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

Chapter 55- Media Mogul

Millie's POV

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We don't have time to react.

Mrs Hudson is pushed harshly to one side, and we watch as she stumbles, falling back against the wall and knocking into the mounted picture frame. There is a crush of movement, a rush of sound and efficient force, and the next thing we know, the room is full of sharply dressed men and women, each of them identically grim-faced and severe in grey.

"Search them."

I'm tugged roughly to a standing position, the soft wool of my cardigan sleeves rolled up, my arms lifted and patted down, and my jean pockets inspected. There is no warning, or explanation. I look up, and meet Sherlock's eyes; he's confused too, scowling as he is pushed unwillingly between two suited men, his jacket forcibly pulled back over his shoulders and examined.

"Clear," says the man searching my pockets. "Yours?"

"Clear."

There's a sudden, strangled shriek.

The hands on my arms release their grip, as a dozen pistols are rapidly loaded. The woman who made the mistake of attempting to search Emily is currently bent back at an unnatural angle, hands white-knuckled at Emily's wrists, a pair of open scissors pressed to her throat. The guns are shifted, targets adjusted, and barked orders exchanged over earpieces. Emily stands very still, her grip tight on the scissor handles. If we weren’t surrounding my unknown, armed men and women, I’d have found her choice of weapon comical.

Emily looks around, and I can see the acknowledgement in her expression as she assesses her situation; she is at the nucleus of a network of gun barrels, the epicentre of instant elimination. She begins to raise her hands above her head, and the woman takes a hasty step backwards, her palm flat on the desk to steady herself as Emily glances at me, her cheeks flushed and hot with alcohol.

"That's right, sweetheart. Now the scissors."

I close my eyes.

The resultant thud of metal being driven through skin and wood is sickening, and the scream that slices the musty air is one of searing agony. Triggers click, and, in that second, I am sure that Emily has secured her untimely execution.

"The guns will not be necessary."

I open my eyes, and force myself to look around. Emily's face is twisted in what is either rage or preparation for the bullets about to shatter her skull, and the woman is choking back sobs, the scissor point buried deep in her hand, pinning her to the desk surface.

And yet, to our unanimous disbelief, the guns are lowered.

I turn to face the source of the voice.

There is a man standing by the sofa, his presence previously unnoticed in the midst of the chaos. He's expensively attired, his hair combed back and wire-rimmed glasses flashing silver in the light. He doesn't look particularly threatening; unsettling, perhaps, as he regards the scenario in front of him with mild disinterest.

"I need to have a word with my guests."

At first, I assume I've misheard him. His word choice seems too odd to be legitimate, and his accent is thick - Danish, I think - so I put it down to flawed language.  The men and women, however, do not question him. They file out of the room, the woman cradling her injured hand, and the door shuts behind them.

The unnamed man adjusts his glasses with his forefinger, looking at us all individually through flat, lifeless eyes.

He starts to laugh.