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

Chapter 58- The Skill of Savagery

Emily's POV

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There is a moment of perfect, unmitigated silence.

And then agony, in its most debilitating form, sets in; I can't breathe, I can't move my arms, I can't will myself to take a step forwards. I simply watch, every sinew and crack of cartilage within me being torn apart by realisation. I keep replaying it all in my head, seeing the gloved hand held above the desk, hearing the gunshot, watching the wound weep scarlet tears at its own fatality.

John is the first to force himself from the stupor. He's on his phone, talking to the emergency services, always moving, always speaking, giving the address of the building, repeating Millie's name over and over again.

She's irrevocably still, on her side, one arm outstretched as if to reach for someone she can't quite make out, her eyelids open enough for me to see the unnatural glaze settling over her pupils. There is blood — not much, but enough to indicate substantial internal damage — beginning to stain the cream carpet in rivulets, thin branches soaking their way out of the hole in her stomach and into the expensive fibres.

Sherlock is my reflection. We stand either side of Millie, equally senseless, both of us incapable of functioning. His face is grey, a sickly, insipid grey, and he's looking at her with an unprocessing vacuity.

"Millie? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Millie."

Moran is on his feet, clinging onto consciousness, his shirt ripped and sticking in glazed patches to his wound. He's swearing between each ragged breath and retch, one hand flat against the wall for support. I'm dimly aware of shattering glass, and through the white vignette around my vision, I watch a small figure, dressed in black and clutching a bleeding arm, slip out through the broken window, unnoticed in the chaos.

"Millie? Millie? We're losing her."

Magnussen has regained control — although it is clear he's still disoriented — and he's on his knees, adjusting his glasses and brushing the debris from his shoulders.

"The file...They both wanted the file. Different reasons."

I don't process his words; they are empty symbols, hollow letters, entirely meaningless. Sirens start up in the distance, and through the sloping windows I see blue flashes, pulses, of ambulance lights in distant streets. Moran's swearing increases in frequency and volume, and, with some effort, he manages to stagger towards his gun.

"Sherlock, Emily, snap out of it. She's dying. Millie's dying. Please. I need help."

Moran tucks his gun into his belt with shaking fingers, then shreds the remaining cotton of his shirt into two long strips. He ties one of the ligatures around his waist, gagging in pain as he secures the knot over his wound, then takes three, laboured steps in the direction of the exit.

He stops at the door, and glances at Millie, who, at this stage, is starting to look less like a human and more like a severed puppet, placed limply at the centre of the red life that continues to seep out from her stomach.

Moran hesitates, then drops the remaining ligature at John's feet.

"Take it," he spits, his words laced with pain and self-loathing. "For her."

And then he's gone, too. John looks at the strip, mutters something disbelieving under his breath, then begins to fasten it around Millie's abdomen. I can hear the slam of car doors outside, and shouting, voices carrying from the entrance to the top floor. There’s too much noise, too much colour, and I am starting to feel unmistakably unbalanced myself.