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

Chapter 39- Euphemisms

Emily's POV

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Guilt is a very strange emotion.

Initially, I felt fine. More than fine- I felt relieved, to have Millie back at Baker Street. I thought that, after Sherlock’s veritable breakdown, he’d be somewhat conciliated by her return.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’m not sure who I’m angry at; myself, for telling Millie to go back to the person who triggered her progressive deterioration, or Sherlock, for being so blatantly indifferent about it all. He ignored her as she entered, refused to talk when her name was brought up in conversation, and turned away whenever there was noise from her room.

And I left her there.

I wasn't sure if she wanted to see me- she'd spent the entirety of my visit in her room- so I left without saying goodbye.

I close down my laptop, and drain the dregs from my coffee mug. My monthly income has become so appallingly dire, I can barely pay the rent; I've spent the evening sending out messages to old contacts and publishing previous successes on undetectable sites: the underworld equivalent of a job advertisement.

However, I'm not sure I'll be receiving many requests. Association with two of the most promising detectives of my generation doesn't exactly get the criminal clientele clamouring for my attention.

I make up my mind to visit Millie tomorrow, to see how she's getting on. I only dropped her off a few hours ago, so there's not much point returning to Baker Street today.

Besides, who knows- perhaps Sherlock and Millie will reconcile their differences in my absence.

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It's only mid-morning, and, being a Sunday, there's a definite drowsiness in the hazy, empty streets and deserted roads. Without traffic and crossings to be aware of, the walk is shorter than I anticipated, and I arrive at Baker Street with an hour to spare.

I leave my jacket at the base of the stairs and pause on the first step, listening to the drone of voices above me. It's odd, because Sunday mornings at Baker Street are usually very quiet; Sherlock updates his website with the latest tobacco ash epiphany, and John sleeps until midday.

However, as I push open the door, I am met with an unforeseen and wholly unpleasant diorama.

Mycroft is sitting on John's armchair, two fingers resting lightly on his temple, all disdain and contempt as he turns to face me. I try very hard not to snap, as he gives me the same, condescending, tight-lipped smile.

"Good morning, Ms Schott."

"Mycroft," I say, curtly. Our contrasting occupations are a constant source of hostility.

Sherlock is opposite him, running his fingers over the curve of his violin. He looks up briefly, nods as a greeting, then turns away, distracted.

John's undoubtedly hung-over; his face is twisted with the effects of a pounding headache, and he's clutching a black coffee like it's his life support. He manages a queasy smile, and a hoarse "Morning, Emily." before closing his eyes again and sipping his beverage.

I can only assume that Millie's still sleeping- she does a lot of that, now- or continuing her self-induced exile, because there's no sign of her here.

"What’s going on?"

Mycroft looks irritated, and sighs, sitting up in the chair.

"We were discussing a matter of national importance."