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

Chapter 19- The Art of Whispering

Millie's POV

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"Now!"

Sherlock, lifts his gun and shoots the only light source in the room, and we can only watch the sparks and glass falling through the now impenetrable darkness.

Silence. Then laughter.

"Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Although I'm not sure how turning the lights off is going to help-" Moriarty is cut off as, the outline of Sherlock pins his arms roughly behind his back. Moriarty makes a noise of exaggerated surprise then chuckles at their proximity. From what I can make out, Moriarty doesn't struggle, he just stands there, presumably grinning, as Sherlock, who still has both his arms, holds the gun to his temple.

I listen to the noises in the room, unnerved at this sudden darkness. I hear Sherlock's heavy breathing. I hear John, fighting against his restraints.  I don't hear anything from Moriarty.

We all turn at the noise of leather snapping, and watch the shadowed form of John stand up shakily in the dark. 

"Millie," says Sherlock urgently, jerking Moriarty in my direction "John-"

"I'm on it."

And I feel John's hands work at the straps on my wrist, and then I'm free too, but I don't stand up. Not yet.

"You know, there's not much point leaving yet," drawls Moriarty, bored, still held by Sherlock's iron grasp, and still chewing his gum.

"Why not?" asks Sherlock icily.

"Because, if they don't see me leave first, they'll shoot anyone who leaves this building. I told you I don't like getting my hands dirty, if I can help it."

The last sentence is said flatly, and his voice is no longer light and flirty- it's dark, and rough, and the danger in his words prick my skin. This man is utterly, irrelevantly, insane.

Sherlock is silent for a minute, then he releases Moriarty roughly, who just brushes his suit and stretches out his arms in the dark.

"Right. So, where were we?"

"Sherlock- for the love of god tell me that you have a plan," hisses John, the panic in his voice audible. He moves over and stands next to Sherlock, who turns his head slowly in the direction of Moriarty.

"I think it's fairly obvious. He'll choose one of you, and that person gets to go home with him, and the other stays with me. Simple," says Moriarty, his outline no longer visible in the crushing darkness. I don't like how his voice has moved from where he was standing before, to alarmingly close to where I'm currently sitting.

I stand up.

"No."

"That's not an option, Sherlock," Moriarty sings softly.

"Sherlock, I want you to listen to me. I want you to choose Millie. He's not going to kill me-" John ignores Moriarty's interjecting laugh. "He's not going to kill me, and that gives you time. You two are clever. You can find me."

"John-" Sherlock starts, but he doesn't finish. He becomes silent again. 

"No, listen to me," John shouts, shaking Sherlock. They begin to argue, John persuading Sherlock, Sherlock wavering, Sherlock thinking. John persuading Sherlock. Sherlock wavering. Sherlock thinking.

Moriarty says nothing.

I turn around, and, although I can't see him, I know he's there.

I make up my mind.

I lean in to him, so close that I can smell the mint from his gum, and I whisper, my voice almost indistinguishable, to ensure that Sherlock couldn't possibly pick it up-

"James Moriarty. I want you to listen to me now. I want you to give me your gun. I know that you're lying about the hitmen- there's no-one out there. I am going to shoot you. I will deliberately miss you. But you're going to pretend. It's just a game, remember? Sherlock will leave, John will follow. They'll be safe. Promise me they'll be safe.  I'll stay. Then you win. Do you understand me?"

Silence.

Then, I tense as I feel him move towards me. I feel his lips brush past my cheek, and he breathes "Oh, I understand. And I promise."

I feel him smile, widely. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he gently takes my hand in one of his, and presses the cold metal into it with the other. He lingers next to my face for a moment, before breathing out softly and straightening up. 

I hold the gun in my hand, testing the weight, before finding the trigger in the darkness.

"Sherlock," I say, and both he and John stop speaking.

"Sherlock, John- go, now."

I lift my arm, trying to steady the shaking, and, breathe in deeply.

I pull the trigger, the force jolting my arm. There's the noise of something hitting the ground.

The silence is excruciating.

"Go," I whisper "It's safe, trust me. There are no hitmen. I'll follow you- go, quickly."

John is first out of the room, not questioning anything.

Sherlock doesn't move, for a second. He breathes in sharply, and I realise, surprised, that he's been crying.

I watch them leave, and I find that I'm crying too, though it's just one solitary tear, which I quickly brush away. I go over to the door, and lock it before Sherlock works out what I'm about to do, listening to the soft click of the latch.

I count the seconds to realisation.

"No... no, Millie, no, don't do this. Millie, open the door-" shouts Sherlock from the other side, hammering hard.

"I'm sorry." I say. I mean it.

And I look down at the gun in my hand.

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