Millie's POV
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I am forced from sleep by the sound of rain hammering at the glass window, and by the distant discontent of the storm outside. It's early morning, judging by the absence of noise in my surroundings, and I squint drowsily into the darkness, trying to remember how I got myself into this predicament. My back is cold, made damp by the flecks of rainwater dashing through the open window, but my front is warm and pressed against something soft.
When I do come round to my senses, realisation hits hard and without mercy.
Sherlock is so close. In the first few seconds of consciousness, I didn't register his presence next to me, but now it grips my focus, and I don’t want to coax my thoughts away from the man who I am clinging to unabashedly. I can't seem to work out where I end and he begins; the lines of our bodies slot neatly together, bound by stray arms and legs, holding even in sleep. I spend a guilty moment savouring the impossible, relishing the proximity of our chests and heads and heartbeats.
There is a sudden burst of sound as lightning cracks the sky, and, in that second, the room is white. Sherlock's breathing catches, and he tenses, roused abruptly by the clash of light and resonance.
I attempt to feign sleep, but my pulse is traitorously quick-paced, and I can't relax the rigidity in my body enough to certify conviction.
"You're awake."
I sigh inwardly.
"So are you."
I am unwilling to initiate the first movement, so I stay where I am, my arms stiff from maintaining the position for such an extended period of time. When he makes no effort to continue conversation, I decide to breach the silence with a question that, despite the rarity of my current situation, is at the forefront of my mind.
“Is Emily here? At the hotel?”
“It’s unlikely.”
“Something’s wrong, Sherlock. She was angry.”
“No. That wasn’t anger.”
I frown, and push myself off Sherlock’s torso, sitting up and looking down. His eyes are open, but not focused on me; they are trained on the window, clear-cut blue made grey with the turbulent light cast off by the sky outside.
“What?”
“Think, Millie. What is more destructive than anger?”
I look at him, discomfited.
“Sherlock, you’re being-“
“Lust. Longing. Want. Desperation.”
I grapple with the red that is threatening to taint the skin on my face. The abhorrence in Sherlock’s tone and expression is a very real reminder that the sentiments I was experiencing moments ago are, and always will be, unjustifiable.
“That’s impossible.”
“Not impossible. The signs were there. Fairly obvious signs, actually.”
“You didn’t mention that when I asked you if she seemed troubled.”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“It wasn’t necessary? You must be seeing it too, Sherlock. The drinking, the reclusion, the lack of…of-“
“Violent outbursts.”
“Sherlock.”
“I am no emotive expert.”
There’s a stilted silence. Emily fades from my thoughts as I think back to the genuine gratification our unusual sleeping circumstances granted me, and compare it with Sherlock’s indifference.
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}
Fanfiction'Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organiser of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city.' ~Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem Shipped off to an expensive resort in Switzerland, Sherlock, John, Millie...
