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

Chapter 12- Liar, Liar

Millie's POV

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

I hear the sound of my name, and open my eyes. It's oddly unsettling. This room is the exact reverse of my shared room with Emily. A mirror copy. I frown into my pillow, pulling the duvet up and over my head in an attempt at shutting out John's voice and drifting back into sleep.

But, now that my thoughts are awake, I can't shut them off. What should we see? He sounded alarmed. Is it to do with our killer? Where's Emily? Is the couple still occupying our room? What happened after we left the ball?

I sit up, and shake my head to clear it. I can't go back to sleep now. I look down at Sherlock, who is virtually comatose. He's going to have an exceptional hangover when he wakes up.

"Sherlock."

He doesn't stir.

"Sherlock."

I gently shake his shoulder, but he just mutters something under his breath and turns over. I didn't want to have to do this. I take hold of the sheets, and tug them, hard, out from underneath him. The action effectively rolls him out of bed, and he lands on the floor with a resounding thump.

"Sherlock...?"

I peer over the edge of the bed, and am met with a sight that is both amusing and pitiful. He's holding his head with both hands, his face twisted in pain as the effects of last night's alcohol pound his brain with each pulse. He drags himself into a sitting position, and opens his eyes, groaning as the light triggers another wave of dry, throbbing agony.

"My head."

I try very hard not to laugh.

He manages to stand up, staggering backwards and wincing. I straighten up, brushing out some of the creases in my dress. He looks down at his own shirt, which is unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder.

Dishevelled is the word that comes to mind.

"I assume that you are responsible for my state of undress?"

He says it factually, but there's a notable flush streaking both cheek bones.

I half-smile, raising my eyebrows and leaning back against the headboard-

"I suppose I am. Although I think Irene contributed."

"What?"

"Irene spiked your drink. Increased it's potency. She...er..took advantage of your state of mental dilapidation," I say, pausing as I weigh up whether to tell him the truth concerning the next events. I decide to give him a very brief recap: "I'd been drinking quite a lot, too. I wasn't thinking very clearly, and well...you should be able to deduce the rest."

His eyebrows pull together and he looks at me very strangely-

"Did I...Did we..?"

It takes me a second to understand what he is inferring-

"No!" I say, a little too quickly- "No, not at all."

He nods, slowly, still processing this new information. He's taking it rather well, given that he has no apparent memory of the previous night. 

Suddenly, there's hammering at the window, and John's voice is laced with urgency-

"Sherlock, are you in there? You really need to see this."

I get out of bed, crossing the room and drawing back the curtains. I hear Sherlock grimace as the light levels intensify, and watch John's mouth drop as he takes in me, still in my crumpled ballgown, on the other side of the glass.