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

Chapter 52- One Last Dance

Emily's POV

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I am very much alone in this crush of heat and sound, stabilised only by my grip on the banister. The room is packed; one, mass movement, the flicks and flares of coloured fabric a heaving bulk, offset by the monochrome masks donned by every individual. My own mask is a welcome cut-off from the prying eyes of concerned friends. I can't stand it anymore, all the comments, all the questions, all the looks of troubled inquisition. Perhaps they think that I am oblivious to my own reflection, and can't see the path of self-destruction I have set myself on.

Irritated, I take a few, unsteady steps in the direction of the orchestra. Until now, I've never understood how Millie could listen to classical music in complete serenity. It bored me senseless, listening to the drone and whine of strings and flutes. But now that I am here, and I can feel the tremors of sound lacing the air I breathe, I am drawn to it.

The room itself is somewhat disconcerting. The building in which we sat to eat suited Mary and John perfectly, with all its soft light and muted colours. This room, however, is imposing, detached, and entirely unwelcoming. It is large - cavernous, almost - the walls and floors seamless in black marble, the chandelier hanging low from its fixture in sculpted shards of processed glass. The click of heels and well-shod soles on stone can be heard above the music, and people are talking, constantly, an undertone to the soar of violins.

"Emily?"

I look up, and see Mary, with John, stepping in a neat half-waltz, concomitant with the deep thrum of cello strings. Mary's mask is a little crooked, and her smile is one of unadulterated radiance.

"Where's Millie?" I ask, having to raise my voice above the newly rallying cadence.

"I haven't seen her," Mary shouts back, as they turn on a pivot. "But Sherlock's over there. Try and get him to join in, Emily. He looks lonely, bless him."

John scoffs, and I am about to protest, but the crowd is closing in, and Mary can only give me a helpless smile before she's pulled into the midst of the dance.

I mutter something dark under my breath, then straighten up, looking for the familiarly unkempt mess of dark hair. It takes me minutes, and I've seen him, standing alone by the beverage table, his hands behind his back and expression grim. I don't call out to him. Instead, I battle my way through dancing couples, and stop by his side, waiting for his attention to adjust. Eventually, Sherlock looks down at me over his shoulder, the acknowledgement implied.

"Isn't it vile?"

I look at him questioningly: "The wedding?"

"Endearment," spits Sherlock, his lips curling with distaste. "Look at them all, dancing, laughing, loving. It's sickening."

I smile inwardly, and shift my weight, leaning against Sherlock's arm.

"You're jealous."

Sherlock makes an impressively derisive noise at the back of his throat.

"You are."

"Jealousy relates to the coveting of an attachment. I am not attached to anyone, or anything."

"John. Millie. Mary-"

"Fond. Not attached."

I roll my eyes, and decide that pursuing my point would require more energy than I currently possess. "Mary wants you to join in."

"Join in what?"

I gesture to the people in front of me.

"No."