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

Chapter 32- Headlines

Millie's POV

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It's been almost a week. And Sherlock hasn't spoken a word to me. Granted, I didn't think he'd like the fact that I prevented Moriarty's death, but I thought that someone of his mental calibre would understand my reasoning: that I was trying to save John's life and Irene's dignity. That I wanted to spare Sherlock the pain he would inevitably experience if John and I were killed as a consequence of Moriarty's death. 

I remember with grim amusement the look on his face when I turned up at 221B Baker Street covered in blood with an almost hysterical Irene Adler at my side. I had bloody hand prints on my cheeks where I'd swept the hair out of my face, and my jeans with soaked with the dark red liquid. It was lucky that we didn't pass anyone on the way back. It would have caused quite the stir. 

John's been trying to explain my reasons to Sherlock. He went into Sherlock's room with a look of determination, and came out looking visibly shaken. It takes a lot to shake John Watson. But I suppose the headlines of yesterday's paper didn't help.

He Lives! Criminal Mastermind Found Shot At Swimming Pool.

And:

Hospital Escape! Moriarty Slips Through The Hands Of The Law, AGAIN!

Apparently, Moriarty had somehow checked himself out of hospital, and made a clean getaway, on the day D.I. Lestrade, Sgt. Donovan, and half the British police force arrived at St Andrew's to arrest and escort him for questioning and inevitable imprisonment. Seems far too convenient. I'm guessing there was a degree of blackmail involved, somewhere. Probably struck a 'deal' with one of the hospital staff.

I sigh, and listen to the noise of something coming through the letterbox downstairs. I get up, and pick up today's newspaper. The headline draws a gasp from me, something that very rarely happens-

Dominatrix Found Dead

 No. 

He promised.

No he didn't... remember, Millie?

Then something very strange happens. I start to feel angry. Not just anger, actually, an acute, very intense, white-hot fury.I close my eyes, and try to calm down. Anger means irrationality.

Sherlock.

"Shit."

John's just seen the news, on the television. I can hear him from down here. 

I pound up the stairs, and force myself into Sherlock's room. He's sitting very still, on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands and fingers woven in his hair. I don't say anything. I just sit next to him, and put my arm around his shoulders. Physical comfort isn't really my forte, but I know that if a person I loved had just been killed, I would appreciate if someone did the same to me. He's not sobbing, but I can tell by his uneven breathing and rise and fall of his shoulders that he is crying. And it hurts me to see him like this. But I still don't say anything. John is watching from the door, tight lipped. He nods at me, then goes off to compose himself. He's angry too. I stay in this position for a while, until my arm starts to ache. I remove it carefully, then get up to leave. I'm at the door when Sherlock's phone vibrates, indicating that he has a message. His head snaps up. We look at eachother. It's improbable, illogical, but we both have the same feeling. He opens the message, and then closes his eyes and breathes out, a long, continuous breath.

I take I step forward hesitantly. I'm curious. He shows me the screen.

Still not dead. You owe me dinner now, big time ~Irene x

I don't know how she did it. I don't believe for one second that Moriarty left her alone, and that the newspaper made a mistake. I think he tried to have her killed. And it failed. But she's feigned death before too, I think, remembering her 'execution'. Someone else will die today for this failure. He'll make sure of it.

But I don't care.

I smile, broadly, and turn to the door, relief coursing through my veins. It's not over yet, but at least-

"Millie?"

Sherlock pulls me into a hug, tightly, and I breathe in the smell of soap, lack of sleep, and tobacco ash. I grin into his shirt, and say-

"You're going to be very confused tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes. Your behaviour is irrational."

"Yes." 

And then he lets go, and very quickly and lightly kisses my lips, more out of relief than anything else, before pacing out of the room to presumably tell John. It's funny, I think, how he can be frighteningly clever  sometimes, then act like a child the next.

Must be a genius thing.

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