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

Chapter 26- Mutilated

Millie's POV

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It's late evening, now, and I'm still pushing my way through the unrelenting crowds that line the London streets. There is always an excess of people here, regardless of the time; in the morning it's a crush of suits and briefcases, and now, in the evening, it's all stiletto heels and loud music being pumped out of various bars and night clubs.

How could she?

I can't comprehend it. I've tried, I really have, to understand how Emily can willingly put herself in that situation, with someone like Moriarty. Moreover someone who paralysed her, and left her lying next to primed explosives. Someone who put us all in hospital, who revels in playing with minds and lives, and who has damaged us all individually and irreversibly.

And yet she continues to allow him access to her mind.

More than just her mind.

I'm angry, too. Because she's lied, again, just as I was starting to trust her wholeheartedly. From the brief scan of her apartment, I've come to the conclusion that he was living on the premises, although I am uncertain as to whether it was on a temporary or a permanent basis. 

And so I have no doubts now that it was Emily who was responsible for the explosion at Brandon House. She was the person behind the deaths and the pain that occurred as a result of the attack.

How can I forgive her after something like that?

I don't know what the outcome of all of this is going to be. There's a flat, dull ache in my stomach that tells me this is it; there will be no friendship between myself and Emily, after this. I expect Sherlock and John will share the same opinion, when they find out. I have to tell them. I want to tell them. Because Emily doesn't deserve the secrecy I can provide.

As I walk, I catch snatches of people's conversations. At first they mean nothing to me, but, as I continue to press aimlessly in the direction of Westminster, I start to pick up on things; unsettling things, like tears and sirens and muted screams.

"Oh god...Have you heard? It's horrible. I was one of the first to see her- there was a group of us, and we all called the emergency services- though it was much too late at that point, anyone could see that," says one woman, as she passes me, talking into her mobile and looking over her shoulder at Big Ben.

And then my eyes fall on two people in the middle of the road, talking to a solitary police officer who's pulled over. One of them is crying, shaking convulsively as she tries to get the words out, and her partner has his arm around her shoulder. His face is ashen, and he too is struggling with what I think must be shock.

"I...We were just on a night out- and then Carly she...she looked up and-" he begins, fighting with coherency as he speaks. "She was just hanging there. Then someone screamed and there was panic. We got away from it all as...as quickly as possible."

The officer nods, and the receiver crackles into admission. Another ambulance flashes past. I'm caught in a rip-current effect; people surging away from the scene whilst others swarm towards it.

Dazed, I dig around in my pocket for the flip-up leather case that holds the card with my name and status, declaring me a member of the police force. Sherlock has one too- a perk of being a well-known detective- and he insists we carry them around with us everywhere, just in case we happen across a situation like this one. I start to push my way through the crowds, fighting my way to the cut off point, where police tape rings the area around Big Ben. Officers are gesturing at the group of people and journalists, telling them to get back, calling in reinforcements. I hold up my card, and someone nods at me, lifting up the police tape so that I can duck under. There are news reporters, ambulances, police cars, and more surprisingly, fire engines, their ladders being clipped together as if to perform a rescue mission.