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

Chapter 49- Sublime Pain

Millie's POV

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"And our main headline tonight: Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Victoria Chistone, was shot dead on national television today at 3:46 PM, during a public questioning on the lack of leads concerning James Moriarty. Police have confirmed the homicide as a successful long-range assassination attempt. The perpetrator remains unidentified."

"Sherlock? Have you seen this?"

Sherlock doesn't appear to hear me, as he sits, straight-backed against his armchair, tuning his violin in a swelling arpeggio of liquid sound.

"I thought you wanted red."

"Burgundy, John. I said burgundy."

John looks down at the small sprig of white flowers in his hand, bound by a wide, obstinately red ribbon, his expression one of bewildered irritation.

"I went through four bloody wedding catalogues to find a red-"

"Burgundy."

"To find a burgundy ribbon for some flowers-"

"Table decorations," corrects Sherlock, mocking as he runs polish over the scroll of his violin.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, and breathes out in a long, exasperated exhalation, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

On seeing this, Mary softens, and places a hand on his shoulder, the band of silver on her finger casting fragmented light in different directions. It's been two months since the announcement of their engagement, and, as we near the date of the wedding, patience is wearing thin.

I am retreating further into silence, watching, detached, from afar as harsh comments are hurled at unsuspecting individuals, followed by tearful reconciliations. Emily avoids these situations entirely, keeping her involvement to a minimum and decreasing the frequency of her visits. Sherlock is perhaps the only one of us not to be outwardly affected by the mass calamity; he simply blocks out the noise and distress around him, closing the shutters on the outside world and losing himself in the bank of facts and figures stored inside his mind. However, on more than one occasion, I've caught him watching John with a regret that is almost palpable, something sore and only partially concealed.

"Maybe it's the light. I'm sure they'll come up burgundy when they're laid out on the table."

"I doubt it."

"Stop it, Sherlock," I snap, watching John's grip tighten around the offending decoration. I get a sharp screech of staccato notes in response.

I turn to Mary, feeling useless in the midst of panic and pre-wedding preparations. "Shall I draft out a guest list?"

"No," she says, a little too quickly, and we all look up. She collects herself, and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. All this planning is going to my head. Don't worry about it, Millie. I'll do it tonight."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't have many friends. I lost contact with most of them when I went out to Zermatt for my training."

I let it go at that, and pull out the desk chair, about to begin organising the daunting pile of reference numbers in front of me.

"The venue's available," says John, taking the phone away from his ear. "But a post-marriage event is part of the deal. No exceptions."

"Not even for us old-timers?"

"They've got a hall attached to the main building. It comes as a package payment."