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

Chapter 33- Cardiac Arrest

Millie's POV

------------------

I don't know where I am.

It's that moment of hopeless disorientation that occurs seconds after sleep has dissolved.  The seconds drag into minutes, as I open my eyes and look around. I don't recognise this place. It's not Baker Street, with its haphazard familiarity, or Emily's decidedly disorganised apartment. It's not my old flat, or Sebastian's lodging. Or the car that took me here.

I think it's a hotel.

It has to be; no other place could sustain this level of order and cleanliness. It's immaculate, to the point where it feels like an extract from a photo. And there's something distinctly unsettling about the room, with its lavishly modern furnishings. It's too perfect, too expensive. It doesn't feel real.

I blink against the dull ache ticking away at the base of my skull, and I audibly groan as I try, and fail, to prop myself up. My throat is papery, my vision isn't focused, and there's a metallic taste in my mouth that refuses to fade. My chest is starting to hurt, too.

I've taken too much.

It's happened before. Once. I'd miscalculated the potency of my fix, and ended up collapsing in a car park. I'd come round with blood in my mouth and a crushing sensation in my chest that told me I'd come alarmingly close to death. Now, as the pain slowly increases, I start to choke against invisible restraints, and I realise that I am in the same precarious situation. I can't breathe, not properly, and panic is starting to set in as I continue heaving half-snatches of thin air, my fingers seeking but not finding purchase on the mattress beneath me. The worst part is my chest. It's like there's a weight on my ribcage; my heart hammers at a rate that hints at its failure, and each beat flares agony from an infinite reserve.

Fingers of silver snake across my vision, and I struggle with the urge to sleep.

Sleep would be lethal.

"I'd really rather you didn't die yet, Millie. We've still got a lot of work to do."

I can hear him, but I can't see him. It's just a voice, lost in the steadily quickening rush of blood in my ears. The high has worn off, so I can think properly again. Except I don't want to think. Because right now, my thoughts are telling me that I have reached a critical point, and my heart is giving up its battle with the constant strain. I've overdosed so severely my body is shutting down, organ by organ, and, despite my best efforts, any useful medical knowledge is eluding me.

I can hear rapid, ragged breathing, and feel two hands clawing at my chest- it takes me a few moments to realise that it is me, trying to physically scrape off the weight that's compressing me now.

I can't breathe.

I'm tearing through the files in my head, desperately searching for information on cardiac arrest and survival rates, but each time I come close my heartbeat lurches and rationality is muted by the need to focus on survival.

It's not working.

Suddenly, there's a jolting sensation, deep in the cavity of my chest; my back arches, my hands fist in the fabric of my shirt, and-

Nothing.

------------------

Emily's POV

-----------------

We're asleep when my phone starts to ring.

The noise is shrill, harsh against the soft curves of sleep. I'm the first to wake up, dragged out of unconsciousness unpleasantly, pushing myself off the sofa and squinting at the dark room, confused.