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

Chapter 66- Preparing for Hell

Millie's POV

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The clock on the mantelpiece reads three o'clock; it is these early, indistinct hours of the morning that, more often than not, provide me with the thrum of energy I seem to lack during the day.

I am not alone in my nocturnal habits. Sherlock has retreated to the familiar silence of his room, awake and immersed fully in thought, whilst John is in mine, claiming that the broadband runs more smoothly in that particular area of the apartment. He says he's working on his blog, but I am of the private opinion that he doesn't want to return to an empty house ‒ with Mary still absent, visiting the elusive Francis, John is oddly detached, dependent on our rather dysfunctional company for reassurance.

I finish counting the hardback books lining the desk top, and stand up, stretching out the stiffness that had been collecting in the motionless marrow of my joints. If our apartment at Baker Street is considered chaotic by day, its appearance by night takes disorganisation to an entirely new level of anarchic unruliness; shadows add unusual dimensions of angular clutter to the floor, the walls ‒ with their clashing wallpapers and arguable graffiti ‒ are painted in navy, their colours darkened, emphasised by the pearlised light breaking through the curtain chink.

Sherlock's violin rests, immaculate and lustrous, on the armchair seat, its glossed curves glinting with polished burnish in the blue haze. The bow is propped up against the back of the armchair, and I look around the empty room, overwhelmed with a sudden, fierce compulsion to pick it up and hold it in my own hands. I didn't have the advantage of an education during my teenage years ‒ omitting the tattered novels I hauled around with me from cartel to cartel ‒ and it was only once Mycroft had funded my unscrupulous activity did I set foot inside a vocational college, to study human psychology. It is for that reason I have never possessed a musical instrument; I simply did not have the opportunity. In that moment, it strikes me as odd that I have not done this before. It's only Sherlock. He won't mind, surely, if I succumb to curiosity.

That being said, it is with quiet trepidation do I approach his violin, treading softly, glancing over my shoulder at regular intervals to ensure that I am alone. My fingers close around the scroll with tender hesitancy, and I lift it to my chin, reaching for the bow and bringing it up to the strings. I don't do anything, for a while ‒ I stand still, breathing in the scent of rosin and tobacco, savouring the sensation of cool rosewood against my fingers. It's surprisingly weighty, and I brush over the strings with my thumb, listening with childlike awe to the resultant hum.

However, for all its undeniable beauty, the noise it makes upon my attempt at playing is truly horrible; a searing screech of severed notes that make me wince and vow never to pick up a musical instrument again.

I grimace internally when I hear footsteps behind me.

Without turning around, I lower the bow, and tentatively test my jaw, the pins adding a weight to the bone that clicks when I speak.

"Sherlock?"

He makes no attempt at conversation. I roll my eyes, and let the violin fall slack in my grip. "I'll put it away."

A hand catches my wrist.

There is soft heat against my back, and my arm is manoeuvred, raising the violin back to shoulder level. Instinctively, I begin categorising the foreign, not entirely unpleasant weight forming in the pit of my stomach, and the accompanying pulse that beats stubbornly throughout my body. I'm not sure I am comfortable with this atypical proximity; I've been keeping a friendly ‒ albeit forced ‒ distance between myself and Sherlock ever since our return from Magnussen's penthouse, and this is most definitely a breach of my determination.