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

Chapter 18- Go Down Fighting

Emily's POV

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I don't think I've ever been in a situation where I am as entirely helpless as I am now.

I'm being pinned down by a cocktail of drugs that have irreversibly damaged my nervous system, watching the timer count down the remaining seconds of my existence.

It's torture.

Concentrated, agonising torture. 

I can still smell the whiskey in the air. I wonder if these are going to be my last memories. Breathing in alcohol fumes and involuntarily clutching onto Jim Moriarty's hand. This wasn't my idea of a graceful departure.

Millie.

Millie and Irene are going to die. Because of me.

If I was capable of crying, I would. I can't do anything. I can't say anything. I'm trapped; crushed by my own body, tied down by the very sinews that hold me together.

The worst part of it all is that I could have prevented this. 

I didn't need to get involved with him. I should have never answered that phone call. If I had just suppressed my inner curiosity, if I had only seen the signs, I wouldn't be dying, my sister wouldn't be dead, and Millie wouldn't be moments away from instant eradication. I think about what she might be doing now. Maybe she's still talking with Irene. Maybe she's worried, because I haven't made an appearance since I left them in the entrance.

She's good at that.

Worrying about other people. Human empathy. She might be unnaturally intelligent, gifted with observational skills that other people could only dream of possessing, but she still has that inherently emotional side to her. Moriarty was correct, in that sense. She's complex. Perhaps more so than Sherlock. Because he is black and white. Stark lines, cold contrast. She is the filaments of colour he lacks.

I know I'm not a nice person, or a good person. I have killed people. I would have continued to kill people. Somewhere, somehow, the fine distinction between right and wrong became blurred. I know that. So, my death is justified. Millie's, however, isn't.

I think about how Sherlock, and John, will react when they hear the dull rip of matter through air. When they see the mountain light up. When they join the flashing sirens and reporters by the gash in the rock that used to be this house. They will blame me. And they'll hurt. 

In spite of it all, I find myself wondering what will happen to Moriarty, after we're dead. I can only assume he'll go back to fixation. Obsessing over Sherlock, setting new traps, playing new games, until he gets bored of him, too. And Moran? Well, who knows- maybe he'll beat the odds, and destroy Moriarty after all. One can hope. Through the pre-death speculation, I begin to feel impatient. Why hasn't it happened yet? I just want the waiting to be over. I turn my head to get a better look at the timer and-

I turn my head.

I stretch out the fingers of my left hand. I try to lift my arm, but the pain is incredible. Really, truly incredible. The paralytic is still present enough in my blood stream to prevent proper oxidation. My muscles are quite simply asphyxiating internally. The right side of my body is useless; Moriarty injected my right arm, so the ratio of drug to unaffected blood is highest on this half. However, although the pain is harrowing, my left side is functioning. Just. The paralytic was potent, and meant for short-term use. Too much, and my heart would have stopped. Too little, and I'd be able to walk out unaffected. So Moriarty found the medium.

Only it seems to have loosened it's grip.

04:23

 I clench my fist,  very nearly screaming out at the intensity of the pain that little action generates. I have four minutes. Four minutes to get up, get downstairs, and get out of here. With Millie and Irene.