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

Chapter 67- Don't Come Back

Emily's POV

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I know the minute that I step into the living room, with its sudden, agonising silence, that I am too late.

For three, excruciating minutes, nobody speaks. I look at them all, and they regard me in taciturn unison. It is a moment of undefined sensation; I am heavy, but at the same time untethered, panicked beyond reconciliation, yet oddly reassured by the clarity of my situation.

Sherlock stands furthest from me, by the window, hands behind his back and expression utterly blank. There is no compassion in his guise, no doubt about the set of his shoulders, and – whilst there is no glaring anger apropos of his countenance – I suspect that there is a much colder, much more devastating ferocity stirring beneath the smooth semblance.

John, on the other hand, is furious. Each breath is ragged, laboured, and he stands with clenched fists, nostrils dilated and eyes burning with an absolute loathing that is, without shadow of a doubt, directed at me. I have had no reason to fear John Watson before – on the contrary, I've always found his bouts of agitation comical – but this degree of animosity is as foreign as it is intimidating. It is the fiery hatred one would expect to see in the eyes of a man on the battlefield, not in the gaze of an individual who lives in patterned pullovers.

In my faltering search for warmth, I turn to Millie. She regards me with a conflicting combination of repulsion and anger, and it is enough to make me recoil internally. The delicate skin of her face has been stamped in surly shades of purple and green, and her jaw is marked with white bandage and black stitching, the jut of metal visible beneath the fabric. She presses her lips together, the scabs dark against the pale, dry pink, and says nothing.

And, at the centre of it all, is Mary, sat on the sofa in her red coat and printed blouse, bleeding, broken, and watching me with a fear that – had I not had her hand around my throat mere hours ago – would have me questioning the truthfulness of my own story.

"Why?"

I am jolted back to my grim reality, startled by John's short, simple question. Mary looks up, her voice cracking in feeble protest. "John-"

He points at Mary, finger outstretched. "Why was that easy for you?"

I lift my hands in a weak surrender. "Listen to me-"

"I want an answer."

"John, I don't know what she's told you, but-"

John throws back his head, laughing; an icy, humourless sound that renders me temporarily silenced. "Oh, we know all about your fun, Emily."

Those few words are as chilling as they come.

"Was it just too irresistible?"

I frown, and John tilts his head to one side, mocking concern. "The whiskey? Or was it vodka, this time?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I haven't-"

"Still, at least you had the decency to sober up for this."

"I was never drunk, John."

“And why should I believe you? You haven’t got a good drinking record, in case you’d forgotten.”

“You have to trust me.”

He scoffs, and Millie shakes her weighted head, disbelieving. I turn to Sherlock, and hold out my arms, opening myself to scrutiny. "Tell him. I haven't touched alcohol since-"