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

Chapter 65- Show Time

Emily's POV

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It's time. Sync to 2:45. -SH

I strap the watch to my wrist, turning the hands until it matches 2:45.

I feel sick.

This isn't going to work.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and run through my lines in my head. I'm not nervous about actually pulling it off- it's only Sherlock, but I am exceptionally worried about the reactions. I'm convinced Moriarty will just laugh, and see straight through it. Millie will kill me. John won't be too happy, either.

I pull up outside 211B, and wait in the borrowed car until I see Millie, curls lifting in the breeze, and John, hands dug deep inside his coat pocket, walk out into the street, looking at their phones, confused. They pause, talking, and then turn away, and I watch them until they're out of sight. Approximately three minutes later, as planned, a dark car pulls up a few metres away, and I recognise the two silhouettes waiting inside. My pulse increases, tapping out a sick rhythm against my neck.

You've got to do this.

This is going to end the game.

But even that has it's problems. Because it's going to end with someone's death. And, if this goes to plan, and it is a 'spark', then that someone will be Moriarty.

And I don't want that.

No, I do want the game to end. And I want Moriarty to be held responsible for everything he's done; for all the people he's killed, all the families he's wrenched apart, all the minds he has toyed with. But I'm not sure I want him dead. I don't know why. I should want him dead. 

This is the kind of internal debate that has been playing out in my mind every day for the last week.

I always reach the same conclusion.

I owe Sherlock too much, to refuse.

I rest my head in my hands, collecting myself, before checking the time and inhaling a long, shallow breath.

I climb out of the car, making sure to look behind me furtively. I pause outside the door, steady myself, then let myself in.

It's show time.

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Millie's POV

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"What was that all about? Since when does he need 'time to think'? He does that regardless of our presence."

"I don't know..." I say, looking back at Baker Street, perplexed, "That was out of character, even for him."

John shrugs-

"Hey, it's Sherlock. I guess he was just having an off day. Maybe it's-" he stops, squinting down the street. Then he grips my arm, alarm spreading out over his face, turning my insides to ice- "Millie, is that...?"

I follow his gaze, then stop, too. Two figures getting out of a car. I recognise the tall, muscular, build of Moran marching ahead, followed by Moriarty, quick-paced and curious. They pause at the door, and converse for a minute. Moran looks agitated. Moriarty laughs. 

"Oh, Christ.Come on-"

John breaks into a run, and I follow in pursuit, panicked. They've both entered 221B by the time we close in, breathless. John wrenches his phone from his pocket, ready to call Mycroft, or Lestrade- anyone. I place a restraining hand on his arm-