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

Chapter 40- Blood to Ice

Millie's POV

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The week passes in a flurry of sideways glances and frustrated sighs. 

John remains persistently innocuous, and, although his comments pale in comparison to Emily's explicit euphemisms, he succeeds in creating at least one uncomfortable silence a day. I think he's revelling in his new-found power; a form of good-natured -albeit ruthless- revenge, for all the times Sherlock has publicly undermined him.

I'm not sure where Sherlock and I stand, at the moment: he's not avoiding me, but there's an unnatural politeness between us, a staged courtesy in our actions. There's certainly no sense of romance, but at the same time, there isn’t one of regret: something has changed, and I'm struggling to pinpoint the alteration.

Perhaps it's my physical appearance. I'm very aware that I don't look like the Millie they remember. I avoid mirrors, because observing my own reflection has become a harrowing experience; it's repulsive, seeing the human body in such a decrepit state. My body. I've never been particularly self-conscious before, but now I can barely bring myself to leave the apartment.

Sometimes, when I'm consumed by self-loathing or tormented by cravings, I'll allow myself access to the memories of that night. Usually, I keep them locked away, chained at the back of my mind, because these particular emotions are so foreign, and so potent, I've decided that they must be contained until I can analyse them properly.

So, when I do tap into the restricted recollections, they act as an effective diversion.

I remember feeling very light and very tired- not unlike the sought-after high cocaine provided me with. My mind and my body felt distinctly disconnected, and for a while, I didn't speak or move. I just watched the beads of rainwater on the window, and listened to Sherlock's unsteady breathing regulate. I was trying to understand the fading sensation in my chest, but, despite my experience with emotional evaluation, I couldn't quite place it.

I wish I'd managed to stay awake, but my body was too damaged and too weary to prolong consciousness. Sherlock was long gone by the time I woke up in the morning, and I appreciated that- I don't think either of us was ready or willing to discuss what had happened. To anyone who didn't know about the unexpected intimacy, our interactions looked perfectly habitual; we commented on cases, theorised over news reports and challenged each other's perceptions.

We're still continuing this false normality. It's mutually beneficial, and it ensures that our night and all its venereal events can be conveniently forgotten. Sherlock finds the emotional aspect of sexual activity too unfamiliar to address, just as I find the physical side of it daunting.

But, there's one moment, stored stubbornly at the forefront of my mind, that won't let me fall back into my ordinary routine.

I'd woken up, startled by a violent dream sequence; half-glimpses of empty syringes, gun barrels and dark eyes. I sat up, panicked and disoriented by the change in the surroundings, my heartbeat stuttering against the walls of my chest. I spent ten long minutes grappling with terror, feeling very alone in the dark room, waiting for the pain to subside.

I remember lying back down, and, although Sherlock hadn't shown any signs of being awake or interested, his cold fingers found mine under the covers, interlocking and staying there; an easement.

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It's mid-afternoon, and things have ground to a halt. John's replying to some comments on his blog, Sherlock's lying flat-out on the sofa, polishing his gun with the cuff of his sleeve, and I'm counting the wallpaper patterns, trying to direct my thoughts away from the growing need for narcotics.