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

Chapter 35- Chemical Defect

Emily's POV

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I don't go back to Baker Street.

I turn the key to my apartment, press the door open with my shoulder, and step inside. I haven't been here in weeks; there's a sense of deliberate neglect about the place, present in the form of dust-mottled air and darkened rooms.

I'm exhausted.

I throw my keys at the table, and shrug off my jacket, looking blankly around the empty apartment. I feel drained from the quantity of emotion I have been exposed to recently, and I'm struggling to think through the confliction.

Everything is hurting.

I sit down heavily on the sofa and lean back, closing my eyes and letting iniquity take over. Instinct and intuition battle it out in my mind, clashing, grappling for dominance, as betrayal spars with trust, and hypocrisy threatens to taint my remaining empathy.

Part of me saw through it.

Millie was clearly locked in a state of narcotism, rendered unthinking and unknowing by the drugs in her system. Whether they were self-administered, I don't know, but the scene we walked in on was most definitely a pre-planned attack on Sherlock's psyche.

And I know Moriarty.

I know that he derives a callous pleasure from manipulation, from using people- both mentally and physically- in order to establish control. So, in many respects, it doesn't shock me. Instead, it hurts, because I know that Millie, for all her flaws, does not deserve to be so ruthlessly exploited.

But at the same time, I'm angry. Furious, in fact, and with good reason. I'm stinging for Sherlock, because I saw his expression when we walked into that room. I know just how much time, energy and devotion he'd poured into finding her. I think back to the display he'd put together, hours spent visiting drug cartels and suppressing memories. All for the woman who breached his trust in the most potent way possible.

I'm indignant, too. Millie has lashed out at me before, verbally, stripping away my remaining shreds of rectitude, because of my involvement with Moriarty. The venom in the angry words directed at me on the night of Irene's death still smarts. What Millie lacks in physical strength is made up for in her ability to lacerate through language.

And then there's the other side of the argument; a much simpler, colder proposition.

What if she doesn't want to come back?

I can see her now, limp in my grip, eyes wide and pupils blown, unseeing, unhearing. Her pulling away, grabbing for Moriarty, pressing him back to her. Him looking at me, as he held her there.

The sick jolt in my stomach, when I saw the way they moved together.

I'm trying very hard to ignore the one, pressing thought at the back of my mind, encouraging darker motives.

Jealously, in this situation, is not justifiable.

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I haven't moved from the sofa since my return. I think I must have slipped into sleep, at some point, because it's early evening outside, a deepening lilac settling over the uninspiring view of council estates and tower blocks.

I'm feeling decidedly guilty for leaving Sherlock and John so readily.

I have a feeling that Sherlock needs all the help he can get, at the moment- whether he wants it or not.

So, I stand up, get changed into clothes that aren't faded from excessive wear, and leave my apartment. I decide to walk, because, with the hacking put on hold, money is starting to become a bit of an issue, and I can no longer afford to splash out on taxi jaunts to Baker Street.