you my number ages ago, after all."

Lilly refreshed her Tumblr and found a reply to her post. ./ Her eyes widened and her fingers flew across the keyboard as she typed in the familiar address. How many people were named Sherlock? She'd been on his website at least once a day for months now, fascinated by the genius of the detective but too shy to do much other than hide behind a made-up name and occasionally try to help solve his puzzles. She briefly contemplated texting the phone number, but her phone was under her bed somewhere, so instead she logged in.

Username: theimprobableone

Password: Melba1931

Lilly scrolled through the few posts that had been put up since the incident with the pigpen cipher that had had her in fits of anxiety for hours when no one answered her (usually the detective at least acknowledged if she was right or wrong, which made her feel relatively famous), but didn't find anything remotely strange. She glanced up at the television screen – the man had gone, and Jo had finally succumbed to her anxiety, taking in deep shaking breaths to keep from bursting into tears – before turning her attention back to the website, opening a new message to Sherlock Holmes.

To: Sherlock

Subject: THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT PLEASE DON'T IGNORE

Sherlock some madman has Jo and it's on TV everyone is watching it if you don't call him in an hour he said he's going to hurt Jo PLEASE JUST TURN ON YOUR TELLY.

She sits back, curling her knees to her chest, and waits, refreshing the page every few minutes after sending the message. Twenty minutes pass before a curt Thank you. –SH, is sent back to her, and it's enough to flood a sigh of relief through her, accompanied by the tiniest thrill of delight that comes from someone "internet-famous" acknowledging her existence.

No problem, she writes back, always one to push her limits, How else can I help?

Lilly looks up when there's a bang on her telly that makes Jo flinch from where she'd remained on the floor, pushing herself up quickly to see. The unnamed man in the expensive shoes' legs stride purposefully toward Jo, circling her like a vulture.

"Do you like the view, Sherlock?" asks the man, kicking Jo in the back to move her face closer to the camera. "I think she's looking a little washed out, myself. You really ought to wear more makeup, Joey."

Leave her alone! shouts the voice that must belong to Sherlock, very faint as though the from speaker of a cell phone. Lilly leans forward, mentally correcting herself with the word mobile, Lilly, mobile, you're British now, get it together…

The faceless man tsks into the phone. "Now, now, Sherlock, let's not get over-emotional. Though I do love it when you get all worked up – are you sweating?"

"Moriarty!"

The laugh that comes from the faceless man is not high and cruel, like the first time Lilly heard it. It's low, cold, calculating, and terrifying. Lilly didn't think her skin could crawl any further until now. She presses herself harder against the back of the couch, as if the man is able to see her. Moriarty. His name is Moriarty. It's somewhat calming, really, to know his name. He's no longer a faceless monster, but a human being.

She starts observing the room instead of what's going on inside of it. It's nothing like anything Lilly has ever seen before, all roughly-cut stone bricks and weeping cracks in the low ceiling. All signs indicate an underground structure, somewhere near a body of water, so it's either on the coast or near the Thames...or any other river in the sodding country. Well, that narrows it down, she thinks sarcastically to herself.

Alright, something else then, something different. The stone. Tertiary rock, more specifically lower Eocene, judging by the texture when she couldn't see the color. So the Thames. She smiles to herself and runs to her room to get her mobile.

By the time she gets back to the living room Moriarty has left Jo again, lying with her back to the camera and shaking slightly. There's a far-off click, and suddenly the sound of gunfire comes from the telly speakers, accompanied by the shouting and screaming of dying men. Jo sits up so quickly she ends up pulling against the restraints, hissing with pain as they dig into her wrists, and yet she keeps pulling. She pushes herself up into a crouch and pulls against the chains, again and again and again. She starts shouting something in another language that sounds like Arabic, and then garbled instructions to invisible men who are probably long dead. Her wrists tear open and bleed and she doesn't notice.

New TXT Message

To: 6123459809

Wherever they're keeping Jo, it's near the Thames; I'm almost certain. –TheImprobableOne (Lilly)

From: 6123459809

I know. –SH

To: 6123459809

Tell me how to help. –Lilly

From: 6123459809

No. –SH

Growling with frustration, Lilly throws the mobile to the other end of the couch. She'll text him again later, most likely. Just as she's wondering what time her mother will be home the front door opens and her mom strides through, weighed down with bags of takeout and a new haircut. "Lilly, have you been watching TV all day?" she asks irritably. "You'll be big as a house by the end of the year, and then who'll marry you?"

"Maybe I don't want to get married," Lilly snaps without thinking. Before the shouting starts she jumps from the sofa and takes the bags of takeout from her mom, running it to the kitchen to get plates. "Where'd you get your hair done? It looks nice."

Instantly that sets her mother off on a rant about her hairdresser that buys at least another five minutes of thinking time. Lilly hands her mother a plate of food and settles down to watch Jo, who seems to have fallen into some sort of stupor, crumpled on the floor and gasping for air after her episode. Lilly lets herself relax briefly, checking her Tumblr for any developments.

Radio's going haywire. Everyone wants to know what's going on.

At least there's still news of some sort.

Lilly goes to the website of the first radio station she can think of (American. Bloody hell.), and then goes to the second station's website when the American one doesn't know anything about the crisis. Even though her mother complains she turns up the volume.

…named Jo Watson, a retired surgeon from Her Majesty's Army," says the reporter. "Her only living family, a sister named Harriet, has been informed of the situation and is on her way to the police station as we speak. Scotland Yard has asked that please, if anyone has information on Jo's whereabouts, to contact the Yard immediately. Until further notice, we'll be playing an hour of children's programming every morning from—

With the smack of plastic hitting plastic Lilly's mother closed her laptop, much to the chagrin of its owner. "I was listening to that!" Lilly shouted.

"Go for a bike ride," her mother demanded, putting the laptop in her "special cabinet" and locking it.

Fuming, Lilly didn't bother putting on a proper shirt (wearing only a very small vest shirt) before storming out the door and to the flat next one floor down. "Norton!" she called, knocking on her neighbor's door impatiently. "Norton, can I watch your TV?" He grumbles something from inside, something negative. She pounds harder, and he grumbles again. "Norton, let me in or I'll scream in fake-orgasm!"

"Lilly, don't you dare!"

It's too late; she's already very annoyed with her mother and not about to take no for an answer. "Oh, GODFREY!" she shrieks in a perfect imitation of toe-curling ecstasy, shrieking and moaning until she gets a response from inside. When Norton opens the door, still in his nightclothes and therefore smelling very faintly of sweat and also looking very cross, Lilly slips past him with a quick kiss. "Thanks, dear."

By the time he turns to face his own flat Lilly is already perched on the edge of his sofa, switching on the TV while typing on his laptop. It was already open; she took liberties. "Mum stole your computer again?" he asks casually, dropping onto the sofa beside her. She makes a noncommittal but still grumpy noise in the back of her throat, scrolling through a website he's seen on his computer before from past visits. "Still stalking the detective, eh?"

Lilly shoots him a glare. "His partner's been kidnapped; I'm trying to help. And I've never stalked him, just his website. There's a distinction, Norton; do your homework." She catches him up on the situation rather quickly, with visual aid from the websites. Norton seems shocked and scared by the sabotage of British television. His quick uptake pleases her; she rewards him with a kiss. "Help me figure out where she's being held hostage?"

Norton shakes his head but agrees, pulling out his "back-up" computer and beginning to research underground facilities built near the Thames in the past few hundred years. Lilly checks her phone and The Science of Deduction regularly.

The recorded gunfire and screams doesn't end, but Jo eventually sits up, pulling at her own hair, pinching herself in the arms and legs and muttering to herself, "I am Jo Watson, I am in England, I am alive, I am Jo Watson, I am in England, I am alive, I am Jo Watson…" She hugs herself as best she can with her hands bound, and repeats her mantra for at least ten minutes before she's pulled completely back together.

Once her breathing has slowed down she starts looking around the room with a cautious, calculating look Lilly had never before seen on the face of someone who, at first glance, seems unable even to fight off a decent gust of wind. She examines every corner of the room from where she's bound, and only very reluctantly looks into the camera.

"I'm sorry," Jo says in a hushed voice, stinking of true, raw guilt. "I'm so sorry, whoever you are, watching this. Sherlock? Are you there? I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock."

Lilly is inconsolable for at least 20 minutes. Norton orders from her favorite Chinese place so she doesn't have to go back to her mother. They set to work.

"Here," says Norton an hour later, tapping on his computer screen with emphasis. "Looks like some Inquisition-era dungeon or something. Probably where they'd keep Protestants until they confessed."

"What do you think the chances are of the torture devices surviving?" Lilly asks with a distastefully curled lip.

Norton immediately makes a negative sound and shakes his head, clicking away at his keyboard. "No, no, they were raided for artifacts to be brought to museums and such. Shouldn't you be sexting your detective or something?"

She shoots him a Look over the screen of her computer, humming under her breath as she maneuvers through the Science of Deduction, deciding right then and there that Moriarty had to be the one who had been sending Sherlock all of those puzzles a few months ago. He's obviously unbalanced and extremely dangerous, and yet Lilly can't bring herself to be intimidated by him when she hasn't even seen his face.

It grows dark outside as Lilly and Norton finish their takeout, and her mother texts her. For a moment Lilly entertains the idea that maybe the older woman was worried about her whereabouts, but instead the text simply reads Stay at Lisa's tonight I've got a fiend coming over.

"New boyfriend?" Norton asks when she sighs. She pokes him with her toe and turns her attention to the telly.

Jo is still sitting up, but is looking anywhere but into the camera, her back ramrod straight as she surveys the room. She plays with the chain binding her to the floor – or particularly, one link in the chain – and Lilly has a feeling it's not just to occupy herself until the cavalry arrives. She's clever, Jo, that much is obvious from her blog (even when she is muting her own skills in favor of putting the spotlight on her flatmate's brilliance) and the way Sherlock talks about her on his own website.

There! As suddenly as Lilly notices her playing with the link (which she really must have been doing for quite some time) it breaks apart in her hands. There are still shackles around her wrists but she is no longer bound to the floor. She leaps too quickly to her feet and crumbles back down to the floor, holding her head.

"Okay," she whispers to herself and to all of Britain, "slower. Okay."

To Lilly's left Norton makes the sort of fist-pump that's typical of when he finally beats a video game he's been playing on for three days straight. "There's a little museum in Southend-on-Sea, one of those little stone house types with a rotting roof and a creepy old lady who tells you the place's been around almost as long as her – are you texting your detective? – anyway, there are pictures of the place, and the cellar's roped off, like it's too dangerous for even employees to go down there and the floor could collapse at any moment?"

"But there are museums like that all over the place," she says, getting up to a crouch to look over his shoulder.

He grins at her and pokes the screen of his laptop, pointing at the webpage for emphasis. "Not like this. This one is owned by one—" he opens another tab, "Professor James Moriarty. He's filthy rich; a lot of times people will own small properties or business like that for tax purposes, you know? But this one's been 'closed for renovations' for three years. Are you texting him yet?"

She practically falls over herself to get to her mobile, fingers stumbling as she writes out a text.

To: S HOLMES

Southend-on-Sea. South end. Small museum near the coast owned by Prof. J Moriarty. -Lilly

She doesn't get a response, but that's alright because she's certain that Sherlock wouldn't leave his phone for an instant during such a case.

Approximately three minutes later there is an enormous bang, and Jo flinches as the door to the cellar flies open. Moriarty storms into the room, grabs Jo by the hair, and throws her across the tiny room with a strangled cry of pain. He reaches her again in three quick long strides, swings back his hand, and hits her.

Lilly clutches to Norton's arm as, grunting with furious effort, Moriarty rains innumerable blows down onto his undeserving victim. She can tell that Jo is trying as hard as she can not to give Moriarty the satisfaction of crying out, but when one well-aimed hit clearly damages her nose she breaks. He steps back, avoiding the blood streaming freely from her split bottom lip and nose. Jo slumps against the wall, gasping and crying, curling herself into a ball to protect herself in case of another attack, but Moriarty seems satisfied with the damage he's caused. He massages his bloody knuckles carefully, cleaning them with a handkerchief from his sleeve and then throwing it at her. "Clean yourself up," he orders her, and she complies slowly.

"Thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty, Moriarty," she growls, dabbing at her lip. "Sherlock must have really pissed you off."

He kicks her, hard, in the more vulnerable side of her right knee. "Call me by my name," he commands. When she doesn't answer quickly enough he kicks her again, forcing a whimper from her lips.

"J-Jim," she chokes out, gasping for air and clutching her wounded leg.

He kneels down, back to the camera, and grips her face tightly in his hand. "Tell me you love me," he croons, petting her blood-darkened hair. She hesitates again, and he nearly crushes her jaw.

"I love you, Jim," she grinds out through gritted teeth, and even from across the room Lilly can see tears of hate slipping down her face.

Moriarty brings his other hand to her face then, grasping the loose skin of her cheeks in his fingers and shaking her. "You'd best remember that, my dear," he snarls at her, "because if you're under the impression that someone will swoop in and save you at any moment, you are sadly mistaken." He releases her and stalks out of view of the camera, his voice slipping back into its eerily merry serial-killer tones. "Did you hear the gunshots earlier? Well of course you didn't, not with this racket," he amends, invisibly indicating the continuous play of gunfire and screams. "Sherlock was here, popped by, killed three of my men, such a charming visit. I shot him."

"No!"

Lilly and Jo shout out at almost the exact same moment. Norton clasps her hand tightly as Jo leaps to her feet and instantly falls down again, unbalanced and likely concussed from the beating she took.

"Mm, yes, afraid so," continues Moriarty as if discussing the weather. "Four times, right in the heart, nasty business. But I did so enjoy the look of surprise on his face when I did it. He thought I wouldn't, you see. Thought I would want it long and drawn-out and dramatic, like a drop over a waterfall or some such nonsense like that. The way our grandfathers went. But no, he was getting to be annoying and I disposed of him. Like any other insignificant louse…"

"Stop," Jo says weakly, pushing herself up to her feet and leaning against the wall to remain that way.

"He cried, at the end," he keeps on, digging deeper into the wound as Lilly hides her face in Norton's shoulder. "He cried your name, Jo. Begged me to let you go. Begged like a groveling child."

"Please Jim, please stop!"

"I sat in my favorite chair and listened to his last breath. It was your name. His final word, his final thought was of you, and you'd never even shagged him. You poor little duckling."

"SHUT UP!" Jo screams, throwing herself across the small room and very nearly catching Moriarty by surprise. However it takes only moments for him to overpower her, increasing Lilly and Norton's certainty that she has a concussion severe enough to interfere with her military training. Moriarty throws her back to the wall and shakes her against it until she can hardly move, let alone fight.

He drops her and she crumples to the floor, moaning and clutching her abused head as he makes for the door again. "Get acquainted with the darkness, Jo my dear," he says in his lilting voice. "I'm keeping you forever."

The door closes with a bang and the locks groan into place. Silence descends, and it's almost bearable until the barely-audible sound of Jo crying, softly into the collar of her jumper, rings through the room.

"Sherlock," whimpers Jo faintly through her tears, "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"He's not dead," Lilly says stubbornly. "He's not, he's just not."

To: S HOLMES

You alright? -Lilly

There's no response, and she starts shaking enough that Norton takes the phone from her hands and hugs her. It's dark outside, nearing midnight; when did that happen?

Lilly drifts off for a while, with Norton monitoring her mobile and the computers while stroking her hair. She's woken up at two o clock when Norton gives her a shake. "Lilly, something's happening." She sits up straight, rubbing her misty eyes, and watches as Jo stumbles across the room until she's inches from the camera. Her tear-streaked face is set into a mask of bleak determination. She's bruised and bloody and looks sadder than Lilly's ever seen a person be before, but there's a hardness to her eyes and the set of her jaw that sets her somewhere high above that despair and into an unforgiving will to carry on.

"Sorry everyone," she says hoarsely. The world quakes and blinks out.

There's a brief moment of panic mixed with a sickening relief. No one will have to see what happens next. Lily leaps to her feet, climbing over Norton's coffee table to get to the telly as though she could fix it, and by the time she gets there the image of the room comes back, this time from the point of view of a corner that had always been in darkness. Jo jumps and turns to face the new source of light, clutching the disconnected and broken camera to her chest.

For a third time the door swings dramatically open and Moriarty sweeps in. "You really thought that would work?" he asked, sounding lazily amused. "On the floor, Jo." She drops the camera onto the floor immediately, falling back against the wall where the gadget had been embedded before she yanked it free. Moriarty laughs. "Not the camera, Joanna. You. Down you get and off with your trousers."

"No." The heat and anger on her face, the fire and ice and rage are reflected in her voice at last. The strength of the soldier burns like the storm at the heart of the sun (Lilly has to stop watching Doctor Who, for chrissakes), and Jo stands as tall as she is able. Moriarty advances on her slowly, backing her ever closer to the camera until she knocks right into it. The world rocks dramatically enough to make Lilly nauseous, and then their only view of the room is the ceiling and a few strands of Jo's long hair; she tripped over the tripod it was set up on.

Moriarty's face blooms into view, staring down at Jo and the camera with a satisfied leer.

There is a rush of noise and the screen goes wonky again; it takes a moment for Lilly to realize that it's because the camera is flying through the air and not a problem with wiring. There is a brief bout of masculine screaming and the sound of metal and plastic striking flesh, crushing bone. Jo is screaming at him, senseless, guttural cries of hate and pain as she swings the base of the tripod into his skull. When the shaking finally stops, Jo aims the camera's torch anywhere but at the floor.

"Oh, God," she whispers shakily, to herself and all the country. There are muffled bangs and voices upstairs. There's more jostling of the camera as she yanks it off of the tripod and shifts it to her chest; it feels like Lilly and Norton are moving across the room toward the ajar door with Jo between them. Lilly finds herself leaning with the camera when it tilts until Norton pulls her back down beside him.

The door's hinges creak loudly as Jo pushes through it, her steady hand appearing for a brief moment. The short corridor leading to the stairs is dark and silent, until suddenly a man Lilly recognizes as DI Lestrade clambers down at full speed, gun bared. He freezes and squints against the camera's torch. "Jo? Is that you?" he asks in a gruff voice.

"Lestrade." The way she calls his name is like the very breath of God, and suddenly Lilly and Norton are looking at Lestrade's back as Jo hugs him. "Sherlock's dead."

The space suddenly between Lestrade's feet and Jo's speaks volumes. "Jo…"

"If you really believed that treacherous lie, Joanna Watson, I have lost all faith in you."

Lilly's phone buzzes.

Thank you. –SH

Lilly's voice instructor didn't let her sing the song from Doctor Who. Instead she learned a proper professional song, and when she performed at the end of the summer she achieved what her mother had been preparing her for since infancy.

Practically overnight Lilly took Britain by storm with nothing more than her voice and pretty face. She toured across Europe in an opera troupe, had a brief fling with a governmental ornament in the Czech Republic that resulted in a few hastily-smothered photographs, and completely forgot about her brief endeavor into crime-fighting with Norton and Sherlock Holmes.

Years have gone by since then, since Chinese takeout and shouting matches with her mother, and she is in a car accident that destroys her back. She returns to Britain for a life of peaceful luxury and public appearances, occasionally attending a concert or performing at a charity show. She finds her Norton again, now a lawyer and just as filthy rich as her (well, nearly), and they are happy.

She is performing one night in a fancy theater she's hardly taken a moment to learn the name of when it hits her that no one here knows her. Her fame sparked and fizzled so quickly that she is not even remembered. It hurts more than she'd like to let on, and the moment she finishes her song she rushes out of the building. She'll take a cab home, fancy dress and all.

"Excuse me?" someone calls, and she stops. It's drizzling, and there are puddles on the pavement ruining her dress, but she's hardly impolite.

Jogging toward her is a woman who looks like she'd rather be anywhere than in the dress she's wrapped up in, bearing an armful of flowers. "These are for you," she says, pushing her damp blonde hair from her eyes. "You were…are…brilliant. Thank you."

As the unfamiliar woman trots back to the side of her unearthly-tall companion, becoming more and more familiar by the moment, she looks down at the card on the flowers.

Lilly Irene Adler,

In arduis fidelis.

-SH

No one knows her by her first name anymore, except for Norton. Even her mother has insisted on calling her by her stage name, to keep up appearances.

She smiles and decides to walk home, hugging the flowers to her chest and letting memories keep her warm.