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

Chapter 37- A Game of Corollaries

Emily's POV

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I'm startled from the settling confines of sleep by the reverberating thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

Panic is my first reaction, as I sit up in bed, eyes wide and thoughts disoriented. I'm unable to process it; sleep effectively shreds awareness, and, as I blink at the dark hues around me, I'm incapable of sourcing the noise. But then I hear something else- this time, a scraping, frantic sound, like nails scrabbling on wood.

Millie.

I try to stand up too quickly, catching my foot in the sheets and falling in a way that ensures my dignity will not leave with me unscathed. I knew I shouldn't have left her unsupervised, but I was so exhausted, and she was so dormant, I thought I could get away with snatching a couple of hours’ worth of sleep.

I will never forgive myself if her condition has worsened in my absence.

I throw my full weight at the door, shoulder first, and half-stagger into the living room.

Millie isn't lying unconscious on the sofa, as I left her.

She's crouched by the cheap wooden cabinet that came with the apartment, pulling out drawers in a way that can only be described as frenzied: tossing contents carelessly behind her as she searches, roughly rummaging through forgotten USB sticks and hard drives.

"Millie?"

She whips around at the sound of my voice.

I know at once that the final high has worn off; her eyes, although desperate, are focused, and she is very much cognizant of her surroundings. But she still doesn't look like the Millie I remember. Her hair, previously dark and full with loose curls, is lack-lustre and limp, and she doesn’t seem confident with movement, keeping her actions wooden to prevent pain. More strikingly, her weight loss: so severe that her elbows and wrists protrude past the width of her arms.

I try very hard not to let my affliction show.

Millie straightens up slowly, and says, in a voice that is rough from chemical detriment:

"Where are they?"

Maybe the cocktail of hallucinogens, stimulants and narcotics hasn't fully left her system after all.

"Where are what?"

"You know what. Give them to me, Emily."

Millie extends a hand, expectantly. Her voice is controlled to some degree, but her body is betraying her, shaking so badly that she can't keep her hand still as she reaches out.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"My syringes. I know you've taken them. I had them on me," she says, patting her empty jumper pocket. "And I want them back."

The apartment walls start to close in.

"Millie," I begin, softly. "You know I can't give them back to you."

I expect some sort of backlash. I physically tense, as John's warnings repeat in my head, a sinister trio of paranoia, depression, violence, over and over again.

However, she doesn't make any attempt at forcing the information from me. Instead, she smiles.

"I understand, Emily. But there's only one left. It won't kill me, just one more- I can take it.  Just let me have this last shot, and I promise I won't touch it again."