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

Chapter 23- Breaking point

Millie's POV

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He's haunting me.

I hear him when I sleep. I hear him, and I feel him- I feel his breath on my cheek, I feel him press the gun into my hand, I feel his smile. I smell the mint from chewing gum. I see him shoot the people in the room, and I remember, the disinterested, unblinking, bored look on his face when the bullets smashed into their skulls.

Sherlock is haunting me, too.

I see his face when I lied to him. I see the crease between his eyebrows, and also the lines around his eyes when he smiles broadly. I hear him laugh. But I see him angry too. I see the gun pointed at Moriarty. I feel his hand on my waist.

I sit up, in the early morning, and rest my forehead on my knuckles.

It's been two weeks since Moriarty got away.

Sherlock spends almost every day glued to his laptop, breaking every couple of days to eat or sleep. He's researching. Looking for information. Anything, that can get him ahead of Moriarty in their game. John keeps us all moving. Sometimes, he helps Sherlock. Other times, he just sits next to me and we hold a friendly silence as I think. This is our routine.

And I'm at breaking point.

I need to see him.

It's verging on obsession.

I'm telling myself that if I find him, and see him again, I can cut myself off from him completely. I won't have to lie to Sherlock. Or John. And I'll start sleeping again.

My brain tells me this is illogical, and impossible, and that he'll know he's got to me, but the other part of me, for the first time, is stronger. It's telling me to find him.

And I will.

However, it's how I will find him, that's the problem. I have no leads. Sherlock hasn't found anything. I don't have my phone.I haven't actually left this apartment, so I haven't seen him since the night that started this painful escalation. As I think this over, I absent-mindedly touch the letters on my neck. They've faded, but they're still there. Indelible ink. Clever. A permanent reminder that he's in control, and he's burned me. I should have realised that was what he was doing, when he got the pen out-

 The pen.

I exhale sharply, and remember. The first time we met him, in the burned apartment, he wrote out and gave me his number. 

I have an excellent memory.

I stand up, and grab a scrap piece of paper off the ground, and, after a few minutes of scrabbling, find an abandoned pencil.

Think, Millie.

The first few numbers are easy. I jot them down.The next couple of numbers materialise in my mind after another five seconds. Come on. Think. I scroll through the screenshotted memories. It's like watching a movie on fast forward- I just need to pause at the right time. I stop at the moment I looked down at the paper. I see the digits. I write them down.

I could call him.

I can't use Sherlock's phone, obviously. Sherlock would notice that someone other than him had been holding the device recently. Too risky. 

John.

Do I want to do this? Is it worth it? I might end up dead.

I'm not sure I care.

Sherlock would care.

I push the thought out of my mind.

I am going to find, you, Jim Moriarty, I think, as I leave the room, checking that John and Sherlock are engaged. I silently walk into John's room, and see his phone, lying abandoned on his drawers. I pick it up. 

I am going to find you.

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