Millie’s POV
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With unsteady hands, I start working the buttons of my shirt, watching as the material slips over the ridges of my shoulders and falls to the floor. It’s strange, how something as simple as observing a reflection can be such an intimidating task. Sherlock hasn’t moved from his armchair since our return from Emily’s flat, and John’s helping Mary browse Estate Agents for a permanent lodging. It has become a case of ‘now or never’.
I hold the folds of fabric in my hands for a while, then, steeling myself for the worst, look into the mirror.
Despite having gained a good stone, I still look emaciated; my ribs form an unpleasant series of peaking bone and dipping hollows, and my stomach curves inwardly in a way that looks execrably unnatural. I bite my lip, containing the sob that threatens to break through my emotive barriers, and turn sideways, hoping irrationally that a change in the angle will reveal unseen improvements. The scabs on my arms are dark and uneven, and the skin around it is raw, worsened by the healing process.
I can’t look away. It’s repugnant, and, even though the woman in the mirror copies each and every individual action of mine, I can’t believe that it is me. This is the result of inverted gluttony; an insatiable greed that took away my remaining burnish, leaving me with this skeletal, scarred excuse for a body.
There are sudden footsteps, and the door swings open behind me. I spin around, instinctively crossing my arms over my chest, and stare in horror at Sherlock- who stares back at me with genuine confusion.
“You’re crying.”
“You didn’t knock.”
“Why?”
“Just leave, Sherlock. Please.”
“But you’re-“
“Don’t.”
“Millie-“
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
Sherlock struggles, words eluding him. I open my mouth to snap, but nothing comes out.
I can’t stop the sobs this time. They’re painful, heaving things, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking. A shift on the mattress tells me that Sherlock is next to me, and I try to push him away, not wanting him here to witness this. But he doesn’t move. He simply sits, silent, and I give up resisting, letting my world cave in just for those few moments.
Eventually, the tears subside, and I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Why?” Sherlock repeats, simply. His voice is flat, and his gaze is fixed on a point on the opposite wall.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Sherlock turns his head. I gesture harshly at my torso.
He says nothing.
I push the curls away from my face, and shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. There’s movement, and I watch as Sherlock begins to roll up his sleeve.
“What are you doing?”
He ignores me, and continues, until his forearm is completely exposed; pale skin, a delicate network of veins running close to the surface. Sherlock then takes my wrist in his hand, and turns it over, holding it next to his own. At first, all I can see is the mess of red on my flesh, the gory amalgam of lines and pinpricks, deplorable against his unmarred skin.
However, on closer inspection, I realise that it is not unmarred at all.
They’re so faint, I can barely make them out; a speckling of raised, silver bumps, the scars of a familiar story. Then he holds up his other arm.
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...
