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

Chapter 25- Situation: CRITICAL

Millie's POV

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Of course it would be here. 

I shiver, and clutch John's phone, tightly, looking up at the blackened apartment complex through the snow. The fire in my memories blisters my skin through the frozen night air. It's not late, only 5:25 PM, but it's winter, so the sky is suitably dark for the events that will inevitably unfold..

I dither helplessly, torn between cowardice and betrayal. What has happened to the Millie Shon a few months ago, with all her defined morals and principles?

She died in the fire, I think grimly.

The phone in my hand vibrates, and I tentatively turn it around in my numb fingers to see an unread message, from Sherlock.

I sigh. I knew he would work it out.

It reads: You stole my gun. 

I text back:*Borrowed 

I take the gun out of my jacket. It's not as heavy as the silver one; it's chunkier, and feels comfortable in my hand.

I never thought I'd be saying that about a weapon.

I push through the door, which has been left open purposefully.

As I ascend the flight of stairs, an unnerving calm settles over me. It's strange, because I thought this moment  would be the worst; climbing the stairs, but I feel light, and buoyant, although the sick clench in my stomach won't release it's unrelenting grip.

I'm walking down the corridor now. I'm trying hard to ignore the trio of sooty footprints, presumably belonging to John, Sherlock and I, as I look for the right apartment.

After tonight, says the macabre voice in my head, it'll go down to two sets of footprints again.

The rational Millie is fighting hard, clawing at this new, illogical, Millie, telling her to get out of my head, because I'm in danger, but irrational Millie stands her ground, telling me that she likes danger, and I find myself still walking towards the door. 

I stop suddenly. I can hear music. It's tinny- a radio? No, a ringtone.

I mentally scroll through the list of song names stored in my head-

Stayin' Alive: The BeeGees.

I push through the door. Into the dark room. Why does it always have to be dark?

I see him first. He's got his back to me, looking out through the remains of the window, and he's talking to his mobile, casual, one hand in his suit pocket. 

He laughs.

"Oh Sherlock, you overestimate me, I'm not planning on doing anything particularly nasty today," he says, his voice verging on sing-song, his accent twisting his intonation.

Sherlock.

"She did what? Isn't she naughty... I bet that was expensive," he laughs.

I clear my throat.

"Speak of the devil,," he says, half turning towards me, waving.

"Hm? You want to speak to her? I don't think that's a very good idea, Sherlock," he says, smiling.

He holds his phone away from his ear, wincing at the persistent buzz.

"Fine, fine, Millie-?" he rolls his eyes and passes the phone to me.