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

Chapter 48- The Drawbacks of Empathy

Emily’s POV

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My fingers finish working the bandage, and, wincing in preparation for the unpreventable pain, I pull the strip of material away from the side of my head.

Cold air licks the warm edges of the healing wounds, and I grit my teeth, leaning in to Sherlock's bathroom mirror. The injuries themselves are unpleasant even by my standards; scabbing cuts matting with wisps of hair, bruises mottling the side of my head, neck, and nose, the split across my top lip swollen and dark with crusting blood.

But I know I am fortunate. If Millie hadn't managed to turn those lights on when she did, I'd have had my skull smashed in by a pair of designer stiletto shoes. In hindsight, it was very much a case of 'eat or be eaten'. A savage phrase to accompany a savage situation.

I dab at the worst of the damage and re-apply the gauze, before winding the bandage around the circumference of my head and over my left ear. It's a process I've had to become familiar with over these last few days. I refused to go to hospital, fearing arrest even after Mycroft's personal reassurances that strings would be pulled to ensure that this particular homicide would skip the records. Amy Walksin was becoming such a threat to the system and state, my actions were praised, not rebuked, although Mycroft took me aside and told me that, next time, the consequences would be far from lenient.

And I can't relax. Grief festers in the hollow of my chest. Cameron's murder stings, snatches of our time together clashing with the image of his discovery, his perfect face frozen and neck cut open in a brutal, gaping grin. I feel angry, then, and my thoughts return to Amy with a barbarous satisfaction. But I’m forced to remember that she was not the one behind Cameron's untimely demise, and the anger assuages to pity, as her final expression, betrayal; stark and raw, flashes across the cerebral screen in my head. The cycle starts again.

Two beautiful people, each with very different intentions, both controlled by passion and endearment, dead within the space of twenty-four hours.

I don't regret taking the life away from Amy Walksin. There is no guilt, or remorse, kindling within the emotive turmoil inside my head. Ultimately, she landed Molly in hospital, brought Sherlock back to the brink of a breakdown, and near-tortured Millie in front of us all.

I do, however, regret how easily I fell into a pattern of predictability. Moriarty all but confirmed his motives, and I now know that I, like a pawn in his ever-growing game of chess, played out his prognostications flawlessly, without deviation. The unexpected is what keeps me alive, and as soon as I become decipherable, I am as good as dead. By killing Amy in the manner that I did, I effectively put a cap on my own life; Moriarty understands a new section of my psyche, and I now have to fight to get those days back.

It's a continuous, unforgiving battle, and I'm running out of stamina.

Sighing out loud, I press down on the fresh bandage, sealing the adhesive. I'm back at Baker Street, spending nights on the faded leather sofa, a temporary guest while my flat is cleaned of its gory redecoration. I'm looking elsewhere for accommodation; somewhere cheaper, closer to Baker Street, and not owned by a criminal proprietor.

As I leave the bathroom, I collide with Mary. We apologise simultaneously, and she laughs, tucking two stray strands of hair back behind her ears.

"How did it look?"

"Like someone has been hacking at my head with a blunt saw."

She pulls a face: "Nice. Just what I needed before dinner out."

"You're the nurse."

"Still an appetite ruiner."

"It's just the scabbing, really. And the bruises."