She knew simply from the way he sat in his seat. She'd seen him deteriorate but by bit, chipped away by these cases. By these victims. By Moriarty. Sighing, she moved to his side, kneeling down next to his chair. She rested her hand on the arm of his chair, putting it in reach but not touching him without his permission. "Sherlock?" He didn't respond. "Sherlock, love?" He blinked and slowly looked over at her, his eyebrows coming together as if he were perplexed by her. Her presence. Her life. Everything. She was a puzzle that confused him, a car he couldn't solve. She moved her other hand next to the one already on his chair, wiggling her fingers. He looked down at the movement and then after a beat, reached his fingers out of his hair and towards her. Their fingers interlaced and she smiled warmly, leaning down to press her lips gently to his knuckles. When finished, she looked back up. "Would you like to go for a walk? It's a lovely day and a little break might be just what that genius mind of yours needs. Exercise to get the blood flowing." His frown deepened and her eyes saddened. "You're exhausted."

He sighed, finally breaking out of his mind space and leaving behind his odd expression. "Is this where you make me tea and tuck me into bed after kissing my forehead, mum?"

A little laugh escaped from her and Sherlock softened, the ghost of a smile threatening to break. "Come on, Love. I miss talking to you."

She was always quite pleasant, but Sherlock knew not to push her. She didn't take no for an answer and was quite strict. Though forgiving and lenient and understanding, she dealt with no nonsense and the way that he never intimidated her - in fact, he sometimes thought that perhaps nothing could at all ever intimidate her; if a real werewolf were to jump out and growl she would simply tell him off for bad manners and instruct him to go take a shower and drink warm liquids and perhaps some clean water and take deep breaths - intrigued him. Others always said it was one of the qualities that would make her a wonderful mother. That she could be loving and strict at the same time.

And so, to avoid incurring her wrath, he stood and offered his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. He then offered his arm and, grinning, she took it.

The pair made their way out of the apartment and down the stairs, outside into the early afternoon air. She asked what he had been thinking about and after only a moment's pause, he finally caved. He was working on a particularly stumping case that he was missing something to. John was out doing something or the other so Sherlock took it upon himself to break his mind until John got back.

She told him to tell her what the case was and he told her about it on and on. She wasn't afraid to admit when she needed him to slow down or repeat things and his brief insults just made her roll her eyes and urge him to continue. He'd apologize every other jab and she'd just wave it away. She knew what she was getting into when she became his girlfriend.

After a bit, she finally seemed to understand a general idea of where his mind was on this case. They had stopped at this point as she thought and he was happy about it because he also had to stop when he thought deeply. Not many people had similarities to him so he had learned to enjoy the little things and the effort she put into connecting to and helping him.

Finally she spoke. "What if... he never went into the room?" Sherlock rose an eyebrow and she met his eyes. "The murderer."

Sherlock's eyebrows went higher. "What makes you think it's a man?"

A little sigh came past her lips, such as the ones he gave when someone should be smart enough to see simple truths but had just asked a really dumb question and had disappointed his already low opinion of them. He bit back a smirk and marked another similarity. "Well all of the victims murdered, it doesn't matter what their height or weight or strength is. As much as I'd wish that a girl could take on a 6'4 guy by herself, considering that he was out of shape and awkward with his hands, I just doubt it. Plus the murderer isn't very fast. He moves really stiffly and often ops for killing witnesses instead of escaping or... Sherlock?"

The mentioned man's eyes were so wide that he looked about ready to loose them. He pulled out his phone. "You're brilliant," he whispered to the woman next to him and she chuckled. "John? John are you there? We have a lot to discuss. Where are you? On a date? Ridiculous. Meet me this instant we have a case to solve. Well I got help of course. Oh don't be silly-"

As he quickly trotted off, he left his girlfriend by herself and she laughed as he did so. She liked to see him so excited but she LOVED that she had made him so. As she stood there, sure that she really had fallen in love with a man who had lost his mind, she was knocked out of her thoughts as a hand lay on her shoulder and a voice spoke in her ear.

"You love him."

Her eyes widened and as she looked over to see a brunette stalking off. She hadn't seen his face and her eyebrows screwed up in confusion. Who had said that? Surely they were talking about her feelings for Sherlock, but why confront her about it? Yeah she loved him. She made it obvious that she loved him. He knew she loved him- everyone did. She said to as often as she believed he was comfortable with. She even used the word asa nickname, which wasn't something she did often or had ever done before she met Sherlock.

So why did it feel so ominous and threatening?

- Time skip -

Sherlock and John were out again and she was home alone, making dinner. Her phone rang and she flipped it up and pressed it between her ear and shoulder without looking to see who it was, preoccupied by chopping. "Hello?"

"Hello!" She froze at the high pitched, overly chipper voice at the other end. It had been two and a half weeks since the encounter after she'd helped Sherlock with his case and he'd run off. She had forgotten about it as things around town got progressively worse, but the sound of that voice brought it all back.

And now she could put a name to the vice as well.

"Jim Moriarty," she hummed, putting her knife down gently and giving him her full attention for only a second. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

In her moment of pause, Moriarty giggled. "Ah yes! And Amelia Grave!"

Millie cringed at the sound of her full name and then calmed herself, returning to her activities as if she was talking to an old friend from before her escape to college. "How are you, Jim?"

He giggled again. "Ooh you are an interesting one! You're not going to tell me off, mummy?"

"I'm not your mother, and I feel no obligation or care for you," Millie stated simply. "I was taught to be polite, though, and I guarantee you have some plan or other for me so I have to stay on the phone. That does not mean I have to be rude though."

A pause. "I see why Sherlock likes you. You're an interesting one." Millie took another second to loosen her grip on the knife and reel in her cool again as Moriarty paused. "Well I'm sure you're wondering what I want." She simply hummed. "Well Amelia, I really want to destroy Sherlock Holmes. Which you know." Another hum from her. "But to really do that, I have to get rid of you."

Putting the knife down finally, her heart sinking slightly, Millie closed her eyes. "Are you going to kill me then?"

Moriarty snorted. "Kill you? Oh my dear no! I don't want to just injured him, I want to break him. I need you alive for that... no, I want you to break up with him."

Millie glared at the knife. "Why would I ever do that?"

"Because if you don't I'll someone you care about. I need all of those you and Sherlock have in common for a later date, but there's someone you hold dear that Sherlock... doesn't." Millie's heart froze. "He has the cutest little dinosaur shirt on today."

Oh the side of Sherlock and John, Millie had been getting work. She'd gotten an official title as a substitute teacher and the last few month or two, a teacher had gone on a long leave after a terrible accident and a near death experience. Matthew, a child in the class that Millie had been teaching, had bonded with her especially and she'd even babysat him after hours for his busy parents. Matthew was very quiet and shy and awkward and easily scared, but around Millie he got more enthusiastic and friendly and outgoing. His parents had been so ecstatic that they had invited Millie over for regular play dates and check ups and babysits.

She'd kept her gentle, motherly side away from John and Sherlock. She didn't feel the need to really mother her friend and boyfriend- they were her equals, not just her peers. And she was worried that Sherlock would corrupt the poor child. So neither men had had a chance to meet him, though they did often get earful about the child.

Millie thought about a trained sniper leveling a red dots on Matthew's forehead, the blonde boy giggling or reading a book. Her eyes closed and her heart squeezed. "Leave him alone."

"Oh I will," Moriarty eased. "Just leave Sherlock and never come back. Be gone forever, and then he'll be safe from me- I swear it." Just as Millie was struggling internally, the front door opened and Millie heard John and Sherlock jabbering back and forth quietly. "Good luck."

The line went dead and Millie turned back to the cutting board, losing the phone from her ear, holding it with both hands against her chest. Her eyes focused on the knife as everything hurt. Her heart, her head- everything. Her skin seemed to ache.

"What's for dinner? It smells great!" Millie didn't answer John's question. She was frozen by fear, unable to even blink. "Millie?"

A hand brushed against her back, closer than John's voice indicated she was and in the way that only Sherlock ever touched her. She flinched away from it, feeling undeserving of the gentle, loving touch when she knew what she was about to do. She turned the flinch into a movement, masking her pain as she reached over to grab the knife and finish citing the cheese cubes. "We're having a pretty simple dinner," she finally replied, her voice sounding far more even and calm than she could ever even imagine feeling. "Just lasagna. I'm making cheese squares that you guys could eat with some crackers. I know you get hungry when heading home..." she turned once the cheese was done, pulling out a bowl and pouring the squares into it, then offering the bowl to John, who had moved closer. She couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes just yet. She was still collecting her courage. "And dinner won't be done for... thirty minutes." Her yes flickered to the oven timer. "Remember that, okay John? When that timer goes off, the lasagna will be done." John looked at Sherlock, half confused and half severely concerned. Finally, Millie turned to Sherlock as well. "May I speak with you?"

Sherlock looked between her and his best friend, unsure what to think of the situation before him. "Sure," he agreed, knowing it always annoyed her when he refused to communicate. Her throat grew tight with some kind of hard lump as she realized how much he was trying, adapting to her wants and needs here and there to meet her in the middle.

Turning away from the pair, Millie walked to the bedroom she and Sherlock shared - not that he often actually slept there - and Sherlock followed her. The two stopped once inside the room, where Millie closed the door, facing Sherlock with a dark expression. "What's wrong?" He finally asked, not able to deal with unsatiated curiosity any longer.

She sighed. Rip it off like a plaster. That was the only way. "I'm leaving you, Sherlock. This is the end of the line for us."

Her stomach turned at the words and she felt about to throw up and ruin the whole thing. At first Sherlock didn't seem to understand. Then, slowly but surely, his face began to drain of color and his eyes widened. "What?"

"We're over, Mr. Holmes." The name made him flinch. When they'd first met, it was a professional title Millie had used out of respect and when they'd grown closer, Sherlock had asked her to call him by his first name despite how much he liked the professional importance feeling it gave him to have such a poised, untamed woman be so respectful towards him. To have her call him it again

He closed his eyes and that made her finally move. He caught her wrist, pulling her around to face him. He gently grabbed her face, his eyes digging into every inch of her to try and find out WHY. "What happened?" He asked. "Why are you doing this?" He was desempate, knowing she would never, NEVER leave him for no reason. They were in love.

She saw the doubt sink into his eyes. Weren't they? He seemed to ask her. She wanted to pull him close and reassure him and cry and explain everything but Matthew's face popped into her mind and her face hardened. He let go of her and stepped back, shocked. She turned away again. "Please," he whispered. She couldn't move, torn up about leaving him like this. "Everything's falling apart and I... I'm so lost. I'm so scared, Millie." She was choking down her tears desperately but she couldn't move. She couldn't force herself to leave him like this. "I've lost so much. I can't lose you too. Stay. At least explain? I'm confused." His emotions were exploding. He'd finally grown sure of one thing. He'd been convinced and comfortable and, just as he thought John would always be around and had taken advantage of him because of it, Sherlock also believed that Amelia would always be around. She'd always be his Millie and he'd always be her Sherlock and they'd go in walks and she'd be that constant perfect middle between John and Sherlock with her abstract thinking that wasn't genius and detached or overly emotional and drawn out either. He had tried so hard and it had all been going SO well. What happened? What changed? When did she stop loving him? How long had it been that he'd been oblivious to her drawing away from him? None of this made sense and he hated it.

Forcing herself to speak, she managed to get out, "I... I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I just can't continue this." She was talking about the torture and the drawing out Matthew's danger but he believed she was talking about being with him. And so when she raced out of the room and out of the apartment and into the street, he sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. John loved to the door, unsure why Sherlock was so upset it why Millie had raced out crying.

Everything was wrong. It was all messed up. And for once, Sherlock and John could not for the life of them figure this out, no matter how much they put their heads together.

Millie was gone. She was gone. But... why?