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

Chapter 19- Reversible Damage

Emily's POV

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 Isn't it funny, how when you look up at falling snow, it stops being linear. It becomes a dome; a dome of frosted streaks and pale white flecks, moving around in one perfect, unbroken circle.

There's water, all around me. I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the snow. It's hypnotic. My vision is still struggling from the initial heat blast. I saw so much white, at such intense levels, everything else is glassy and unreal.

The pain went away after the explosion.

I can't feel anything at the moment, so I'm not sure if I'm broken or bleeding or bruised. The force of the detonation separated me from Sherlock and Millie. They were standing, when it hit, so they received the brunt of the impact. I remember seeing snow then sky then snow again, as I was tossed across the rocky landscape. There was white, everywhere, and so much heat I thought I would be killed purely by the searing wash of fire. There was debris, too: lethal missiles of broken glass and chunks of plaster, charred furniture and unhinged doors clawing their way through the air with enough speed and power to decapitate a person. I don't think I was hit. I want to check, but that would mean looking away from the snow. 

I think I am going to lose consciousness, soon. I recognise the signs. Drowsiness, but not the nice kind. This is the kind of fatigue that scares you. It's heavy. And consuming. A dark strength that coerces eyelids shut, stimulating a permanent sleep. Maybe I am asleep now.

Apparently I can dream, after all.

Because I see Moriarty.

He's looking down. At me, I think, although his face is too far away and too blurred for me to fully distinguish. He's blocking the snowfall with his outline. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, before speaking in a voice that is both soft and blaring and wholeheartedly strained to the brink of frustrated tears-

"Why won't you die, Emily?"

This is a dream. I am almost sure of this, because when I shut my eyes, just for second, and then open them again, he's gone. There are paramedics and lights, everywhere. I turn my head, groaning as my spine jolts in protest. I can see Sherlock. He's passed out, I think. Or dead. From here, I can't tell. I can just see his limp form, recognisable in his long coat, being lifted onto a stretcher by people in fluorescent jackets. John's shouting, but his words are distorted by the noisy movement inside my head. There are so many people over there. All of them crowded around the dark shape that must be Millie. More flashing lights. More people. Running, with oxygen cylinders and braces and emergency medical equipment. As the body is lifted up, I know that it is Millie, because of the mass of curls that are so similar to my own, loose and tangled in dark liquid, her head tipped back. I close my eyes again, only to blink, but when I open them there are suddenly people all around me. Their voices are underwater.

"Can you hear me? Speak to me, if you can hear me- we need oxygen here, too, stat."

I can see the outline of the house; a jagged frame, skeletal and smoking, with small fires peppering the remaining wood.

The snow is still falling.

I'm tired, now. Desperately tired. I want to close my eyes, more than anything. But my instinct is telling me that this is a very, very bad idea. So I continue struggling to keep them open, as a mask is clamped to my face, and the ability to breathe is taken away from me.

Surely resting for a second won't do me any more harm. 

I contemplate this, as I am lifted onto a stretcher, but then give in, as the incredible drowsiness surges through me once more.