Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 21- Moriarty's Mind Palace

Millie's POV

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I look down at the gun. I can just about make out the silver barrel glinting as I turn it around in my hand.

He's going to kill me anyway.

I could just speed up the process. Make it quicker.

I press the thought out of my mind, and look around me, feeling vulnerable and so, so alone in the darkness. I try not to think of the three corpses on the floor around me. 

"Boo."

I jump violently, and very nearly pull the trigger.

"Very well played, Millie. I'm impressed."

I sigh, feigning disinterest. It's my safest bet. 

"What next?"

 "Well that depends." he smiles, "We could go out and say hello to Sherlock, or we could wait for them to get bored and go away. No rush."

"They're outside..?" I ask, trying to keep him talking. I don't want to be left alone in the dark silence with Jim Moriarty if I can help it.

"Oh yes. They're trying to decide if you've killed yourself yet," he chuckles darkly. "What is it with us and suicide, hm?"

I don't say anything for a while, and Moriarty hums under his breath. Without warning, he pulls out a lighter from his pocket, and flicks it, so that the dark room is dimly lit. Again, I try to ignore the pools and splatters of black blood that coat one side of the room, but it's pretty difficult. Moriarty is examining the flame with casual interest, one hand in his pocket.

"What's it like in your mind palace, Millie Shon?" he asks amiably.

"My what?"

"Your mind palace. Hasn't Sherlock told you about his? No? Your thoughts, Millie. What do your thoughts look like?"

"Not as interesting as you might think."

"Oh? I disagree. I'm not going to lie to you Millie, I was hoping Sherlock would leave John behind. I've always wanted an ordinary one. You're not ordinary though, are you?" he says, and I tense up involuntarily as he walks a slow circle around me, not breaking eye contact, "No, not at all."

"What is it like in your mind palace, Jim Moriarty?"

He laughs, loudly, his face still illuminated by the lighter in his hand. But then he drops his smile, and his voice changes again. My breath catches in my throat as I recognise his tone; it is dark again, and so intoxicatingly dangerous- my natural instinct is to run. I suppress the urge, and ask again-

"Well?"

"Millie, my mind palace is an endless corridor. Imagine walking through shadows, and seeing the ghosts of people flit around you, like half-faces in a mirror, all the time. It gets boring, doesn't it? My  mind palace needs change, Millie. And if I don't get change-" he breaks off, and looks slowly towards the three bodies sprawled out on the dirty floor, "Well, that's when things happen."

Silence.

I was not expecting that. 

I clutch the gun so tightly the handle digs grooves into my palm.

He regards me unsmilingly, and the flat intensity in his eyes encourages flight, not fight, like Sherlock's eyes do. Moriarty likes it when people run. But he's clever too. In many respects, he is the pinnacle of intelligence; much, much more so than Sherlock, or me. Because he is completely detached from human emotion, and that, I think, remembering Sherlock's face when he was forced to choose between me or John, is what sets him apart from the rest of us. And, in some twisted way, I admire him. I am more afraid of him than anyone else in this world. But I admire him. I hate myself for it, but it's true. I need to get out of here, I think, before I do something reckless. Everything I do around this man is a Russian roulette. One wrong move, and I trigger a chain of destruction. And judging by the look on his face, he knows it.

"I need to leave."

He raises his eyebrows, and half smiles at me.

"And you think that I'm going to let you?"

"Yes."

He studies me, and I'm reminded of Sherlock, but again, in a much more sinister way. Sherlock analyses for information. Moriarty analyses to find weaknesses, pressure points. He slides his hand into his jacket, and pulls out a pen; a thick permanent marker. He writes something on his palm. Then he puts the pen back.

"Okay. Leave," he says, but I'm too wary of this dark, unfamiliar tone to believe him.

He blows out his lighter.

Darkness.

My heart thrums against my ribcage.

I can't see him. I can't see him. I can't see him.

Then he presses his palm to my neck, so that I can feel my pulse tap rapidly against his fingers. I feel him lean forward.

And then he is kissing me.

I contemplate pulling the trigger. His kiss is very unlike Sherlock's. It is confident, pressing, hard and continuous. It is so, so dangerous. He smiles against my lips- it is not a genuine smile.

Moriarty smiles when he is winning.

And then he pulls away.

I step backwards, so that my fingers are grazing the lock on the door.

I pull the lock.

And then I push it open quickly, sidestepping out of the dark room and all it's sinister secrets, and into the sterile light of the corridor. The night air is very cold. I lean my forehead against the closed door, trying to focus on breathing, and not the spinning world around me.

"Millie! Oh thank god, Sherlock- get over here-" I hear John shout, and then I sense the relief drain as he assesses the situation; my clenched fist against the door, my gritted teeth, closed eyes, and silver pistol hanging loosely from my other hand.

"Millie, I want you to listen to me, okay? Just listen to me- stay calm, breathe, that's right-Sherlock, help me-" I feel two pairs of hands at my elbow, and my legs give way, as I fall, backwards, away from the room. I think I see Sherlock and John swim in front of my vision, and I smile faintly, before I give in to the night in my head, and close my eyes.

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John's POV

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"Sherlock, check her pulse," I order, going full medic mode.

"Fast. Very fast."

"I think she's gone in to shock," I murmur, and I take off my jacket and wrap it round her. "Get your phone out- when I tell you, I want you to call an ambulance."

"John-"

"Sherlock, not now."

"John, look-"

"Sherlock. Shut it," I say through gritted teeth as listen to her heart rate. It's slowing down. This is good.

"John, look at her neck."

He sweeps her hair out of the way. It looks like pen. Like someone has written on her neck with a black marker. We both sit back on our knees as we comprehend the words printed onto her skin.

"Burned" 

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