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

Chapter 59- Over Indulgence

Millie's POV

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I press the tip of the pen into the final square of my tenth consecutive crossword with a sense of well-founded, arguably pathetic satisfaction.

My return to Baker Street was not particularly eventful; I was discharged from hospital with an impressive bandage, a fistful of painkillers, and, with the assistance of John, Sherlock and a very patient taxi driver, managed to arrive back at our apartment without tearing my sutures. I've been effectively bedridden for the last seven days, passing the time with endless cups of poorly-made tea courtesy of Sherlock, and crosswords, torn from daily newspapers by John on his lunch breaks.

I place my current crossword back on the drawers, sliding it under Molly's card. She made her appearance this morning, armed with a drooping bouquet and false smile. The message inside her card is uncharacteristically curt; I get the impression that Molly Hooper has never, for all her sweet-natured temperament, been fond of me. I tend to avoid conversation with her when I can help it, to prevent the inevitable stiff silences and wooden pleasantries that are exchanged purely for the sake of social convention, and convention alone. Today was not an exception – in fact, other than the initial greeting, she hasn't left Emily's very tipsy company in the living room.

The file has been preying on my mind for some time, now. I think we may have underestimated its importance. There were two other individuals in Magnussen's penthouse that evening, both with identical intentions. The unnamed gunman – or gunwoman as she has been dubbed, as a result of Sebastian's choice of prefix – has provided me with bountiful material to mull over during my recovery. She was focused on concealment rather than success, and her decision to incapacitate me rather than kill me is as perplexing as it is perturbing.

However, that being said, I am much more concerned about Sebastian's unexpected presence and purpose. He was prepared, he was prepped to kill, and he came very, very close to achieving his goal. But it's not the break-in, or the murder that is bringing back the cold clench in my stomach.

It is simply the fact that he was there.

Because, if Sebastian Moran was on the premises, I can say without doubt or speculation that Jim Moriarty wants that file too. And that means the information currently in the hands of Charles Augustus Magnussen is more important and more dangerous than I could have possibly given it credit for.

Unsettled, I distract myself from the predicament at hand by transferring my thoughts onto a newly troublesome topic. Emily's drinking has surpassed leisure, exceeded obsession, and is now a borderline necessity. On the occasion she visits, she is either sober and surly, or intoxicated beyond recognition.

And intoxicated Emily is becoming more and more hazardous to be around.

From my experience, her drunk disposition divides sharply into two categories; she can be numb, a senseless, mute, shell of a person, or she can be erratic – to the extent that a look in her direction will spark a violent meltdown. I don’t know who or what triggered this bout of belligerent alcoholism, and I’m not sure there is anything I can say or do to stop it from worsening further.

In an attempt at forcing the feeling of acute foreboding from my head, I turn over, roughly, and in doing so feel the sickening tug of thread pulling at skin. There's a piercing spike of discomfort, followed swiftly by a warm pressure that leaks in blotches, sealing the rupture with liquid. Cursing at my own carelessness, I sit up, pushing back the sheets and gently lifting the hem of my shirt to observe the extent of the damage.

There is something compelling about the way blood soaks into white fabric. I spend one grim moment locked in a morbid compulsion, pressing softly on the bandage to deepen the colour, watching the torn stitch stain the gauze scarlet.