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

Chapter 14- Overwhelmed

Emily's POV

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"What did you see?" 

"Enough."

I sigh deeply as I mull over the events of yesterday. I was so close. So close to getting Millie to trust me. Why was I so careless? 

Now she thinks I'm a liar.

You are.

I did tell Millie that I wasn't working for Moriarty. This technically isn't a lie, because I "work" with him sporadically, occasionally cracking governmental files, international security, that kind of thing- I don't associate with him regularly, and he rarely mentions the game Millie talked about. I don't work for him. 

It's funny though, because I've deduced that Jim Moriarty is actually perfectly capable of hacking without my help. So why does he want me to do it for him? 

Maybe he simply can't be bothered. But it's riskier, getting me involved. I'm potentially a witness. Is he really using me for leverage, like Millie said? This could be an explanation. He continues to bring up the 'favour' I owe him, and I'm becoming increasingly worried that it's going to involve Sherlock. I'm starting to wish I never got involved with Jim Moriarty. But I can't back out now. I'm well and truly ensnared in the spider's web.

On cue, I get a text:

Rusbridge Hotel. 11:00 PM. Dress up- you don't want to be noticed. JM

From what I've gathered, Moriarty flits between expensive hotels and rented apartments- he doesn't have a particular residence. It makes sense. Staying at hotels and rented locations means that he can erase his existence and remain undetectable, changing name and persona accordingly. 

Now it's Rusbridge Hotel. I look it up, and let out a long, low, whistle. I knew the name sounded familiar. This is the most secure hotel in London. It's teeming with armed security, cameras, and body guards for hire. It's also ludicrously expensive. Foreign leaders, royalty, presidents- they all stay here. It strikes me as odd that a notorious criminal would choose this as his lodging. 

Dress up?

What is that supposed to mean? I don't 'dress up'. I suppose he's referencing my ability to blend in. I attracted too much attention at Waterbrook Hotel, dressed in jeans and a jacket. Apparently people were questioning my appearance, and the police were almost called because someone thought they recognised me from Scotland Yard's criminal database.

But dress up?

I haven't had to think like this since my school years-

What am I going to wear?

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Millie's POV

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

He doesn't open his eyes.

"I have proof."

His eyes snap open.

"She is working for him."

"No, she's not."

"She is. She came over today. Left her phone on the table- I recognised the number. She had endless texts from him, referencing games, and favours, and work."

There's a long, agonising silence.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

He presses his lips together, and a crease appears between his eyebrows.

"She wouldn't lie... She said-" he says softly, speaking more to himself than to me.

"I saw it, Sherlock."

He looks at me searchingly, then nods.

Silence. Then-

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Shut up Millie.

"You know why I saved Moriarty's life, don't you?"

Don't do this.

"Yes."

"And you understand my reasons?"

"Yes."

Stop it, now.

"Then why haven't you forgiven me?"

The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. 

Sherlock is silent for a very long time.

I mentally kick myself. That was illogical. Irrational. Uncomfortable.

"Because you wanted to save him."

I look up, surprised.

"What?"

"You wanted to save his life. There's something inside you, that wanted him alive- not for me, not for John, not for Irene- for you. That's why I haven't forgiven you."

I stare at him.

"You're wrong."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are, Sherlock," I say, standing up and walking over to him. "I wanted him dead.I told him that. I looked into a dying man's eyes, and I told him that I wanted him to die, and that he deserved it. I didn't want him alive. I want you to forget everything you thought you knew about me, about my contact with Moriarty. Because you're wrong, Sherlock. I hated him, I-" 

I cut off, horrified at the fact that there are tears welling in my eyes. I consider this new emotion, processing it.

I'm not sad. I'm not in pain. I'm not angry. Why am I crying?

Sherlock is apprehending me, silently, his eyes very blue, very cold, very clear. He stands up in front of me.

And he hugs me.

I cling to him, sobbing.

This is utterly irrational, I tell myself. My mind is calm, and logical, as normal, but my body is betraying me and acting in ways I don't understand.  

Overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed with memories; Moriarty holding the gun, Moriarty smiling on my lips, Moriarty bleeding on the floor, Irene crying, John forgetting me in Africa, the break in, the graffiti, Sherlock believing Emily, Emily threatening to destroy everyone, Sherlock telling me I wanted to save Moriarty for myself-

That's the emotion.

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