One month later
***
Emily's POV
-------------------
"Sherlock?" says John, out of breath. "Sherlock, slow down."
Sherlock completely ignores John's request, and increases the pace of his stride, so that we are compelled to jog in order to keep up with him.
We're in yet another suspiciously unkempt depot; one that has been uninhabited by legal services for years. The space reeks of grime and ammonia, there's graffiti streaking the frosted glass and peeling walls, and the few windows that haven't been boarded up are shattered into thin, cracked webs.
However, it's far from empty.
There are people everywhere; slumped against the walls, huddled by windows, coughing into the heavy, smoke-laced air. As we walk, we're stared at through empty eyes, the same hollowed, wan faces turning to watch the three strange newcomers. This is the fifteenth drug cartel we've forced our way into this month, so the shock value of seeing such dilapidated excuses for humans has been somewhat numbed.
It became clear, after the first week, that Millie wasn't coming back.
At first, Sherlock was unreachable. He shut himself off entirely; from us, from Mycroft, from his work. He didn't leave his room, he scarcely slept, he barely ate. Mary and John spent countless nights fretting over his mental and physical state, and I honestly believed that he was going to remain in this condition of crushing, self-inflicted depression for the foreseeable future.
But then something changed.
It was very much an overnight alteration. I remember it clearly; John and I were sitting in the Baker Street living room, making innumerable, fruitless phone calls to Millie's mobile, when suddenly, Sherlock had slammed out of his bedroom, carrying a stack of folded paper in front of him. He'd ignored our questions, and spread out the sheets, sweeping the contents of his desk onto the floor to clear it. Then he'd found a thick marker, and began studying the paper- which, on closer inspection, had turned out to be a map of London- circling specific, unnamed areas roughly. After a full twenty-four hours' worth of dedicated pinpointing, Sherlock had sat back, cracked his knuckles and examined his work.
He'd circled every drug cartel in his memory, underlined every street where he had met with old suppliers, highlighted car parks and alleyways, ringed meeting places and annotated each urban landmark laboriously. It could well have been a piece of artwork, and the level of intricacy in the detail made my head swim. Sherlock had effectively re-created an illegal underworld, entirely from memory, picking apart his involvement with the drug industry and presenting it visually.
Initially, we didn't understand. We thought he'd truly lost it.
But then it clicked.
He was going to find Millie.
Sherlock explained that he didn't think she'd regressed to substance abuse. He thought that maybe, if he could find an old supplier of hers, he'd be able to salvage some information on her new location.
Which is why we're currently wading our way through the debris and despair of this depot. There's something wholeheartedly unnatural about the faces of the intoxicated. Some look euphoric. Others look like they would like nothing more than to slip into a permanent sleep. There's no set demographic, either. We walk past teenagers and pensioners, all of them oddly identical in their phosphorescent vacancy. I really can't imagine Millie, or Sherlock, for that matter, being one of these vacuous addicts, but I suppose they must have been.
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The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}
Fanfic'Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organiser of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city.' ~Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem Shipped off to an expensive resort in Switzerland, Sherlock, John, Millie...