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

Chapter 51- Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Wedding Planner

Millie's POV

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The sun, for all its glorified importance, is deceptive. This morning, as we prepared for the service, the outside world was golden and swimming in what appeared to be an autumnal heatwave. And yet, as we file out of the church now, I'm suppressing shivers. The sky is a single expanse of dirty white, muting the sun, and a mercilessly crisp breeze raises the flesh on my bare arms and neck.

John and Mary, however, couldn't care less. They're radiating their own heat, a glowing pride and mutual love that remains untouched by the elements. John has one arm around Mary's waist, laughing, as he brushes confetti from his jacket shoulder. Mary is beaming at anyone who passes, her face flushed and eyes bright, and, every few minutes, she glances at John, as if she can't quite believe that she's in this situation. She catches my eye, and mouths: "I'm married, Millie!". I nod emphatically in response, smiling as she gives me another gesture of inexplicable joy before turning back to the conversation.

I haven't seen Emily since the beginning of the service; she arrived late, and sat at the back of the church with Lestrade and a handful of his work colleagues. I'm noticeably taller than the majority of people at this wedding, so searching the crowds for Emily's familiar outline isn't difficult. There's a flash of carmine amongst the insipid lilacs and pastels, and I spot her by the church door, next to Molly Hooper- who, after two months in and out of hospital, has emerged for the wedding, supporting her weight on a pair of crutches and attired in an aggressive shade of yellow.

I don't join their discussion. I'm occupied observing Emily, who has continued to deteriorate quietly over the days leading up to the wedding. Her skin is sallow, her collarbone prominent against the straps of her dress, the light in her eyes long extinguished. She's starting to make me look healthy by comparison.

There's a sudden rush of chilled air, made sweet with damp, and I adjust my gloves, struggling to find purchase on the pearlised silk. The transport is running a little late, but everyone is too involved in conversing to notice. Everyone but myself, and, as I look past Emily and Molly, Sherlock.

He's standing separately from the bulk of the group, hands behind his back and shoulders straight in the confining rigidity of his tuxedo. He's watching John and Mary as they talk and laugh with an air of displaced dejection. I weave my way through the crowd, and join him on the periphery, receiving a head tilt and tight-lipped smile as a greeting. We stay like this, in detached silence, watching from afar with two very different mentalities; I’m enjoying myself, thrilled- if not a little bemused- by the matrimonial union, but Sherlock is clearly uncomfortable in his solitude, unsettled by John's absence. Recently, he's been retreating into longer periods of quietude, deliberately isolating himself as John and Mary pour over housing leaflets and enquire about rents.

There's a sudden shriek, followed by fast-paced footsteps, and the next thing I know, a boy with a mop of unruly curls and a wicked smile launches himself at Sherlock. Sherlock is momentarily taken aback, his arms held up to prevent contact, and he turns to me for help-

"The heads!"

I stop, and look down at the boy, confused. He's got both arms around Sherlock's legs, and his face buried into his stomach. When Sherlock doesn't reply, the boy looks up through thick lashes, and says: "You promised me heads if I wore the suit and did the rings." He tugs at his bow tie proudly. "You told me I'd get to see the decap...decapi-"

"Decapitations."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock ignores me, and, glancing around briefly, reaches inside his blazer for some papers. I see a snatch of the content; graphic gore in the form of a brutal homicide, and the boy's eyes light up with expectant glee.