The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}

Chapter 10- A Very Eventful Night

Millie's POV

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I manhandle Sherlock into his room, half-dragging him over to his bed. I don't know what Irene put in that drink, but it must have been more abrasive chemical than alcohol- I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock this incapacitated. His mind has effectively been shut off; he is just a body, fuelled by instinct and lacking any intellectual security. 

"Irene?"

"No. Millie," I correct, trying to keep the barb out of my voice.

He squints at me, disorientated-

"But Irene was here a moment ago?"

"Yes."

He nods, and then sits down on the edge of the bed, blinking in the dark-

"Where are we?"

I sigh, realising that this is futile:

"Switzerland."

"Oh...yes. I remember now."

"Good."

I'm not really sure what to suggest, as, although clearly intoxicated, he's restless. I sit down next to him, deep in thought. I'm not exactly clear-headed myself, after downing one too many glasses of champagne. Although not intrusive, I dislike the cloudiness settling over my thoughts.

Sherlock suddenly looks around, panicked-

"Where's John?"

That's a very good point. I have no idea.

"I'm not-"

"And Emily? Where are they?"

I decide it's best to lie, given that I don't actually know myself. I try to keep my voice quiet, in an attempt at soothing him:

"They're downstairs. At the ball."

His face clears, as the memory resurfaces for a moment in the choppy ocean that is his alcohol-strung mind.

I'm about to suggest he tries to get some sleep, when there's a noise from the other room. The click of a gun being loaded? I freeze, listening; but all is silent. I must be imagining things. This is why I don't like alcohol. It obscures the line between reality and imagination. I study the opposite wall, trying to remember where Emily went after I snapped at Irene. She looked very angry. I hope she's alright. 

"Millie."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

I turn to look at him, then stop, because he's watching me intently; although his eyes aren't focused, it still makes me uncomfortable. He's analysing me, and the proximity is disconcerting.

There's a small silence.

Even through my oscillating thoughts, I can predict what is going to happen next.

And I don't try to stop it.

Sherlock leans in, I tilt my head, and our lips collide softly, and hesitantly. I can taste the alcohol on his breath, and it's so potent I wince- it must have burned his insides on contact.

I try to pull on my rationality; I am drunk, and Sherlock is clearly under the influence of foreign chemicals that even I cannot name. Therefore logic determines that this shouldn't be happening. 

But I don't pull away. 

Instead, I breathe in deeply, inhaling alcohol and soap and the familiar notes of tobacco, and begin moving my mouth, surprised at how readily my body is responding to stimulus. Sherlock makes a noise at the back of his throat, and his hands find my neck, pulling me towards him to the brink of discomfort. I'm trying to tell myself that he is not using his mind- that this is only his basic instincts reacting; the primitive, baser urges that every human possesses, no matter how well they are concealed and controlled. The alcohol is doing this. Not Sherlock. But, as he pulls me back onto the mattress with him, I realise that I don't care. I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing; it feels like my head is separate from the rest of my body, and although I can feel myself moving and breathing, I'm not really controlling myself. It's a very strange sensation.