Side of the Angels ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book II} *UNDER EDITING*

Chapter 38- Figuring Out

Millie's POV

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"Millie, I don't think you should come with us," says John, pouring coffee into three mugs.

"What-?"

I can't believe this. 

"John, I'm perfectly capable-"

"No, you're not. Look what happened yesterday. You almost became a murder victim."

"I was acting deliberately," I lie, "It was necessary for him to reveal his intentions. I anticipated Emily would note my unusual behaviour, and act accordingly."

"Lying," states Sherlock simply, not looking up from his laptop. I glare at him.

"Look, this is going to be dangerous. Not just because of Moriarty. Emily won't be happy if she finds us following her. We want to minimise casualties."

I stand up, furious.

"I'm only concerned about your capability-"

I whirl round, and walk up to John, an unaccountable anger raging through my system-

"John, I'm not Emily. Don't compare me to her. I don't know how to kill a man. I can't hack a database. But I can think. True, I didn't anticipate the events of yesterday; I was incapacitated by my fear of water. You forgot about that, didn't you? Or perhaps you never knew- never thought that someone like me could harbour such irrationality. I was scared, John. You've been shot, kidnapped, strapped to Semtex- yet no-one questions your ability to cope in a situation. I can think. I can analyse. I can do things that you could never comprehend. So don't tell me I'm incapable," I spit.

He blinks at me, taken aback.

I turn away, ignoring Sherlock's questioning silence, and slam out of the apartment.

I'm sick of it.

I'm sick of being the weak one.

I'm not Sherlock, I'm not a genius. I'm not Emily, with her frightening ability to harm, to destroy. I'm not John with his steadfast strength of character.

I'm just me.

But I don't deserve his pity, his concern, not like that.

I've solved murder cases, I've been locked in a room with Jim Moriarty and three corpses, I've saved a psychopath's life-

I don't deserve it at all.

I walk out my anger, my thoughts tangling.

Ever since I returned from Africa, my confidence has slowly cracked at the seams, regressing from impenetrable to weakened. And I've let it. I've stored up strange emotions, and today, they released; pouring out in a torrent of angry words and blunt, unadulterated, verbal fury.

I slow down, and look around the empty street-

I shouldn't have spoken to John like that. 

I breathe in the city smog, and stop walking altogether.

I will go back and apologise. But not yet. I need to think. I find myself walking in the direction of my old apartment, my previous location before I made the decision to move in to the spare room at 221B. It takes a good half an hour, and when I do arrive, I hesitate at the door. I still have the keys- I didn't sell my apartment after leaving. I slot the key into the lock, and turn it gently, before pushing the handle. It's stark, empty, morbid-

It's exactly what I need right now.

I sit down on the dusty floor, and lean my head against the wall.