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

Chapter 50- Gambling Lives

Millie's POV

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John's compulsively making tea. Sherlock's pacing is verging on frenzied. I can't seem to sit still for more than a minute.

It's a waiting game.

It's been approximately a fortnight since Moran turned up at 221B. It started two days after his unexpected arrival; the attacks. First it was Anderson. I don't know much about him, other than that Sherlock and him have never been able to tolerate eachother. He was shot on his way home from work. Not fatally. He was shot very precisely, in the cavity located just above his left knee. Just missed a major artery. Enough to incapacitate him, but not kill him.

Although Sherlock and I do not believe in the concept of coincidence, we brushed off this startling event as just that.

But then it was Sgt. Donovan. Found in a street with an identical wound.

We then latched on to the hope that the attacks had nothing to do with us, and were simply geared at members of Scotland Yard. Sinister, but not uncommon.

But we couldn't shed the nagging doubt at the back of our minds: the wounds were all so meticulously positioned, only a highly trained and exceptionally skilled gunman could have inflicted them.

And then it was Lestrade. Same bullet wound, same gun, same position. This attack hit me harder than the previous two, because I knew Lestrade before I met Sherlock and John- he was the head of my old department, when I did small scale detective work for Scotland Yard. I liked his frank honesty and no-nonsense attitude, so news of his attack made me distinctly uncomfortable. It shocked Sherlock too. Although he'll never admit it, he considers Lestrade a friend. And that's why we're starting to fear this pattern; the victims are slowly making their way up Sherlock's scale of acquaintances: starting off with Anderson, and escalating to Lestrade. 

Who will be next?

The newspaper clatters through the door, and I hastily get up to retrieve it, eager for a distraction. I bend down to pick up the newspaper, and slowly make my way back upstairs, scanning the headlines as I walk.

"Any news on George?" asks Sherlock, sitting down, then standing up again.

"Greg," corrects John, not looking up from the kettle.

"Greg, George, Gavin- it's all the same," dismisses Sherlock, as he reaches over to take the paper from me, "No news?"

"Nothing," I sigh, and sit down, stretching out and yawning. I haven't slept in a while. The flat feels oddly empty without Emily in it- she hasn't been over to visit since the news on Donovan hit the papers. 

"Tea, Millie?"

"I think you should take a break from refreshment production, John," I say gently, and gesture for him to join me on the sofa.

Sherlock continues his pacing as he reads. 

"Right. So, what should we do?" asks John, sitting down heavily beside me.

"I don't know. Emily's presumably hacking, and I don't think we should interrupt her when she's preoccupied. We haven't received any case requests since Donovan's hospitalisation. Scotland Yard aren't forwarding us anything as a protective measure- they can't risk another one of their team getting-"

I'm cut off by John's expression. He's looking at Sherlock, his face an unpleasant cocktail of sick apprehension and concern.

"Sherlock, what is it? What did you read?"

It takes me a second to realise that Sherlock has stopped pacing; he's standing stock still, mouth slightly open and eyes narrowed in calculating shock. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulls out a photograph from the pages of the paper, and hands it to John. I peer over his shoulder, to observe it with him.

It's a nice photo- a woman, maybe my age, shyly smiling in a labcoat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking sheepishly at the floor. I recognise her as the woman who works in the morgue at St Barts: Molly Hooper. I don't know her very well, but Sherlock and John do. From what I hear, she played a key part in Sherlock's 'suicide'. But it's not the photo which has caused such a devastating silence. John turns it round in his hand, and we read the writing on the back-

"Target _4: The lovely Molly Hooper. I won't aim to wound this time, Mr Holmes."

"No..." breathes John, his eyes scanning the words again and again, "Sherlock, tell me you know how to stop him. We can't let him hurt her- she didn't do anything. None of them did. We've got to warn her. Please, tell me you have a plan."

Sherlock just stares listlessly ahead.

"Sherlock-!"

"We've got to get in contact- not with Moran. Sherlock, listen to me, we can't let this woman die. There must be a bargain. There always is," I say, standing up and walking over to Sherlock.

He doesn't react.

The words cause me physical pain-

"We need Moriarty."

The sound of his name snaps him out of his trance. 

"That's exactly what he wants us to do. We can't initiate contact. It's the ultimate test."

"Molly is going to die, if we don't act. Forget about games, forget about us- this is about her, Sherlock. Do something," shouts John, slamming his fist down on the table.

Sherlock studies John, his face grave.

And then his hand reaches into his pocket, and he pulls out his phone. He closes his eyes for  a second, as he mentally balances fact against conscience. And then he sends a text: three short words.

Call off Moran. -SH

We wait in silence for the reply, the seconds dragging into minutes. And then the phone vibrates, and we all inhale sharply.

You know what? I don't think I will... JM

John and I remain quiet whilst Sherlock replies to the message.

What do you want us to do? -SH

The reply is almost instant:

Start arranging a decent funeral for Miss. Hooper -JM

"Sherlock-" says John, his voice reflecting what I am feeling inside.

"Shut up, John, I'm thinking."

I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears.

We are quite literally gambling over this woman's life, via text messages.

Sherlock looks up, his eyes settling as he reaches a conclusion. I almost breathe a sigh of relief. He must have a plan- a reply that will force Moriarty to call of Moran. John almost smiles next to me. 

But what he says next shocks us both:

"Get Emily."

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