Constellations Strung With a Shooting Star | Sherliam

Chapter Eighteen

[i'm back from my trip! and w a lot more motivation to write! seems like going to disneyland gave me some will so yippie!!! with that said, i'll be working a bit harder to work weekly updates back in, but i can't promise anything </3. i'll do what i can. also, i've begun putting together a playlist for this fic; it's unfinished, so suggestions if there are any would be great :3 it will be linked under the comment section of this paragraph.
also, as you may notice, this book's cover has been changed. i was unhappy with it, mainly because the title didn't match up exactly to what it is. so that adjustment has been made! and i like the look of the new cover far more. anyway, enjoy the chapterrr :3]

A loaded statement like "This is my office" is nothing less than what Sherlock predicted out of Milverton.

Cooperation isn't in that man's dictionary, and all he strives for is other's suffering. Above everything else, that's what the ravenet has had to keep in mind throughout this entire evening. No matter what he does, the last thing he should do is give in and give Charles the reaction that he craves.

Though, he may have made the mistake of not fully describing that to John. The doctor stares in utter disbelief and horror, watching the notorious blackmailer's every move. And he knows that he's powerless, even as he watches him stride over and dump his pipe's ashes directly into the tea.

He swirls it around, blending the bitter and repulsive ashes into the once sweet blend completely. Once he does, he then pours it through the filter into a cup, the tea turned from a warm golden into a disgusting and mucky burnt brown. His eyes flicker back to the bewildered Watson behind him, a wicked grin cracking through his lips as he lifts the cup and presents it to him.

"What? Is my hospitality not good enough for you?" He snorts, earning a harsh and startled glare from the doctor.

"What?! You cannot seriously believe-"

"Calm down, John," Sherlock cuts in, voice firm yet calm. Any slim hint of a reaction will only provoke Milverton even more; that's how he gets his entertainment, after all. In the end, all that he is is simply utter rubbish. Rubbish that got too much power.

Charles abruptly turns away from them, huffing out a scoff. "Now that I notice, my office is rather cluttered. How unseemly." His eyes burn into a pile of Sherlock's things; that including a close replica of his Stradivarius. In all truth, he'd prepared it and hid away his genuine one prior to Milverton's visit. What could he say, the man is awfully predictable in all of the worst ways.

"Ruskin," Charles calls, a smirk implemented into his tone, beckoning over the man he brought with him. He's been completely silent and idle the entire time, clearly standing as a guard dog of sorts. He follows Milverton's gaze, approaching the cluttered mess with an almost blank look.

Though Ruskin is turned at an angle where Sherlock and John can't entirely see what he's doing, it's clear and obvious as piss pours directly over the stashes of books and the replica of the Stradivarius. It spreads and seeps into all it touches, creating an even bigger mess of an already existing one.

Holmes watches with scorn, noting the way that his partner also watches on with a clenched fist and disgusted expression worn into his features. However, neither of them can do anything. They can only watch until he's done, Milverton chuckling maliciously all the while.

Watson stutters, stepping back and distancing himself. "That violin... It's Sherlock's precious... Valuable..." He stammers, so distressed that he can't find the right words to say. Right. Sherlock never told him that it wasn't really his violin beforehand either.

"Oh?" Milverton muses, painting an amused and disappointed look on his face, "It wasn't mere clutter, then? What a shame... Well, that changes things. I would love to hear him play a piece or two. Shall he?" A grin quickly wipes that fake look off of him, fully aware of his pettiness.