Side of the Angels ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book II} *UNDER EDITING*

Chapter 77- Crisis

Millie's POV

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She's dead.

Unmoving, unnaturally still. Her skin, normally olive in complexion, is pale, drained, and there's copious amounts of dark blood continuing to spread, a perennial reminder of the event that I was too late to prevent.

"No."

I drop the gun, letting it fall on the tiles, and kneel down next to her, picking up a limp wrist and feeling for a pulse.

Please let me be wrong. Let there be a pulse. Let there be something, anything to indicate that she hasn't gone. 

Nothing.

I don't let go of her wrist. I cling on to it, still warm with life that's only just left, and look.

I look at the knife wound in her abdomen; a crimson curve carved into her skin.

I look at her face, tear-streaked with the remnants of pain. 

I look at all of the scars and the bruises spattering her bare arms.

And I start to cry.

I cry because she didn't need to die. Because she was used; by Moriarty, by Mycroft, by us. And I could have stopped it. I knew about Moran's intentions: I could have tracked her down, warned her, if only I'd been braver.

"Don't bother. She can't hear you."

I stop, blinking, tears brimming and falling past spiked eyelashes-

"What did you say?"

Moran is very nearly dead himself. He's clinging on, but slipping fast; the colour is draining rapidly from his face and his eyes are unfocused as they search for me.

"I said don't bother. She's dead. I killed her. And she killed me."

I let go of Emily's wrist.

"You killed her?"

He doesn't answer. Probably because he can't; he closes his eyes and breathes in very deeply, and I know he wants nothing more than to slip away, into the numb unconsciousness.

I can't find the emotion to hurt him further, although I want to, desperately. I want to take the discarded knife and perforate every inch of his unmarked skin, so that he dies engulfed in new and constant waves of explicit agony. But grief and shock has combined to create a thorough sedative; I can't react: my mind is working separately to the rest of my body. All I can focus on is the woman that was Emily Schott lying next to me.

My phone rings.

The noise is a stimulant.

I answer the call.

"Millie? Where are you? Listen, I think I know where Emily-"

"Sherlock."

He stops, and I can hear him process my voice. He's outside, the sound of heavy traffic punctuating the silence. John speaks in the background-

"Sherlock? What's happened?Sherlock-"

"Millie, tell me where you are."

"I'm...at Emily's flat. Kings Court Complex, South Bank."

My voice sounds flat.

"We'll be there in five minutes."

And the phone rings off.

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The door slams open:

"Millie, we came as quickly as we- oh god..."