Emily's POV
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'Appledore', as a name, brings images of white-washed cottages in prime sea-front locations to mind, complete with thatched roofs, pinstriped curtains and apron-clad women with an excess of both grandchildren and spare time.
The Appledore in front of me, however, could not be any more different from my mental stereotype.
The gates were opened five minutes ago with a sharp affirmative passed over the intercom, and yet I am still in the taxi, as we make our silent way down the tarmac driveway carved into the countryside; the row of small, blinking lights studding the centre of the road providing us with limited guidance. As is the case with most of the situations I find myself in, I am regretting my rash decision wholeheartedly, and am starting to wish I was an inherently sensible person.
We pull up outside the front of the building, and, after counting out the last of my monetary wealth, I climb out of the vehicle, listening to tyres crunch on gravel as the taxi turns away.
It is dark, now – we have been driving for the best part of four hours, and I am, in hindsight, underdressed for the current winter climate, attired in yesterday's alcohol-soaked shirt and jacket. I cross my arms over my chest in a poor attempt at heat conservation, and then, steeling myself for the scale of the building I am about to enter, look up.
It is intimidation in architectural form; sheets of black glass arched in modernist curves, irregular points of tarnished metal, white stone, pillars, all contained within acres of dark, landscaped gardens, the distant pulse of red light the only visual indication of the security outposts manning the building. I swallow, and rake the flyway curls off my face, digging my hands into my jean pockets and taking my first, irresolute step towards an inevitable destruction.
I can see him, through the glass, sitting against a thick curve of white leather, drink in hand, watching something on a screen in front of him. There is no one to meet me or restrain me as I walk unobstructed through the doors, and, relying on instinct alone, I start up a spiral of clear-cut stairs, one hand gripping the banister for the sake of stability, not support. I am too calm, too composed, and I can smell his alcohol from here, a heady, recognisable scent that dries my mouth and amplifies the ringing in my head tenfold.
Charles Magnussen does not look up upon my arrival. He sits with casual formality, legs crossed, his glasses reflecting the images on the screen.
"We are locked in a coolant, Sherlock."
"I am aware of that, yes."
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up, and don't open your mouth again, because I swear to God I will kill you before the hypothermia does."
It takes me a minute of disjointed confusion to understand where these voices are coming from, and why they sound so familiar.
"You've always been fond of histrionics."
"My pregnant wife is locked in an industrial freezer, because of you. We are trapped here, because of you, and we are going to die here, because of you."
Magnussen laughs to himself, smiling into his drink.
"That was you," I say, in numb acknowledgement. "You locked the doors."
"I opened them, too."
"You tried to kill us."
"I had people standing by." He runs his thumb around the circumference of the glass. "It was an experiment. You get locked in a freezer, I find out where your loyalties lie."
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...
