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

Chapter 42- Seven Deadly Sins: Indolence

Millie's POV

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Sherlock hurls a fistful of loose change at the taxi driver, and, in a scramble of jutting elbows and excessive cursing, we pile inside the vehicle.

"Where to?" asks the driver, slotting the coins into his holder with a painstaking slowness.

"St. Barts hospital, West side. And for God's sake, step on it."

As we pull out into the road, Sherlock starts rapidly entering numbers into his mobile, ignoring John's claims that the police would be a better option. We listen with suppressed anticipation as the phone line rings, empty and constant. Molly doesn't pick up, and we turn a corner, falling against each other with the force of the motion. Emily's joined in the barrage of communication attempts, the joints in her fingers white against her skin as she grips her phone.

Just as I am beginning to think that we're not going to get through to Molly in time, I hear her voice, tinny through the speaker of Sherlock's mobile.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

"Listen to me. You need to get out of that building."

Molly laughs, nervously.

"I can't, Sherlock, I'm at work." There's a static rush of movement, and then, in a furtive whisper: "I really shouldn't be speaking to you now. I'm about to go into an autopsy and-"

"You're standing on what is presumably a primed network of explosives. I can't explain, there's not enough time. You've got to get out."

Molly is silent for a moment.

"If this is one of your jokes Sherlock, it's not very funny."

Emily pulls Sherlock's wrist towards her, and speaks into his phone:

"This isn't a joke Molly. Please, do what he says."

We slam to a stop at a crossing, the seat belts straining at our chests. Molly is quiet, her broken intakes of breath the only indication that she hasn't hung up.

Then, in a small, fearful voice:

"How long do I have?"

"I don't know. Assume that the detonation is imminent, and-"

"What about everyone else? I can't just leave them here."

Sherlock frowns, and holds the phone away from his ear, looking at it with an expression that is somewhere between frustration and confusion.

"You can't leave them there?"

"I can't let them die."

"Of course you can."

"Jesus, Sherlock-"

But Molly, in an unexpected turn of determination, contradicts Sherlock fiercely, telling him that although he might be able to live with blood on his hands, she could not. She hangs up, telling us that she'll be in contact as soon as she's alerted security. The resulting tension in the taxi is unbearable, as we hurtle down backstreets; Sherlock is shouting, Emily is wrestling the urge to get out of the vehicle and find Molly herself, I'm holding onto the armrest for dear life, and John is trying to calm everyone down whilst being the opposite of stable himself.

And, throughout it all, Amy taunts us, sending texts to fuel the inferno.

Hurry up, Sherlock. Don’t be lazy.

Still not there yet?

I’m counting down.

Finally, after five excruciating minutes of furious, gnawing desperation, Sherlock's phone lights up with Molly's number, and she speaks the words we have been waiting to hear: