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

Chapter 53- Nothing More (+A/N)

Millie's POV

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The night air is chilled to the brink of uncomfortable, and I cross my arms as we walk, attempting to lock in my dwindling body heat. Sherlock is more appropriately attired in his suit, his jacket a buffer against the iced wind and waistcoat an extra layer of insulation, so he’s less than sympathetic when my dropping internal temperature begins to slow us down. I further exacerbate his mood by stopping, suddenly, and exclaiming:

"Wait, Sherlock. Emily's still in there."

Sherlock frowns, torn between irritation and confusion. "Yes. She is."

"We can't abandon her without an explanation."

"I saw her dancing with another individual. She's pleasantly distracted."

"We're not leaving without her," I say, firmly, and turn back towards the entrance, blotting out Sherlock’s agitated sigh. My good intentions are short-lived, however: I’ve barely taken three steps in the direction of the hall when I hear some commotion from inside, phrases such as “watch where you’re going” and “who does she think she is?” accompanying the indignant cries of people being parted unwillingly. I stop where I am, and watch, half-bemused, as Emily emerges from the sweltering mass of dancing bodies and begins looking around the dark garden, frantic.

"Emily?"

She spins around on the spot, and stares at me, the look on her face one of horrified desperation.

"Is something wrong?"

I answer my own question with a glance at her countenance. She's breathless; her chest flushed a deep, heated pink, and her hair falling across her forehead in tightly-coiled curls. It's unsettling, wanton, almost, a wild intensity that is unfamiliar after weeks of intoxicated torpidity. The fire in her eyes is reminiscent of the old, fiercer Emily Schott, the forgotten woman whom I loved dearly and feared inherently. I take a step backwards out of instinct.

"Where is he?"

I look at her, carefully.

"Who?"

But Emily's past perception, at this point. She simply pushes me roughly to one side, and scans the area again, seeking something I cannot see. When her search proves unsuccessful, she near growls in frustration, raking back her hair and turning on her heel. Sherlock looks at me for an explanation. I shrug, utterly bewildered, and watch as her outline shifts into a silhouette against the flashes of car headlights.

“Did she seem a little…troubled?”

“No more than usual.”

“Sherlock,” I snap, vexed on Emily’s behalf. "She didn't mention anything when she was with you?”

"Nothing of significance."

I abandon my attempts at vocalised analysis, and slip into a pensive solitude, remaining resolutely silent until we reach the hotel entrance. John and Mary fell in love with the Victorian architecture, and insisted that the guests should spend one night on the premises, all expenses paid in advance. It's certainly impressive, with its white floodlights and arched windows, and I can't help but linger to look at the intricate carvings as Sherlock and I are shown into the lobby. Plush would be the most fitting adjective; carpets made thick with sumptuous fibres, wallpaper embossed with vintage velvet and antique furniture polished to reflect the lamplight. I'm finding it hard not to feel daunted, as we're handed our room keys and pointed towards the lift.

Sherlock and I part ways after a curt “goodnight”, and I close the door behind me with an unmistakable resentment. He’s being particularly discourteous this evening, and my own patience is starting to wear thin. The brusqueness began after the dance, and has only worsened since.