Walking Toward the End

I walked to the nearest store to get cereal. About a month had passed since the fall, and I felt like I had fallen into a hole. I'd gotten a job at the local stationary store. Every morning I got ready, went to work, and went home. No Sherlock to keep me up until four in the morning, or his cases to make things interesting.
I grabbed my bag, while at the door I thought I heard Sherlock's voice.
Stop it, I told myself. He's gone. You'll only torture yourself.
Curiosity got the best of me and I turned. Sherlock was talking to the cashier.

I tried to understand my emotions. I was relieved, angry, happy, and confused at the same time. I decided to do what felt best at the moment: shouting.
"Sherlock Holmes!" I stormed to him. "I thought you were dead!"
Tears of relief stung my eyes as I threw my arms around his neck.
"Don't ever do that to me again, you bloody idiot." I sobbed
To my surprise, he wrapped me in his arms. "I know."
I stepped away and wiped my eyes. "John...John went back to therapy. Mrs. Hudson hasn't denied being our housekeeper. She's been cleaning and cooking for us, and I had to get a job. We-"
He cut me off. "I'm sorry."
I opened my mouth, but couldn't find the words. Bag forgotten, I shook my head and exited the shop, making my way back to Baker Street. Sherlock followed, not letting me be relieved of his presence.
"Eveline," he called after me.
He gave me my space, yet wouldn't allow enough to lose him.
He attempted to talk to me countless times on the walk back to the flat. At the front door I finally turned to glare at him.
"You are such a child! I obviously don't want to talk to you right now, so why don't you just leave me alone?"
I didn't wait to see his reaction. I turned on my heel and slammed the door.

***

Sherlock spent the rest of that day walking. He walked all over London while he was thinking. Of course, he would rather have been able to talk to Eveline, but it would take either a great deed, or a long time for her to forgive him. It wasn't until sunset that he realized he would have to face John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. His phone-which Molly had charged for him-vibrated. The number was blocked, but the text read:
The Factory. Come and play. -JM
Sherlock didn't wait for an explanation, nor did he need to figure out where he was supposed to go. The abandoned factory where he first found Eveline, eight years old, cold and starving. She looked emotionally brittle, as if she would snap if she was put under any more pressure. Tears could be streaming down her face and she would still insist that nothing was wrong. It took days to piece together what she had been through.

The factory was empty as Sherlock stepped into the first room. It was simple enough to find the right pathway into the room with Eveline's dangerously pale figure lying in the middle. Her coat had been taken and her jeans cut above the knees, leaving her in shorts and a light t-shirt. A dark bruise covered one eye, a part of the skin on her jaw was split, and her fingernails chipped . Her forehead was burning, while her breaths were shallow.
Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat.
"An overdose," a familiar voice called. "How unfortunate."
Sherlock stood up, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. "It was more than that."
Moriarty stepped onto the deck hanging over the room.
Sherlock straightened himself and clasped his hands behind him. "Last I heard, you had a bullet in your brain. I thought you were gone."
Moriarty let his head fall back. "No, this is too easy. Did you never hear my name? It's basically Latin for 'the art of death'. How did Richard Brook get an entire life? I am Rich Brook. I created James Moriarty. All. For. You."
"But why would you get her involved?" Sherlock, very reluctantly, asked a question.
"I told you before, Sherlock," he replied. "I will burn the heart out of you."