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

Chapter 55- Experimentation

Millie's POV

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I can't shake the image from my thoughts; Emily curled up in sheets, eyes closed, on the brink of sleep; the danger and the barriers broken away. It's strange what sleep does to people. She almost looked like an ordinary, young woman.

Almost.

I feel sorry for her. Not that I'll ever tell her that- she wouldn't appreciate the pity. But when I opened the door to the room I knew that it had been uninhabited for weeks; she'd obviously refrained from sleeping there since that particular night. I don't blame her. I feel awful for being so tactless- I was just voicing my own curiosities. I didn't understand how such a faint smell of mint and metal had lingered in the same room for such a long period of time; but now I understand that it was because she hadn't opened the door to all those mingled memories, and his smell, subtle as it is, as well as all the dark flashbacks, had been left permeating the air.

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We return to Baker Street late, just as evening has taken hold and dusk has settled over dry London streets. John is in and out of rooms, packing. Sherlock is staring, unblinking, at the ceiling, lying down on the sofa, fingers resuming their familiar steepled position. I observe them both from my seat in the living room, deducing what I can from their body language as means of entertainment.

"Right. I think that's everything. I'll only be gone a couple of days- a long weekend tops. Are you sure you two will be alright?"

I look at him scathingly.

"Don't look at me like that. I know what you two are like. I'll come back to the burning remains of 221B and headlines reading 'Crazed detectives blow up home in failed experiment'," he says, grinning and heaving his suitcase off the table and onto the floor.

"Shut up," I say, rolling my eyes. Then-  "But I'll keep him away from the flammables, just for your peace of mind."

"Much appreciated."

And John gives Sherlock and me an awkward wave, and then closes the door behind him.

Silence.

"What did you think of-" I begin, but am interrupted by Sherlock, who sits up, holds up a finger and says-

"Wait."

"What?"

"Three, two, one-"

And then the door opens again, to reveal John looking sheepishly into the room-

"Are you sure you two will be alright?"

"Just go, John."

"Right. Sorry. Remember, Mrs. Hudson is downstairs if you need anything."

"We're not children. Go on. We'll be fine."

"Ok, then. Bye."

I smile at him, and he pulls a face, before leaving for a second time. This time we wait in silence as we listen to John's footsteps fade, and then the noise of a car door slamming.

I turn to look at Sherlock, who has resumed his previous position, feet bare and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I shift on the armchair, and pull out my phone, scrolling through the photos. They consist of pictures of crowds, mostly. It's my respite to boredom; I enlarge the images, selecting a person or group of people, and start deducing what I can about them. Right now I'm looking at a woman in an overtly red coat which has been washed one too many times, and patent shoes with scuff marks, suggesting frequent travel and removal. I study her hair; bleached blonde, recently, but cheaply so, because the discoloured roots are already making an appearance. Dark shadows indicative of sleepless nights, and red lipstick smudged around the corners finalise my theory. Prostitute. Then there's a business man in an lawyer's suit, who's a new father, and also the woman having a string of affairs meeting an ardent lover in the street. I continue my pinch-zoom-analyse method until I get bored.