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

Chapter 79- Movie Nights and Heartbeats

Millie's POV

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We return from the hospital feeling deflated.

I think it's a common trait amongst hospitals; they're sapping. On the rare occasion I have visited them in the past, I've always come back drained. I don't know if it's the sight of all the patients, united in their varying degrees of ailing misfortune, or if it's just the emotional involvement you've had to invest during your time there.

We didn't get to say goodbye to Emily. The drugs in her system had locked her down in sleep, and, despite our best attempts at rousing her, we couldn't get her to wake up. I'm not sure Sherlock fully understood why we stayed there for such a long period of time: in his mind we were there to ensure that she wasn't dead, and nothing more. He cares about her, just like the rest of us; but ultimately he's still Sherlock. And Sherlock continues to find sentiment difficult to understand. He's learning, but I don't think he's ever going to fully accept it as a valid concept. It's just an aspect of humanity he fails to see the importance of. I suppose I can understand his logic to an extent, as I too try to choose reason over emotion, when I can. In my experience, feeling causes more harm than good, and makes thinking difficult.

However, I am not Sherlock. I do not, nor will I ever, match his intellect, or even begin to see the world in the same way as he does. Therefore I still get frustrated by his lack of tact and concern, and I can still be hurt by his actions.

But, just as Sherlock is learning to adapt, I am learning to accept this as part of him.

We file into Baker Street, John closing the door behind us and yawning-

"God, I'm shattered. You two must be bloody exhausted- you haven't slept in days, either of you."

Since Emily's hospitalisation, Sherlock and I have devoted the vast majority of our time to catching up on cases. I used them as a distraction. Sherlock used them to help combat boredom; Emily had previously provided interest- without her, he needed something to focus on. We had hundreds of cases to sort through, ranging from missing items to full scale murder. We left nothing; no matter how dull, or trivial, we worked solidly through the cases without break or reprieve. It's been quite good, actually; although we haven't slept or consumed anything other than the occasional glass of water, we've been getting closer again. There had been a decided rift growing between us, since the disastrous events that occurred nearly two months ago. But solving cases is something that we both like doing; a mutual appreciation.

John makes a noise of surprise from the hallway.

"That would be the television," says Sherlock, simply, without turning round.

On cue, John emerges at the top of the stairs, heaving a large, flat, rectangular box with him-

"Finally! Look what's arrived!"

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Two hours later, and there's a triumphant shout, and John appears at the doorway-

"It's working!"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He ignores John, and continues speaking:

"As I was saying, it couldn't possibly have been Patricia Winters; look at the footage again, carefully- there- she's using a grey phone-"

"Aren't you going to come and have a look?"

"She's using the grey phone, and the phone on the scene was black-"

"I've just spent two bloody hours assembling the thing. At least pretend you're interested."

"Come on," I say, stretching and standing up. Sherlock looks up at me, irritated at the interruption, before sighing, nodding, and joining me.