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

Chapter 42- Reckless

Millie's POV

----------------

I call Emily's number for the third time in the last ten minutes. It cuts off after the fourth ring, which suggests that she is deliberately refusing to accept the call. 

This sequence has been repeating itself for the last week. Emily hasn't turned up at Baker Street since the events at Faith House; she hasn't picked up calls, and she wasn't home when I actively searched her out. 

Sherlock, after being fiercely reprimanded by John, realised that what he said was not appropriate in that situation, and although I don't think he will apologise, I can tell that he genuinely regrets voicing his thoughts in such a harsh and public manner. However, neither Sherlock or John have made an effort to get in contact with Emily; Sherlock, because he doesn't think it's necessary, and John, because, quite frankly, he's still scared by Emily's capabilities, both in combat and in hacking. 

So I decided to take things into my own hands.

I'm not sure why this is bothering me so much: whether Emily feels anything other than cold hatred towards Moriarty isn't my problem, and doesn't particularly concern me.

But it does bother me.

Maybe it's because I understand where she's coming from- my encounters with Moriarty left me questioning my own sense of integrity and, at some points, sanity. He is the epitome of manipulation; not afraid to put himself into unusual situations to achieve what he wants, not concerned about toying with other people's emotions- in fact, he relishes in causing emotional trauma. But, if Sherlock was correct, and Emily has truly forgiven Moriarty- unlikely as it seems, then she is in more danger than any of us ever were.

Because if she opens herself up to him,  he will have free access to her history and her future. And he could potentially turn her against us.

I like Emily. But I would, under no circumstance, want her as my enemy, given her intellectual and physical prowess.

I sit down in the empty apartment, and rest my head in my hands- when did human nature get so complicated? My old life consisted of solving cases and casual observation. My new life is made up of games, fear, cold triumph, senseless violence and more danger than I ever thought was possible for one person to experience.

I look out the window, and out at the street. I could call her one more time, but previous experience suggests that trying again is futile. I suppose I shall have to wait for her to begin to accept that Sherlock's words were not designed to crush her, but merely to bring to her attention the danger she was in.

Only, he's pretty poor when it comes to communication.

-------------------------

Emily's POV

-----------------------

I've tried hard, really, I have.

I tried to push out Sherlock's words from my head. I tried to forget about him, and Moriarty, entirely, and immerse myself in my work.

But my thoughts persistently circle back to the words:

"You fell for it."

and

"I want you to be interesting."

What Sherlock said was perfectly viable. I don't doubt for one minute that Moriarty would happily lie and manipulate me for his own purposes- he's done it before, so what's to stop him repeating his actions? But Sherlock didn't see the change in Moriarty's expression. It was like watching doors open for a fraction of a second, revealing something that was perhaps more terrifying in it's instability, but also more vulnerable than his normal insanity.

Could he have been simply acting?

I don't know anymore.

I've been ignoring Millie's attempts at contact, not because I don't want to speak to her- on the contrary, I would really appreciate voicing my thoughts to someone who has been in a similar situation to myself- but because I want to prove to myself that I can cope like I did before; on my own, without friends, or enemies, or whatever Moriarty is.

It's not working very well.

I'm overwhelmed by my thoughts. I can't focus on anything. I can't work- I've tried, and failed miserably. I can't hack, I can't even find the energy to fight any more, I just feel very cold, and very empty. 

I've tried crying, I've tried sleeping, I've tried telling myself that my situation isn't supposed to be generating so much frustration, such acute confusion.

I've tried everything.

Feeling thoroughly deflated, I decided to go for a walk, earlier today, hoping without conviction that fresh air would clear my head. It didn't work, obviously- but I haven't returned home since. I've been wandering aimlessly around London, taking tubes and buses to random, sporadic, locations, not really taking in much, just thinking. It's late now, and I should start to think about getting back, because the city changes at night. I know I am perfectly capable of defending myself in a physical struggle; but what use are combat skills against a bullet? And then there's the nightlife.  It irritates me. I've never been one for partying, funnily enough, partly because I don't have a reason to go, and secondly because I don't drink. Parties are never as much fun sober. 

I still don't go home.

Instead, I walk down dark streets and empty alleyways, feeling flat and tired: I don't have the energy to experience anger, not any more. I look around at my surroundings: at the typical London grime and rough edges, and suddenly I feel a strange and relentless urge to experience something new.

I stop, startled by this unexpected spike of emotion.

I want change. A week of feeling a bone-deep weariness with existence has left me reckless and desperate; I don't care what it is, anything- I want to try something that evokes adrenaline. The sensible part of me is urgently pressing out a warning: telling me to stop, and think before I do anything stupid.

I ignore it completely, and look around wildly, trying to spot a stimulus.

It's not very inspiring.

It's nearing 11 o'clock, so night life is just starting to thrive: clubs and bars and late night food establishments line the street, occasionally spitting out a drunk man or an intoxicated woman.

You haven't tried everything.

The idea hits me, hard, and I process it, doubtful.

It's glaringly obvious, and offers a short term solution to my ever-pressing thoughts- but I have always regarded anything like this with distaste and discomfort, as it contrasts with everything I have ever associated myself with.

I suppose, in that sense, it's perfect.

I walk up hesitantly to the bar, pausing at the door to look in. It's all blue light and pulsing music, spattered with crowds of men and women, talking and drinking. There's a lot of drinking. It certainly looks expensive, judging by the large, polished counter in the centre of the room, with all kinds of coloured bottles and liquids lining the shelves. 

I don't let myself hover- I make my decision, reckless and stupid as it is, and push through the doors, into the bar.

-----------------------------