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

Chapter 12- Kisses and Cluedo

Millie's POV

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I jerk awake, panicking for a moment, as I hear raised voices above me.

"How many times do I have to tell you-" 

"Listen, it's in the rules, you can't just go changing-" is the heated reply

"Oh for god's sake. It doesn't take a genius to-"

I walk up the stairs softly, and listen outside the door, confused.

"That's just your bloody problem, isn't it?! You have to be the genius! Why did I agree to do this... Just play it properly-"

"I am playing it properly!"

I push open the door to reveal Sherlock and John glaring at eachother, while a discarded game of Cluedo is scattered across the table between them. I struggle to keep my mouth straight, as I silently apprehend them.

"Tell him Millie. The victim can't fake his own death! It's a game, for Christ's sake!" says John, without breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

"Why not? I've worked it out-"

"You haven't worked anything out you self-righteous bastard!" 

I can't hold it in any longer, and I end up bent over, clutching my stomach as they both watch me with an air of affected surprise. When I regain my composure, I stand up and wipe the tears from my eyes, and say-

"Professor Plum. The kitchen, with the rope."

"Ha! I told you!" shouts John, standing up, knocking over the table and the boardgame in the process."I bloody told you!"

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"I still think the victim did it," grumbles Sherlock, as we  walk down the bustling street.

"Yeah, well, you were wrong."

I watch, grinning broadly, as they continue their argument. No-one has mentioned Irene Adler's departure since this morning, and I know better than to bring it up now. Clever John, I think, distracting Sherlock with Cluedo.

 Suddenly, Sherlock's phone is ringing, he answers, and we both watch, torn between mortified and amused, as he starts yelling abuse at the unlucky person on the receiving end.

"Hello? You. How did you get my number? Remove it from your phone imminently."

"Yes, I know Moriarty's 'not dead', I've seen him, so if this is the point of you calling then don't-"

"What do you mean 'jump off a building"?! If I wanted to kill myself properly, I would jump from your ego to your IQ, Anderson. Much more efficient."

 And with this last comment, his cuts the call, turns up his collar, and glares at as all, as if Anderson's stupidity is our fault. Sherlock parts the crowd as he walks, so me and John walk behind him in the slipstream of space created by his bad mood. We're still discussing the rules of Cluedo when Sherlock stops, suddenly, so we ram into him and stagger backwards. He's staring at a man on a bench on the other side of the road, who's holding up a newspaper and wearing dark sunglasses, although it's not particularly sunny outside. I crane round to examine him too.

"For god's sake Sherlock-" begins John, rubbing his nose.

But I'm not looking at Sherlock. I'm studying the man on the bench. He's not actually reading the newspaper; he's holding it below his line of vision. He's looking at us.

I turn to tell the others, but I don't get to, because Sherlock is suddenly kissing me, roughly, holding up the crowds up and pushing me over to a nearby wall.

I look at John, wide-eyed, who is staring at us open-mouthed, amongst the chuckles and wolf-whistles in the street. I make a noise of protest, but he doesn't stop.

So, I do the only thing that I can think of, and I slap him round the face.

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He reels backwards, holding his cheek.

"What was that for?!" he asks incredulously. I glare at him.

"Sherlock, what the hell-" begins John, but he doesn't get to finish either, because Sherlock is suddenly propelling us forward through the street, before pushing us round a corner and into a convenient alleyway.

"Millie, what were you thinking?" he says, frustrated.

"What was I thinking?!" 

He blinks at my tone, looking confused. Then-

"You could have at least played along," he says agitatedly, pacing back and forth.

"You're not making any sense," I say, crossing my arms.

"Aren't I? I thought it was obvious," he replies sarcastically. "Come on, Millie, John- you saw him sitting on the bench."

"Of course I did, but why did you have to do- that," I say furiously, gesturing to my face.

"Because," he says, walking around quickly. "If you had played along, Moriarty would have realised that he couldn't get to you, because you were with me, and John. He'd stop trying to use you. The phone call, the meeting in the cafe, following you around- he's not going to stop. It's simple really,  if you only just used your mind."

I process this new information.

"Wait, wait- so, you're saying you expected Millie to 'play along' with you, when you slammed her against a wall, with no prior warning, and start... kissing her in public?" says John, eyebrows raised.

"Yes." 

John makes a noise of exasperation, and Sherlock  resumes his animated pacing.

"But it didn't work. On the contrary, your reaction is going to fuel his perceptions, and we're all in more danger than we were before." 

"I don't see how that's Millie's fault-" begins John.

"No, John. He's right," I say, through gritted teeth. "Sherlock's right. I realised it was Moriarty sitting on the bench too. Fine. I'm sorry. I should have gone along with it. Although next time- if there's a next time- give me some warning."

Sherlock looks at us again, clearly irritated. But he concedes, accepts my apology with a nod, and strides out of the alleyway back on to the street. 

He doesn't wait for us.

"Impossible," murmurs John. "Bloody impossible."

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