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

Chapter 56- Deal With the Devil

Emily's POV

--------------------

"Millie."

Millie doesn't look up from the book on her lap.

I sigh heavily, and lean across the sofa, tapping her gently on her arm. "Millie."

She annotates the book as she reads, and tucks a curl behind her ear, determined not to gratify me with a response. Frustrated, I abandon my initial attempts at gentle coercion, and hit her shoulder with enough vehemence to force a startled exclamation of pain from her closed lips.

"You can't keep ignoring me, Millie."

She lifts her head, slowly, and regards me with cold contempt, wrought with a miserable combination of irritation and anxiety.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Then listen. I've got plenty to say to you."

She scoffs, then looks down, with every intention to continue her disregard.

"Hear me out."

"Let me read."

I have had enough; I take "The Psychology of the Criminal Mind" from Millie's grip, close it forcibly, then hurl it at the mantelpiece, listening to the dull thud of plaster being dented with satisfaction. She flinches, but I've got her full attention now, and she turns in her seat to face me. I spend a moment looking around the apartment knowing that, with Sherlock out and John working, this is quite possibly my only chance to rectify this situation.  

"Well?"

"You're an analyst, yes?"

There is a pause as my words are picked apart. After a few seconds of deliberation, Millie nods, blatantly suspicious.

"And you are able to consider all aspects of a situation, from all points of view, emotional attachments aside?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She waits for further explanation, and, when she doesn't get any: "Your point?"

"My point," I say, sitting back against the cushion. "Being that you, of all people, should know better than to jump to conclusions."

"I didn't jump to conclusions," she snaps, her nails digging into the rough material of the armrest. "I saw fact. No speculation required."

"You saw coincidence."

Millie is pulled up short by my answer. I lean forwards, sensing a crack in her icy exterior.

The progression is interrupted by the slam of the front door.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and I identify them as Sherlock's. Millie stiffens, and I curse internally; Sherlock's recent behaviour has not been helping our current predicament. It's been three weeks since Magnussen's unprecedented arrival, and the resultant tension has been unbearable. The file has been preying on all of our minds; Sherlock is convinced it contains information on his history with opium, Millie frets about her cocaine addiction, John is kept awake at night with images of his war blunders being published on a national scale, and I see his name and mine in the same headline whenever I close my eyes. It's the not knowing I cannot stand.

On top of it all, Millie has continued the hostility, keeping her answers monosyllabic and tone curt when addressed. I'm not sure which is worse; my violent bouts of uncontrollable fury, or Millie's glacial suppression. Sherlock has been exacerbating the situation, too. He's started leaving the apartment regularly and for the same amount of time each day, only to return a few hours later, windswept, irritable, and smelling strongly of an unfamiliar perfume.