Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 7-Confliction

Millie's POV

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I get back to my flat, conflicted.

I was so confident, leaving his apartment. So sure of myself. So certain that I had won.

I study the contours of my face in the mirror, trying to pinpoint my expression; using my reflection to understand my emotional state. Grey eyes watch me back, apprehensive, and I sigh, tossing the mirror aside. It's strange. I can't deduce my own thoughts. This hasn't happened before.

The way I see it, I have two options. 

One, I could avoid him. Not play his 'game'. Cut off all contact. I'm disappointed by the cold clench of resistance I feel inside at the prospect of never seeing him, or John again.

Two, I could tell him. Tell him the truth. Tell him that I can't play his game, because, there is a tiny, tiny fault in my armour. I chink.  And then what? He would see me as weak.He wouldn't say anything, he'd just look.

I will not allow that to happen.

I'm cutting Sherlock Holmes out of my life.

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Three Weeks Later

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I walk through the dirty snow to the pub. I don't intend to drink. I've brought my notepad with me, and I'm going to practice my analysis. Pubs are always interesting places to be. You see the hopeless, the desperate, the joyful, the needy- all conveniently packed into one room. I just pick a chair, stay in the background, and observe.

I need a distraction.

I find a suitable seat at the back of the room. I sigh slightly, because I want to be analysing with someone. It's not much fun anymore when you're by yourself, making deductions with no-one to compare with.

But it's better than doing nothing.

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John's POV

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"Come on Sherlock, it won't kill you. Just one drink?" I ask, as we stand outside the entrance to the pub.

"No."

"Why not?"

He doesn't justify his statement. He just watches me, coldly, the sarcasm implied.

I snort derisively. I don't actually want to go into the pub- especially not with someone like Sherlock- but I am at a total loss as to what to do, anymore. He won't take cases. He won't communicate with clients. He barely leaves his room, and it took serious cajoling on my behalf to get him out of the house today. But it was the discarded syringe that panicked me the most. Although he insisted that it was used only for chemical transferal, I'm beginning to worry. 

"Just listen to me, this once Sherlock. You don't have to drink. It'll only be for an hour, or so, while I catch the game highlights, " I plead.

He sighs, irritated by my normality, but heads into the pub regardless, a sneer on his face as he takes in the rowdy crowds. But then he stops, suddenly, and I walk straight into him, reeling backwards and cursing under my breath.

"John, we need to leave. Now."

"What? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

I look over his shoulder. I can't see anything out of the ordinary- but then my eyes fall on the solitary figure at the back, pencil still in hand.