It was all too much. All of it. That was the last straw. The absolute lastfuckingthing she needed. And it was what broke her.
A presence sank down on the sofa next to her, a hand resting on her back. Maybe Virtue would know the right thing to say. The inspiring hero speech to help her tape herself back together.
But it was Sherlock who spoke. Not Virtue. “Buck up, old boy. You’ll sleep it off like you always do.”
Sidney corrected her earlier assumption.Thatwas the last straw.
Why she did what she did, she had no clue.
Desperation. Opium. Booze. Panic. Loneliness. The need to feel like she had a raft in a storm.
She really couldn’t say.
Turning, she launched herself at Sherlock.
And kissed him as hard as she possibly could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sasha jolted into awareness, sitting in a chair at a table. It was slowly becoming less jarring each time it happened, but it still nearly made her drop the wine glass she was holding.
Luckily, if anyone—includingProfessor James Moriarty,whom she was currently seated across from—noticed her flinch, they were kind enough not to register it.
They were at a Parisian-style restaurant. All of the tables were for two people, seated in such a way that each couple were given the maximum amount of privacy from one another. Thick, tropical plants that would be considered exotic and strange in the Victorian era helped serve as additional dividers to keep prying eyes at bay.
The perfect place for a criminal mastermind and…whatever she was to discuss their plans.
Whatever their planswere.
Suddenly, Sasha realized she really needed to come up with a plan. Something told her that if she didn’t find a way to control the situation—or at least guide it—Moriarty would be the one driving the proverbial bus. And that was something she very muchdid not want.
Because if she didn’t come up with a plot.
Vile would.
And that would be far, far worse.
But it was hard not to get distracted by everything around her. She was in Victorian London—surrounded by people dressed in period garb, eating and chatting and the lights were gas lamps, and it was just sowildto see. Being in Neverland had felt like a bad acid trip at Disneyland. But something about this felt more…grounded. More real.
Moriarty was studying the menu with all the interest of a man who was reading the airplane safety card because he had forgotten to bring anything else to do for the flight.
It was so bizarre. Moriarty.TheMoriarty.
But that wasn’t true, was it? He wasn’ttheMoriarty. He wasaMoriarty. Her version of him, just as Hook had been her version of that particular villain. That might actually be a good thing. It meant she didn’t have to outsmart Arthur Conan Doyle. Just her own stupid brain.
And her sister’s.
And potentially Vile and Virtue’s.Which, therein was the question. How much of the plot was set by the two demigods, and how much was it set by her and her sister?
Maybe this was an opportunity to find out.
But, that left her once more with the glaring problem.
She needed a fuckingplot.
Something original. Something that would get her and Sidney out of this mess. But what could she possibly do with Sherlock that hadn’t been done before? What did she have to work with?
There were only two unique variables in play. Her and her sister. If she was Irene Adler, there was no doubt in her mind that Sidney was Dr. Watson. And if she knew her sister at all, Sidney was trying to snog Sherlock already. Which led her to the epiphany she needed.
