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

Chapter 27- A Shattered Man

Emily's POV

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Irene Adler's funeral was not a pleasant experience. I still haven't properly processed the news of her death. Using 'was' when referring to her feels so unnatural, and I can't bring myself to watch the news, out of fear that it will solidify the impossible. I didn't like her, not really, but her death has hit me harder than I anticipated.

It's been three days. Three days since her death. I remember the events of that evening with alarming clarity, and I still feel the constriction in my chest when I think back to Millie's words. They were absolutely true, and I don't blame her- but they continue to sting, like a raw wound that won't heal, an internal abrasion.

Moriarty left my apartment soon after Millie, Sherlock and John. I barely noticed him leave; I'd reached a state of post-exertion shock, and I was only half-aware of him moving past me and out of the door.

However, I can remember him telling me about Irene, and I will never forget it.

I was channel surfing aimlessly, needing a distraction from the licentious hum in my blood that had refused to die down, when I saw it. The live news report. I knew it was him; it made sense, because I'd heard him discussing something on the phone earlier, and I'd picked up on strange phrases like: "You've done it? Good. I don't want her recognisable when you've finished." I didn't actually think much of it, because those types of comments had been almost continuous- in fact, that was mild in comparison to some of the more graphic threats I'd heard him shout at various individuals. But as soon as I saw Irene Adler, I knew. And he was watching me, waiting for a reaction, the same slow, savouring smile on his face. That was the worst part. He never stopped smiling. Even as I pressed him to the limits of his own life; the grin was still there.

I didn't expect to be notified of her funeral.

However, I was, and I attended, although judging by the looks of animosity I was receiving from members of the gathering, my presence was not appreciated. I picked up whispered snatches of conversation as we stood around the marked area of woodland, hearing "Jim Moriarty" unceremoniously linked with my own name on more than one occasion. It was painfully uncomfortable, particularly when someone pointed out the rings of bruises on my neck that I couldn't quite conceal with my collar.

But I could have coped with it all, if it wasn't for them.

Sherlock, John and Millie.

'Ignoring' is a nice, unassuming, petulant word to describe the icy silence between us. They arrived at the funeral, pale-faced and tight-lipped. Sherlock looked hollow; his eyes had lost their interested vigour, rimmed by dark, shadowed circles, and his whole aura radiated fragility. He didn't speak to anyone.  Not to Millie, not to John, not to Mary, who was standing hesitantly next to them throughout the service. 

It's like he's on lockdown.

A shattered man.

Seeing Sherlock like that was distressing in itself, but it was Millie's behaviour that really got to me. She didn't approach me, like I thought she would. She barely looked at me at all, and when our eyes met, it was like she saw through me; I was just another face in the crowd. Attempting to converse was futile. I know that Millie is not a spiteful person, so the antipathy she projected on the night of Irene's death must have been very, very real.

And, at the time, I couldn't even tell her why I did it. Why I allowed Moriarty to stay in my apartment.

If she knew my motives, perhaps she'd be more forgiving, although the sex will complicate things somewhat- partially because I don't have a valid explanation myself. I've been thinking this through; I need to get Millie on her own, and talk to her, away from Sherlock. But establishing any form of contact is a near- impossible feat, seeing as she could scarcely look at me at the funeral.