"I was born good but had grown progressively worse every year."

[notthewoman]

She was not accustomed to genuine fear as she was not sure she was truly capable of it. Instead she felt varying emotions that usually accompanied fear in a gradient of severity. She was mildly confused by her newfound surroundings, but she was learning quickly and not drawing attention to herself in the meantime. Freedom for Jamie Moriarty had been inevitable, and this twist of fortune was not something to be rushed into. There was almost too much freedom here, but then she was also positive that it was entirely impossible for such a thing to exist. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, and now the only thing left to do was make the most of it.

The library of the Nexus was appealing to her in much the same way she enjoyed the gardens. She favored solitude for the contemplation of things, and the Nexus itself had been catalyst for much deep thought as of late. The door back to her world was present in her very own room, and she’d made the trip back and forth between her world and this one without any notice of the guards who were designated to watch her. They thought the blood loss had weakened her, and that fact was quite obvious. She still felt weak and breathless and a bit chilly, though she could force herself above those particular setbacks if she found herself in danger. Thankfully, the Nexus had yet to present anything of the sort.

She found herself in a section of what she recognized as ‘Classic’ American fiction, her fingers brushing along legible and clean book spines as she sought out something simple to read. Moriarty rarely indulged in fiction, she seldom had the patience for it, but she was feeling a bit of a fat cat these days, and wanted something with which to curl up in a spot of sunshine and allow her to present the image of someone entirely wrapped up in their book, while allowing her mind to turn over the possibilities of this place. Her fingers came to a stop on a thin volume, small and compact, bearing the title To Kill a Mockingbird. She knew the subject matter, of course, though she’d also never read it for herself, and that alone meant it matched all requirements she had at the moment.

She closed her fingers around the slim book and slid it free of its neighbors, turning away from the shelf in search of somewhere to sit.

Comments

[assistingconsultant]

Moriarty was there, clearly at her leisure; and Joan didn't think the woman would engineer a grand escape to track down Joan and not have created a more entertaining, useful meeting between the two of them. Her eyes took in the bandaged wrists, as well, and she knew that if the two of them had come from the same time then she would have adequately healed by now. Had she? She might have left the bandages on for effect, for a chance at sympathy, but again she didn't think so. Wounds were harder to talk away than no wounds at all, and if Moriarty had not known Joan was there then she was less likely to play those games, more likely to drift by unnoticed.

"I look about the same, probably," she said, and motioned to Moriarty's wrists. If Jame Moriarty was a normal person, then the way she handled her book would be a dead giveaway whether the cuts were fresh - but she wasn't, and if she was faking she would have faked that too. "You look a few cups lighter."

Her manner was not hostile, simply lacking in the friendliness which Joan wore as habit. She was simply cool, distantly polite. She had little love for a woman who had tormented so many people. There were worse individuals, of course, but they were not in front of her just then.

[notthewoman]

“Which is lovely, of course,” Moriarty said, a smirk firmly in place as she drank in the details of a woman she’d seen not so long ago according to her timeline, but then Joan was looking at her as though she were a very curious thing. ‘Curious’ was perhaps too complimentary a term for how Joan was looking at her, actually, but that was alright. All the other petty emotions were things that could be ignored or harnessed by Moriarty as she saw fit.

She glanced down at her wrists as Joan spoke of them, lifting one up to examine it herself. There was a small spot of red in the middle, which was disheartening. She’d had to cut deep, but it was taking her body too long to heal, as far as Moriarty was concerned. “Oh, yes,” Moriarty said with a sigh. “An unfortunate repercussion of what I had to do to escape for a bit. I’m sure Sherlock told you all about that.” She smiled bright and sharp at Joan. “How is he? He tells me he’s well, but it’s near impossible to tell if he’s lying through penmanship alone.”

[assistingconsultant]

Joan's lips thinned, very, very slightly, but that was the only indication of her displeasure. She did not consider herself an intimidating person - she would have been surprised at the fact that, indeed, she truly could be - and she was not about to act like this was some sort of standoff between her and Moriarty. In a way it was, but not in a pistols at dawn sense. This wasn't a fist fight; this was tactics. And tacticians knew when to take a step forward, and when to take a more circuitous route.

"I can't pretend to accurately discount anything he's written to you," she said, politely. "You claim to know him so well, anyway. Maybe your estimations are better than mine."

Of course, she was reminded of the fact that she and Sherlock were definitely in a bit of a cool down period, and that was vaguely annoying. Still, she wouldn't hint at any of that. Moriarty already knew more about her personal affairs than she was comfortable with, thanks to Sherlock's correspondences.