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

Chapter 11- Waking up

Emily's POV

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

For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to reach a state of paradoxical sleep.

I go through all the motions- the drowsiness, the slow heaviness that tugs and pulls and lulls you into a dark period of thoughtlessness. But I do not, nor have I ever, been able to dream. Sleep is just a time in which my body refuels and repairs itself. It's not leisurely. It's a necessity. However, I can still think; even if they are only half-thoughts- a moment of self-awareness that exists only in times like these.

I'm not awake, not yet.

I am currently bridging the gap between full consciousness and sleep. I am thinking coherently, but haven't managed to feel; I don't know where I am, or what time it is. It brings a sense of fluidity, and on the offchance I reach this curious state of somnolence, I am happy; it is calm.

But then something moves next to me, and I can feel myself slipping away from muted tranquility. I become aware of the fact that I am lying down, and that it is light outside. I sigh, unwilling to open my eyes. Because then I have to think, and right now I am weightless; I have no concerns, or conflictions.

And then I realise that there is an arm draped across my shoulders.

I am jolted out of the remaining calm and have to catch the scream forming in my throat before it's too late.

I don't turn around. Instead, I do some rapid deductions.

Sherlock and Millie would be very proud.

The arm belongs to Moriarty. My bedroom door is not locked. I am in a very dangerous, very precarious situation. He is not asleep; I know this because the grip is too tight- he's awake, and he's making sure I can't slip away without confronting him. There is nothing comforting or unintentional about the gesture: it is a deliberate restraint.

I consider my options very carefully.

I can't push him away- that's what he wants. Also, I am very aware of the distinct lack of clothing between us; I can feel my shoulder blades pressed against his chest, and I don't want to make this situation unecessarily intimate by turning around.

I need to get him away from me.

I'm ashamed to say that I actually consider killing him. It sounds extreme, but at this moment in time, I'll do anything. I'm beginning to formulate a plan on how to go about doing this, when he speaks-

"Shall I continue pretending to believe that you're asleep, or do you want to prolong the experience?"

I swear in my head, and try to move away:

He tightens his grip, pulling me closer, to the point where I can actually feel his heart beat. It's very shallow, and slow, and it strikes me as odd that he actually possesses the organ. I struggle against the iron grasp, still refusing to turn to face him. I can hear voices starting up in the adjacent room, and I realise that it's Sherlock. And Millie. I'm about to smile at the obscenity of their situation- but then I remember that I'm currently being pinned down in bed next to a criminally insane pyschopath, and the urge to laugh rapidly deteriorates.

I think he gets bored of my resolute refusal to rise to his challenge, because he shifts next to me, relaxing his grip. I start to move away, but cold hands find my waist and flip me over. He forces me towards him, so that my clenched fists are balled up against his chest, and I snarl in protest-

"Get away from me."

I'm so close I can see the individual flecks of black streaking the brown in his irises, and my own face reflected; angry and apprehensive.

"Oh, but that would ruin the fun. Seeing as I stayed here all night, I think I deserve a reaction from Sherlock."

"I shall take great pleasure in choking those words in your throat, if you don't let go of me now."

He laughs at my threat, and I try to push him away again, without success.

"You take great pleasure in an awful lot of things, don't you Emily?"

"Shut up."

"Don't be bashful," he says, grinning and tracing the outline of a bruise on my forearm with his thumb, "I think we're past being shy now. Still, I'm not sure how your friends are going to react to this. Millie won't be too happy, will she? Such a shame, too- you two were getting close."

"Let me go."

He continues, undeterred, his hands sliding up to my jaw-

"Do you want me to?"

His question brings me up short-

"Look at you," he continues, pressing two fingers against my neck, feeling my pulse, "You might be morally against me, but physically-"

He doesn't need to say anymore. My fluttering pulse will undermine any lie I can concoct.

I stop struggling, and keep very still.  Maybe if I don't move, he'll get bored.

Suddenly, there's a gasp of exclamation- I think it's John. He's outside, and, judging by the noise of rippling water, he's just made a gruesome discovery.

I sigh, knowing that I shall have to explain that, too. 

"Sherlock! Millie! I think you should see this."

I cover my face with my hands, trying to block out the very blatant distraction in front of me, thinking desperately, trying to find a way out.

There's movement, and I feel my hands being prised away from my face-

"I thought it was funny."

"What?"

He nods in the direction of the pool.

"You would."

"True," he says, his intonation containing the briefest hint of acknowledgement. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture of false sincerity, and I narrow my eyes-

"Why do you do this? You don't enjoy it, not really. Sex is just another tool in your game, I know that: but why use it as a method? Isn't it just unecessary acting on your behalf?" 

Moriarty smiles without humour, and says nothing. He turns away, stretching out on the pillow next to me and sitting up. He yawns, lying back against the headboard and raking a hand through uncharacteristically unkempt hair. I take the opportunity to edge away from him, and get out of the bed. I look around the room, and observe the destruction; there's a split pillow, a cracked vase, and an upturned nightstand- but that's it. By my standards, that's pretty tidy.

I find my dress; soaked and creased on the floor, and sigh, before retrieving some dry clothes from my suitcase. I studiously ignore Moriarty, and make my way into the bathroom, locking the door and leaning against it, suddenly very tired.

Tired of him. Tired of games. Tired of my lack of control.

I get changed, pulling up the collar to conceal the worst of the bruises, and rolling down the sleeves on my jumper to mask the red scratches spanning the length of both arms. I tie my hair back, pull on some jeans, and look in the mirror, silently loathing.

I'm a very self-centered person.

I can hear Sherlock and Millie. Joining John by the pool. It won't be long now. Soon there will be hammering at the door, and I will have no choice but to open it, to reveal Moriarty in my bed, furniture on the floor, and guilt on my face.

 I unlock the bathroom door, steadying myself for the onslaught-

And then stop. I look around.

He's gone.

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