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

Chapter 50- Addiction and Apologies

Emily's POV

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"Emily?" There's gentle knocking at the door. "Are you awake?"

I take a step back from the mirror, rubbing at the remaining streaks of granular makeup under my eyes. There are newly permanent lines arching around my mouth and between my eyebrows, and everything looks flat, dulled by the perpetual ache in my chest.

"We're leaving for Baker Street. You're welcome to come too."

At first, I'm tempted to stage silence and avoid the inevitable confrontation. But then I think back to the hours of drawn-out monotony, broken only by the occasional slur of over-indulgence or brief snatch of sleep.

Suddenly, company seems very appealing.

"I'll be out in a minute."

I sling my jacket over my shoulder, find my phone underneath the stack of urgent bills on my drawers, and take one last, desperate swig from the brandy bottle, wincing as it burns my throat; liquid fire settling in the pit of my stomach. I tug the door open, and Millie looks up, her eyes wide with concern. I ignore her as best I can, focusing on my fingers as I knot the laces of my boots.

"Emily, I think we should-"

"What time is it?"

Millie blinks, surprised and clearly hurt by the sharpness of my tone. She looks down at the small silver watch on her wrist, and says: "Ten o'clock."

"Are you coming with us?" asks Mary, from my kitchen, her voice muffled by the giveaway clatter of bottles being binned. I don't have it in me to be angry, today. I'm too weary, and my temper, once impossible to control, is suppurating, extinguished by the heavy layers of drudgery.

We leave together, Millie and Mary walking a few paces ahead, discussing cake flavours and room layouts. I smile and nod when necessary, making infrequent, non-committal sounds of conformation or contradiction whenever the conversation quietens.

We turn a corner, cutting through a tight, red-bricked alleyway with ageing skips pressed against the walls. I'm not listening anymore, the steady rhythm of feet against concrete sedating my concentration, the words vacant sounds, hovering just outside my percipience.

It is for that reason I am the last person to realise that Millie has stopped walking.

Mary halts me with a hand on my arm, and I jolt back to reality, startled by the contact.

"Millie? Are you alright?"

Millie is standing very still, the slight tension in her stance the only indication that she is aware of her surroundings.

And then I follow her gaze.

Mary covers her mouth with one hand, and the grip on my arm tightens. There's a girl, eighteen at most, lying half-concealed under flattened cardboard boxes, her pale face made dark with dirt. Her eyes are closed with wanton age, one arm draped loosely over her chest as she sleeps. I frown, wondering why a homeless girl is generating such interest. There are thousands of young women like her around London- we've all encountered them at some point in our lives, begging in grimy raincoats or standing on street corners at night.

It's only when I take a step closer out of genuine curiosity, do I understand why Millie has reached a state of lockdown.

The girl isn't sleeping.

Death settles with an unnatural waxiness over her complexion, and her lips are bloodless, cracked and open in a final, abrupt intake of breath. I feel nothing, looking at her, only a simple concern for Millie's current condition. It's a shame, really. There's a soft innocence beneath the scars of brittle hardship; the smattering of freckles across her nose, the strands of fine, red hair visible underneath the frayed fabric of her jumper hood. Mary must be thinking something similar, because she can't seem to focus on anything other than the dead girl's expression, a complex combination of pain and satisfaction.