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

Chapter 30- Coincidences?

Emily's POV

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"Oh god. This is my fault. I knew something was wrong. I could see that he wasn't coping," says John, into his hands. "I should have been there. To stop him."

"It's not your fault, John," I say, leaning back into the plastic hospital chair and sighing."If anything, it's me who should be-"

"Are you sure she wasn't at her flat? You know, her old one, in Kensington. She hasn't rented it out yet, so-"

"I checked. I phoned the landlord, and asked if a Millie Shon had reclaimed 14A, but he said he wasn't in the position to disclose that information. So I hacked the system- don't look at me like that, what was I supposed to do?- and scanned the recent payments. She's not there, John."

"Jesus...You don't think she's... done anything really extreme, do you?  You said she took the gun with her, and-"

But he says no more, because suddenly the door to our right swings open, and Sherlock emerges, his arm bandaged in sling, his face as pale as the plaster itself. We stand up to meet him, but he walks past us; whether he's ignoring us or simply not aware of our presence is unclear. I look at John, hesitant:

"Should we leave him alone? I don't think he's in the mood for company, somehow."

"That's what I thought yesterday, and look what happened. No. It's too risky. When he's like this, he could walk in front of a bus without realising he's doing it. Let's get him back to Baker Street."

When we catch up with Sherlock, he looks down at us, flatly, and John's face creases in concern. 

"What did the doctor say?"

"Broken. Possible concussion, but not concerning enough to keep me in overnight," he says, his voice equally monotonous.

No-one speaks, as we climb into the waiting taxi.

I insisted that Sherlock went to the hospital, in the end; he kept flitting between awareness and confusion, and I convinced myself that he was slipping into an irreversibly damaging concussion. Then, as soon as he left for his consultation, I phoned John, and told him what had happened. He was horrified, and arrived at the hospital ashen-faced and profusely apologetic, claiming that he was to blame for the events that had occurred. We've been at A&E for a good seven hours, and it's currently two in the morning. No-one really feels like sleeping, though, and the silence continues as we drive through the empty streets. 

Millie's whereabouts remain unknown. John went via Baker Street to the hospital, and the apartment was uninhabited. My trysts with Millie's old landlord proved inconclusive; where she's gone, and what she's done, is a mystery, and one that we are all very uncomfortable with.

Sherlock has regained his control, now, and I watch his face, illuminated every few seconds by the light cast off from streetlamps. His expression is totally and utterly unreadable. Cold. It's like he's regressed back to his old ways; the mechanical consulting detective, known for his intelligence and his tactlessness.

I think he's hating himself. Hurting himself. In his head, and the unfeeling exterior is a mask, concealing the emotional turmoil inside.

Because there's this thought, at the back of all our minds, and it won't go away.

Sherlock and I, we saw Millie, we saw the desperation and the way she looked at the gun with an unnatural longing.

I didn't go after her. I should have done. Because now, and even though I am trying very hard to push the concept to the depths of my mind, I'm scared that she'd had enough. Sherlock said some poisonous things, and they were designed to sever, to lacerate.

But that's not the worst part of it all.

I can hear him in my head.

Moriarty telling me about objects. About the way people form attachments, to other individuals.

Millie needs Sherlock. Without him, she no longer possesses her sense of self-control and integrity.

Moriarty is right, in a way. Sentiment is a dangerous game to play. Because now, without Sherlock, without anyone but those consistent doubts tugging at her resolve, what's to stop her from taking that final step?

We arrive back at Baker Street, and Sherlock retreats to his room immediately. I borrow Millie's bedroom for the night, but I don't sleep. I'm kept awake, by a silent film that plays stubbornly in my head, showing Millie lying face-down in a street somewhere, the pool of dark liquid seeping across the concrete the only indication that once, there was life in the broken body that used to be hers.

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Millie's POV

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For the fifth time in twenty four hours, I press the barrel of the gun to my head.

It loses its impact, the more times you do it. At first, it was terrifying, knowing that the cold metal at my temple had the power to cut off my thoughts entirely. Now, it's a process; I hold the gun to my head, I watch the rain splinter the dark pavement outside, I start to doubt myself, I cave into those doubts, and I take the gun away.

I don't know where I am. I left the apartment, and walked for what felt like hours, with no particular destination in mind, and I found myself in a desolate, grim part of London. Fatigue and mental exhaustion halted my persistence, which is how I ended up in an empty alleyway, my back pressed against the damp brickwork, listening to the remnants of the rainfall pattering on the corrugated iron sheet above my head.

Now that the adrenaline has died down enough for me to process my thoughts more logically, I am beginning to weigh up my options.

Suicide is one of them, but, as I let the gun fall back down into my lap yet again, it is becoming less viable as a way out.

I could return to Baker Street, and try to salvage the shreds of my relationships. But I get the impression that it would be like trying to force mismatching puzzle pieces to connect; with enough pressure, they will join, and repair the damage, but the final product will always be fragile and twisted.

And then there's option three. I can start again. Try to get some money together, rent out a new place, and blot out yet another chapter of my life. It'll be harder than last time, but it's a definite possibility. 

However, none of those options sound particularly appealing.

I think I must fall asleep at some point, because when I next open my eyes I'm freezing, disorientated, and stiff, as my limbs struggle to readjust to sleeping rough. It's been a very long time since I last found myself in this position, and it brings back unwanted memories.

My fingers are numb, and it takes me a while to work out how to use them, as I feel my way into my jacket pocket for my phone. I take it out, and turn it on. The battery flashes red, and my missed calls and text messages stack up, from John and Emily. I scroll quickly through my inbox, and see urgency in the pixelated words.

There's nothing from Sherlock.

Not that I was expecting anything.

I stand up, staggering slightly, my body protesting at the sudden movement. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, now that I've deliberately cut myself off from my only stability. I wrap my fingers around the gun in my jacket, more for reassurance than anything else. Desperation doesn't begin to describe my situation.

I surpassed desperation a long time ago.

I pull my jacket around me tightly, step out of the alleyway and into the street, when-

"Millie Shon?"

I don't move, listening to the familiar voice and trying to decide whether to run now or pull out the gun.

"I can't say I expected to see you here. What a coincidence."

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