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

Chapter 17- Remember, Execute, Forget

Emily's POV

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It's late when we get back, and for the first time in days, it's not snowing. The sky is thoroughly black and mottled with the outline of heavy clouds, but the perpetual snowfall has ceased.

Today was eventful. Sherlock and John wanted to trawl through police records, in an attempt at gleaning some information on Moran's history, but I didn't feel like sitting still for that length of time. So Sherlock and John left without me, and haven't been back since. Millie stayed to keep me company, despite my protests.

We went for a walk, earlier this evening, because I was so restless it was becoming dangerous. I'm still not sure how I managed to smash the man-sized marble vase in the corridor.

When Irene asked if she could come with us, I had my doubts. She still regards me with a combination of repulsion and fear, and hasn't made any effort to talk with Millie since their confrontation on the night of the ball. However, the actual experience went pretty well. There was no tension. No digs, no inflammatory comments, no snide remarks. Irene was pleasant enough to be around, and Millie didn't breach the topic of Sherlock.

They're actually getting along at the moment. We arrive back at the house, and they're immersed in conversation; Irene's talking about detectives and riding crops and 'brainy is the new sexy'. Millie's laughing. Everything's going very well.

And I don't like it.

It's all been too easy. Since Moran's escape, just over a week ago, there's been no further clashes; no threats, no guns- no messages from Moriarty. Irene and Millie's relationship is evidently improving. Sherlock's showing off, and John's relaxed enough to start enjoying his stay in Zermatt.

I pride myself on having an aptitude for danger, having been in so many precarious situations myself. And, right now, I'm mentally bracing myself for an unknown, and seemingly inevitable event.

Only I can't possibly begin to anticipate what it might be.

I leave Irene and Millie talking in the entrance. I still haven't cracked the code that accompanied Moran's message, and I'd really like to get it done tonight. I feel that if I make progress, somehow, I'll be more prepared.

I take the lift, and walk down the darkened corridor, taking care to step over the remains of the shattered vase. I pause at the door to our room; it's slightly ajar. This is strange. I am the type of person who has to shut the door upon exiting- it's an ingrained part of my personality, and, since I was the last person to leave this room, it should be closed. 

I shake my head; my paranoia has made me hypersensitive. I need to relax.

I push open the door, enter the room, and shrug off my jacket. I throw it over the arm of the sofa and shiver, because although it's not snowing, it's freezing, both indoors and outdoors. I rub my bare arms, and make a mental note to invest in some jumpers in the near future.

And then I notice something else.

In the kitchenette, there's a cupboard, containing an array of pre-paid for, stupidly expensive bottles of alcohol, ranging from whisky to champagne to vodka. Mycroft's little touch of class. None of us are particularly big drinkers, so the cupboard has had no reason to be opened since our arrival.

Which is why, seeing the contents deliberately disarrayed, and the doors wide open, is making me think that I am not alone.

I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see a figure crouched in the shadows, but the room is completely empty, and silent. I go over to the cupboard, looking inside. There's a bottle of scotch whiskey missing, and the remaining contents have been left as a carelessly visible statement. Whoever did this made no effort whatsoever to conceal their pilfering.