Millie's POV
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Emily's flat has become almost as familiar as our apartment at Baker Street; her white-washed walls are as comforting as our clashing wallpapers, and her computer with its mess of wires and stacks of USB drives is as visually reassuring as our cluttered kitchen table, piled high with Petri dishes and microscope slides.
That being said, today, I'm feeling exceptionally uneasy. Amy insisted that we meet here, and, despite arranging to speak in a place that feels like home, I'm intimidated, made vulnerable by the unknown. Perhaps it's because I'm still shaken from yesterday's ordeal. I tried to conceal the scratches on my arms with a long-sleeved shirt, but the scabbing sores are visible on my wrists and hands, garish against the navy sheen of the material.
Sherlock's newly aggressive attitude isn't helping either. I suppose I'm partially to blame- if he hadn't caught me in my state of neurotic desperation, maybe he wouldn't be acting so truculently. I've never seen him like this before; it's frightening, watching someone who is usually reserved become vitriolic.
Emily looks edgy too. She's sitting on the sofa, one knee pulled up to her chest, picking at the fraying denim of her jeans. It's an innocence that seems distinctly out of character. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that this is the same woman who has killed, and will continue to kill. In many respects, she's unhinged; Emily can go from casual nonchalance to fast-paced fury in seconds, and, when she's pushed to her limit, her conscience becomes non-existent. I think I'm beginning to understand why someone of Moriarty's mentality appealed to that darker side- although imagining them in an intimate situation still makes my blood run cold.
"What?"
I jump, startled by her voice.
"You were staring at me like I'd just strangled a pensioner."
"Sorry, I-"
My uncomfortable apology is interrupted by the rev of an engine, and we all stop moving, listening for further clarification. It's strange- now that we're quiet, I think I can hear two separate vehicles.
The purr dissolves into silence.
John happens to be nearest the window, and he parts the blinds, looking out.
"This could be her. Expensive transport choice. Jaguar, by the looks of things. There are two of them though, so I'm not sure-"
His sentence cuts off abruptly, emphasised by the slam of a car door.
"I think you should see this."
Sherlock leans over John's shoulder, and Emily swings her legs across the armrest, getting up and peering through the gap between their heads.
I watch as, one by one, their expressions become identical. I heave myself to my feet, and, willing my legs not to buckle, make my way over to observe whatever has caused such undivided horror.
In hindsight, I should have seen this coming.
The two cars are parked against the curb, and I watch through the slats as Moriarty, identifiable in dark sunglasses and a priceless suit, talks briefly to the driver. He then opens the door of the other vehicle, and holds it there, waiting. I see her hand, white against the black interior, reach up and stop at the knot of his tie. She tugs at it, and Moriarty's head ducks down, as he is pulled into the back of the car with her.
The door is hastily shut behind him.
John is the first to speak.
"No. No, Sherlock, I don't care how much you want to speak to that woman, we're not staying here."
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}
Fanfiction'Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organiser of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city.' ~Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem Shipped off to an expensive resort in Switzerland, Sherlock, John, Millie...
