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

Chapter 16- An Unwanted Deduction

Millie's POV

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 It's nearly evening, now. 

After we returned from the warehouse, we tried to get in contact with Mycroft. Sherlock called him, John texted him, I rang his assistant Anthea, and Emily hacked into his private e-mail account, sending him a barrage of furious messages.

Nothing.

He has deliberately cut off all communications. We're effectively isolated in Zermatt; stranded until we manage to get through to him.

"Oh my god... Sherlock!"

My head snaps up at the sound of John, shouting from the living room. I collide with Sherlock at the door, and we join John by the television that spans from wall to wall. He's watching the news. I realise with a jolt that the footage on the screen is the warehouse. The scene changes, focusing on a Swiss news reporter, who begins speaking in a rapid torrent of French:

"Sebastian Moran condamné criminel a ouvert le feu à l'extérieur Hinterdorf entrepôt, Zermatt, plus tôt aujourd'hui. Quinze policiers ont été tués. Son emplacement est inconnu."

 I mentally translate the speech, and, as I do so, I feel an all too familiar spike of adrenaline in my chest.

Convicted criminal, Sebastian Moran, opened fire outside Hinterdorf warehouse, Zermatt, earlier today. Fifteen officers were killed. His location is unknown.

I look up at Sherlock, and his expression reflects my own.

He got away.

We sit in heavy silence, each of us processing this new information differently. Sherlock looks intrigued, but not surprised. John looks nervous, his knee jumping up and down as he leans closer to the television screen. I'm a combination of both, I think. I'm scared, because I know Moran's true potential; before, he was over-shadowed by the predominant threat of Moriarty, but now that he's on his own I'm beginning to realise that he is not one to be overlooked as a rival. However, like Sherlock, I'm fascinated: as a detective, I have spent my life fixated by crime and the minds behind it. The brutal shooting of two hostages and fifteen police officers must have taken a great deal of speed, precision, and skill.

Interesting.

"Where's Emily?"

I look around, and see that John's right. She's not here. This is unusual. Normally Emily thoroughly immerses herself in every case, and every update. She must have heard John shouting from the living room- and yet she's not here with us.

I get up to investigate, leaving John and Sherlock conversing about how to get in contact with Mycroft. The door swings open behind me, and I hear Irene walk into the room. Apparently she saw the news too.

I knock twice on our bedroom door, which is closed, proceeding to enter uninvited when I don't get a reply.

Emily's asleep.

Her laptop is still on her knees, and she's leaning against the headboard, eyes closed. She looks exhausted, even as she sleeps. I take in the dark circles underneath her eyes, the sallowness of her skin, and the pronounced jut of her cheekbones.

Something is wrong.

I think back to this morning, and her seemingly sporadic sickness.

And then there was the dizziness, the fatigue, and the  fainting episode.

I backtrack, thinking about the long hours and late nights.

But I also think back to three weeks ago.