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

Chapter 14- Bruises

Millie's POV

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She's back, again.

I can smell the jasmine as I close the door to 221B, and my eyes pick up the crescent-moon shaped dents in the wooden floor. Only stiletto heels make engravings like those. I pad up the stairs as quietly as possible, determined not to be heard or seen. I've reached my temporary bedroom, and am softly closing the door behind me when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I jump violently, and spin around, ready to scream. It's Sherlock. Of course it's Sherlock. I roll my eyes, and he puts a finger to his lips. He points silently to his living room, and then at the fur coat that's been strategically abandoned as a sign for Sherlock on the banister. My mind links the two signals together, and I grin up at him. He's hiding. I mouth "why?", and the familiar crease appears between his eyebrows, accompanied with a shake of his head.

I'm so involved in deciphering our wordless conversation, that I don't notice the door, which I had left slightly ajar, start to move. It creaks softly, and clicks as it lodges in the door frame. We freeze.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" Her voice is sweet, but decidedly heady.

Sherlock moves faster than I've ever seen him move before, looking around wildly before opening the door to the airing cupboard. He steps inside, before gesturing for me to come over frantically. I look at him scathingly, as the cupboard is barely big enough for him, but the footsteps are coming closer, and I do not want to be left alone with Irene Adler. Sherlock makes a noise of frustration at my non-compliance. Then he reaches out and bodily drags me into the cupboard next to him. He closes the door, and we're immersed in dank darkness. The space is so limited that I am standing pressed up against his chest, my dignity unsalvageable, in an awkward entanglement of limbs and old laundry. I hear his steady breathing stop, as we both hold our breath. This is completely ridiculous. We're crammed into a cupboard like school children, hiding from a dominatrix. I resist the urge to laugh.

"Sherlock? Are you hiding from me? We both know I'm not above playing games too," she says, and there's a very sexual undertone to her words. 

Through the slatted door, I see her hourglass figure sashay over to the bed. She looks around, uncertain, before calling out-

"Sherlock..?"

Her voice has lost some of it's silkiness, and a tremor of hurt rings out through her tone. I feel Sherlock tense in front of me. She looks around once more, before sighing, and exiting the room. We don't however, hear her go down the stairs. I shift my position, ready to open the cupboard door, but he holds up his arm, restraining me. I jump again as I feel Sherlock's fingers lightly enclose around my wrist. He presses his thumb gently into my skin, and I feel my pulse tap against it. I tilt my head, quizzical, but he doesn't let go. He just monitors. I press my hand on to his cheek, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to make him remember the slap I dealt him earlier today. I feel his eyes narrow, obviously still  irritated. I'm about to whisper that we should get out of the airing cupboard, as the flat sounds too quiet to be inhabited, when the doors swing open suddenly, and reveals the very angry form of Irene Adler.

Sherlock drops my wrist like it is red-hot, and I remove my palm from his cheek with such force that I almost dislocate my elbow.

"So sorry to disturb you two," she says icily, "But Sherlock, your phone's being ringing constantly for the last five minutes. Thought you ought to know." 

Sherlock side steps out of the cupboard, and  pushes past Irene. I suppress feelings of vexation at his raw lack of empathy. She looks at me for a while, calculating, and it irritates me, so I mimic her glance, and start making deductions. New shoes. Judging by the inflamed skin at the ankles, uncomfortably new, perhaps bought only today. A knee-length dress, with a long, sheer panel down the centre of her chest. I notice the chapped areas on her otherwise delicate hands, and I know that she's been in business recently. More disturbingly, almost concealed by the high neckline, is a ring of finger shaped bruises around her neck, and I can see the powder on one side of her face is more compact, covering the welt on her cheek.

"Stop that," she snaps, before turning away, leaving me still uncomfortably compressed in my temporary recluse.

I hear voices in the living room.

I consider peering through the crack in the door,but that would be intrusive. But I'm curious. I weigh up the satiation my unscrupulous behaviour could provide against my sense of morality.

The urge to know dominates. I gently pull the door open, and look through at the scene unveiling.

I can't hear them, not properly, so I just watch their body actions. Sherlock stands, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. Irene is crying. Sherlock is explaining. Irene is crying. Sherlock notices the bruising around her neck. Irene is crying. Sherlock's body relaxes, and Irene, still crying wraps her arms around him, tightly. Sherlock doesn't respond, but doesn't pull away, and I suppose this is the closest he'll ever get to the concept of 'comforting'.

I stop looking.

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