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

Chapter 13- Chewing Gum

John's POV

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I'm still reeling from Sherlock's behaviour earlier. I know he goes to extreme lengths on occasion, but that was...out of character, even for him.  Maybe it was Irene's visit. Screwed him up in the head. Maybe seeing her again, combined with the shock of Moriarty's return, messed him up just that little bit more. I sigh, and sit down with the laptop, debating on whether to update my blog. It's been a while, but with everything being so hectic at the moment, it's completely slipped my mind. I take a sip of lukewarm tea, and begin to type.

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It's been an hour, and I've written three and a half sentences.

My mind is too preoccupied. I think back to last night, when Irene had just left. I'd gone up to check on Sherlock, to make sure he wasn't playing with guns, or injecting himself with opium. I'd found him lying on the sofa with his hands pressed flat together in a steeple over his mouth, his eyes closed. I know that position very well. It's his "I'm in my mind place. Disturb me on pain of death" pose. I wondered if letting Irene in had been the best idea. I'd totally forgotten Millie was here, and, although I'm almost sure that there isn't anything going on between her and Sherlock, I don't think her presence helped ease any tension.

I wonder where Millie is at the moment, anyway. Since she told us about Moriarty in the cafe, she hasn't been back to her flat. She said she was going out to get something to eat, but I'm pretty sure that was an excuse. She's been gone almost two hours. I stretch, close down my laptop, and go upstairs.

I'm sure she's fine.

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Millie's POV

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"Chewing gum?" says a voice in my ear.

I sit on the park bench, stiffly, in the dying light, feeling a cold sweat prick the back of my neck.

"Anyone would think you're stalking me, Millie Shon. We just keep bumping into eachother, don't we?" the voice says, happily. "I mean, I know I'm desperately attractive, but still, if you carry on, I might just have to call the police."

He comes round to sit next to me, and inspects his phone, typing too rapidly for me to distinguish what he's doing.

"Not one for making conversation, are we?" he smiles and raises both his eyebrows, before unwrapping a fresh bar of chewing gum and putting it in his mouth.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'm going to need you to be a bit more specific, my dear. I do a lot of things."

"This game."

He smiles, his eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses, and he says, in a voice that is a sugary as it is poisonous:

"Everyone needs a respite from boredom."

And then he gets up, to leave, presumably. That's another thing I've noticed about him. He never stays for more than five minutes; he's always moving, always lucid, always impossible to catch.

"Nice seeing you, Millie," he says, and I consider breathing a sigh of relief. But he doesn't move, and instead looks over his shoulder at me: "That's the great thing about being a ghost. I'm invisible. You should try being dead sometime. Such fun."

And with his barely concealed threat lingering in the air, he waves cheerfully, continuing down the path until he's out of sight.

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