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

Chapter 6- Betrayal

Millie's POV

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I reel backwards, away from the person in front of me.

I don't recognise her.

She looks about my age. She's tall, with olive skin and equally curly hair, although hers is pulled back into a loose pony tail. The pads on her fingers are dented slightly, indicating prolonged typing, which suggest that she works with computers. Office worker? Journalist? No, she carries herself in a different way. She doesn't have a city job.

Criminal?

Definitely.

She is studying me, too, her eyes narrowed as she scans my face and clothing. I content myself with what I hope is a fierce glare, and turn away, satisfied with my deductions. 

I ignore her stare, and push past into the apartment.

Sherlock and John are looking at me blankly, their faces identical.

"Millie?! I thought-"

"I came back early. You didn't return my calls, and I thought.. something had happened," I say to John.

He looks visibly uncomfortable, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"No... nothing's happened, at least, not yet. I'm sorry we didn't communicate, we were... preoccupied.." he clears his throat, "So..er... how was Africa?"

"What do you mean you were 'preoccupied'?" I ask, more sharply now.

"Well, obviously Moriarty's still in the picture so we've been doing research, and-"

"John, don't lie."

He sighs, looking defeated-

"Ok, ok, I'm really sorry Millie, we just... forgot. I know, in hindsight, it was stupid, and senseless, and of course you'd be worried, but we've been really busy, honestly. " He looks at me guiltily, then changes the subject- "Can I get you a drink? Sit down, you must be exhausted. Hey, guess what? Today, we hacked-"

"John," snaps Sherlock.

I blink at both of them, hoping the hurt isn't reflected on my face. I can't believe this. They forgot. 

"Millie? Look, we really are sorry-" starts John.

"No, no, it's nothing, really. I'm just tired. I understand," I say quickly, sitting down on the sofa and pasting a smile on my face.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. So, who was she?" I ask lightly.

"Oh, that was Emily. She's a hacker, illegal, but- oh for god's sake, I can tell her, Sherlock, it's Millie- today she helped us break into Moriarty's database. We've been doing a lot of research concerning her before we invited her over today, which is why we've been so busy recently. We had to make sure we could trust her. Sherlock insisted- we've got to be careful, because we think Moriarty's been contacting her-"

"You're idiots. Both of you," I snap, without thinking. They look at me, surprised. "Are you telling me you both just let a criminal, who has been in contact with Moriarty, into our apartment, and let her access all the files on your laptop-"

"She's not like that," interjects Sherlock.

I stop short, and look at him.

"We can trust her," he says simply, crossing his arms.

I make a noise of irritation, then say-

"Right. If you say so. I'm going to unpack."

I leave the room, and close the bedroom door behind me. I'm embarrassed to find hot tears pricking at my eyes, so I blink them away. I'm not jealous, but I am hurt. I was gone three months.

And they forgot about me.

I'm also angry at, particularly Sherlock's, blatant stupidity. This woman is communicating with Moriarty. She's just a pawn in his game. Whatever Emily's told them, they've believed it. I sit down on the bed, unsure of how to handle this strange flow of emotions. We're all in danger because of Sherlock's uncharacteristic gullibility. 

She's got to do a lot more than hack a database to gain my trust.

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Emily's POV

That was uncomfortable.

That had to be Millie. I'm all for external manipulation, but I don't want to get involved in sentiment. Sentiment is a risky game, a game that I don't want to play.

I'm starting to regret helping them crack the system. I don't want them to think that I'm willing to jump to their aid when they snap their fingers. It was the challenge that attracted me. 

That, or you just wanted to-

I stop the thought there and then. Sentiment is weakness, I think, gritting my teeth slightly.

I'm halfway up the stairs to my apartment when I realise that I'm being followed.

I can sense eyes on my back, and I can hear the faint noise of soft shoes on concrete.

I continue, acting as if I haven't noticed, but there's a smile on my face.

This will be interesting.

I'm at the third stairwell when I'm stopped by a gloved hand on my shoulder, and a gun at my head.

"Right. Come quietly, and I won't need to use this," says a rough voice at my ear,.

We.

I spend a half second calculating.

Then all hell breaks loose.

I swing round and knee the man in the stomach whilst simultaneously elbowing his covered face and snatching the gun from his hand. Using the handle, I crush the gun into his head, wincing at the crack, and knock him flat out.

I have five seconds.

I sweep loose strands of hair from my face, and adjust my position. Another man lunges from the shadowed alcove, and although he's not armed, he is clearly strong enough the pick me up and carry me out of the building.Time to change my strategy. I run at him, ducking at the last second and sliding underneath him. I aim for his knees, and kick, hard, so that he buckles from the force. He swears, loudly, so I take him by the hair and slam his head into the ground. Once. Twice. There's blood trickling from his nose. I want him injured, not unconscious. 

"What do you want?" I ask pleasantly, not releasing my grip on his hair.

"I was following orders-" he says thickly through the blood, his eyes unfocused.

"To do what?"

When he doesn't reply, I smash his head onto the concrete again. He starts to yell. Rolling my eyes, I slip out of my jacket, and gag him. I don't need anyone hearing and calling the police. Not yet.

That's when another two pair of hands grab me from behind. One pins my arms behind my back, and another holds a white cloth to my face. It reeks of chloroform. I have a few seconds left before unconsciousness.

I might as well leave an impression. 

I lift my legs out in front of me, still held tightly by my arms, and swing them down so that my feet collide into the shins of my attacker.

He lets out a satisfying cry,and the grip on my arms slackens.

I'm smiling as I black out.

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