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

Chapter 17- Syringes and Musings.

John's POV

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"Right. Okay. Millie, I need you to tell me everything.You can't lie, you can't gloss over anything, because although I might not see through it, Sherlock will."

She looks at me steadily, her face white. I'm noticing, for the first time, the circles under her eyes, the crease between her brows and her  almost ethereal pallor. She takes a long, shallow breath, and without pausing, she begins to speak rapidly-

"I've made three errors, John. It started when I called him. To ask about what happened, with the fall, the suicide. That was my first mistake.  Then he found me in the cafe. I shouldn't have been so careless; by leaving my phone like that, unattended, I provided him with a weapon. He found me in the park  next. And then, last night, I made my final mistake. I shouldn't have come back, back here. He knows where I live and that I live alone. I woke up this morning, and when I saw him sitting there, I knew I couldn't speak out, because fighting against him would destroy you both. And he knows that," she finishes. Her face is utterly blank, but I can see her pulse was tapping against her temple.

"But, why- what does he want-"

"Don't you see it, John?" he smiles sadly. "I am a weapon. I am a time bomb, set on detonate. I am a part of his game. It's fun, for him, controlling people, toying with people's minds- finding out what makes them tick, using them, threatening them. I admire him, in many ways. He's clever. I like clever. You and Sherlock- you're my friends. I can't fight back. This morning was designed to weaken Sherlock, to drive a wedge between him and the only thing that keeps him sane; his friends, John. That's why he's using Irene. The bruises, the cut- he's got her too. It's a game John, and we're his pawns."

There is a long, agonising silence.

Finally, I speak.

"Millie, do you know, why what he did this morning was so effective?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock values you at more than a 'friend'. I'm not saying he harbours feelings towards you- I'm not entirely sure he's capable of that, but you, like Irene, like me, are more than just friends to that man. And that's why he can't stand it."

She looks confused. "Can't stand what?"

"Betrayal."

She's silent for a minute, examining her hands with unusual interest. Then:

"What can I do?"

"Tell him. Tell him exactly what you just told me."

"I can't, John."

"Oh come on, Millie, it's not that difficult-"

"It's not telling him that's the problem," she says slowly-

I know what she's going to say before the words come out of her mouth.

"It's getting him to listen."

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 Millie's POV

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"Sherlock. I want you to open this door," I say, trying to keep my voice as assertive.

He doesn't reply- of course he doesn't, so I look at John for confirmation, and he nods. 

I open the door, and close it behind me with more force than necessary, so that it slams and shakes the air in the room. The tension is almost too thick to think in. He's not at the desk, the kitchen, or on the cracked leather sofa- no, I know where he is. I ignore the discarded syringes on the table. I keep walking. I pass his bedroom, and I stop outside the spare room, where Irene found us hiding in the airing cupboard.

He's lying stationary on the bed, his hands clasped over his chest, looking at the ceiling, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he's alive. 

"Get out."

"No. Sherlock I am not working, contacting or associating myself with Moriarty. I want you to know that."

"I'd hardly call sleeping with him 'not association or contact," he says dryly, not looking at me. "True, it might not be work. But then again, I don't know. You tell me, does he pay you?"

His comment stings, but I'm ready for it.

"John believes me."

"John's an idiot."

"Think about this Sherlock. Think coincidence. Coincidence doesn't exist. Think of this like a case. What would I gain from a relationship or affiliation with Jim Moriarty? Money? I don't need money. Power? I don't need that either. Think Sherlock Holmes. That is what you're good at."

Silence.

Then-

"I'm listening."

And so I tell him. I tell him everything. I don't miss out a detail, I don't "gloss over" the facts. I tell him everything in my memory.

I have an excellent memory.

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"You were wrong, Sherlock," I tell him, coming to the end of my explanation, "You were wrong about Jim Moriarty. He isn't trying to get me on his side, to get me to turn against you. He's using me. He's using me, to get to you. And you're letting him do it."

Sherlock pushes himself up into a sitting position. He could be accepting my story. But he could be seething. I can't tell.

"Very good, Millie Shon."

I look at him, confused.

"You believe me?"

"Yes."

"You know that I'm not sleeping with him?"

"Yes."

"You know it was all a-"

"Millie, come here."

I oblige, but warily. He takes my head in both his hands, and looks at me, with such intensity that I find it hard to meet his eyes. But I do.

"I believe you."

And he lets go, and says nothing for a while. Then-

"It was Irene. She planned this. Against her will, of course, but she helped plan it nonetheless."

"I know," I say, sadly.

He sighs, an empty, exhausted sound. 

"Thankyou. Go now- please. I need to think."

I nod, and turn to leave. He's taken this well, I suppose. I've just proved him wrong. And I know he doesn't like being wrong.

"Millie?"

I turn around, and am surprised to see a look of urgency on his face.

"Don't tell John about the-"

"Sherlock bloody Holmes! Are these what I think they are? I swear to god, if you're high when I get in there-" we hear from the kitchen.

We look at each other, and although there is nothing vaguely humorous about confessing that you are being used as a weapon by a psychotic criminal mastermind to a man high on drugs-

We start to laugh.

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