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

Chapter 15- How to be a 'Human Weakness'

Millie's POV

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I'm sitting on my bed, in my dusty apartment, trying not to cry. Crying, I remind myself, is futile. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make you feel any happier, or make people feel sorry for you. Crying is utterly irrelevant when applied to any given situation. Instead I press my knuckles into the mattress, and try and pick apart the tangled strands that are the events of last night.

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I'd waited for hours, it had seemed, in my borrowed bedroom, waiting until Irene had left. I hadn't eaten in a couple of days- I'd forgotten, and it had gotten to the point where I felt dizzy; I needed my mind to be clear, so I figured that I'd grab something from the kitchen after Irene's departure. I contemplated leaving, but I didn't want Irene to see me, not after the awkward cupboard incident, plus, seeing me again might unravel whatever explanation Sherlock had offered her, and I didn't want to make the situation worse. 

However, after another hour of waiting in solitude, my resolve crumbled. I pushed myself up, steadying myself at the doorframe, and slid into the kitchen. I had been irrationally hoping that, despite the open view layout of the apartment, I could get something to eat unnoticed, but instead, I appeared to have walked in at the worst moment possible.

Irene, upon noticing me, had sat up stiffly, and said in a bitter, tear-cracked voice-

"Sherlock, you think you know everything. You think that, because you have your deductions, you know your friends. But you don't. She's working with him, Sherlock. I don't care what you say. I saw them. In the park. I don't know if she realises what he can do, and what he will do," she paused, her hand lightly touching her cheek. "But she is working with him. He told me himself."

I blinked, stupidly, my hunger and my lack of sleep dulling my ability to make decisions. I caught Sherlock's eye, but he's didn't smile, or give any hint of emotion. His face was completely blank.

"No," he began, his voice impassive, studying my face, "No, Irene, she's not."

She reached inside her purse, and pulled out my phone. The same phone that I had left on the cafe table, in my hurry to exit the building.

"Is this your phone, Millie?" she asked.

Pause.

"Sherlock, do you know who gave me this phone, to show to you?" 

He studied the phone without touching it, before looking at me again, and I thought I saw doubt cloud his eyes fractionally. He's a detective, of course- he based his work around evidence. Evidence that was not in my favour.

I swayed, dangerously nauseated, feeling light-headed and vulnerable. I tried to stimulate my brain to provide a truthful explanation, but words slipped in and out of my thoughts, twisting, smoothing, dancing, and I couldn't get my mouth to work.

Irene put the phone on the table in front of him, zipping up her purse.

Sherlock looked at her suddenly, scanning her bruises, her cut, and said-

"Irene, where are you going tonight?"

"Sherlock, you know I don't have a choice-"

"Stay here."

"I..I can't, Sherlock."

She got up, and Sherlock stood up quickly afterwards, following her to the door. I took a step backwards, the kitchen jutting and slurring.

Before she left, she stopped by the door, looking up at him and placing one hand to his neck. She kissed him, gently, on his lips. He didn't exactly respond, but again, he didn't push her away. And then she smiled; a soft, sad, knowing smile.

The atmosphere cooled rapidly without her.

"Sherlock.. " I began.

"Don't speak."

"But that wasn't my-"

"I said, don't speak."

"Listen to me. She's right, the phone is mine. I left it on the cafe table."

" I don't need to listen to you. Irene was telling the truth."

"No, she-"

"Are you saying that she lied? That she lied, to me, Millie? That this," he said, picking up the battered phone and tossing it to me, with more force than necessary. "Isn't yours?"

I don't answer. There's no point.

"Human weakness," he said, coldly, and without empathy. "That's all you are to me, Millie Shon. A human weakness."

To my great annoyance, I began to pass out; my body expiring from lack of sustenance. However, I was conscious for just enough time to see Sherlock grab his coat and scarf, and leave the building.

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I hate myself for being so feeble, for putting up no resistance, for not arguing my point. I think back to the first time I met him, the first time we argued- I fought wildly last time, in a blur of eloquency and violent realism.

Now I am just a human weakness.

If crying is futile, why are there tears on my face?

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