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

Chapter 25- Remembering

Emily's POV

------------------

In hindsight, grabbing Sherlock and putting a gun to his head probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had.

I have absolutely no intention of shooting him, but, as is so frequently the case with my psyche, instinct prevailed - and now I am pointing a gun at an innocent man and praying the criminal mastermind in front of me doesn't call my impromptu bluff. I make a mental note to apologise to both Millie and Sherlock after this, if we all get out alive.

"Well?"

Moriarty assesses the situation, through narrow eyes, irritated at being put in this position. I watch him play out all the possible scenarios in his head, process the intricacies, pick apart the details; the tremor in my hand, the unprofessional grip on this piece of weaponry. His top lip curls.

"You're bluffing, Emily."

"Are you willing to take the risk?"

Moriarty watches me carefully, then shrugs. There is an infuriating half smile on his face.

"Don't play this game. I invented it."

Unsatisfied, I release my grip, because Sherlock is starting to go red. He raises his eyebrows just a fraction, asking wordlessly if it was actually a bluff. I nod, very slightly.

His lips curve upwards for a second, and I know he understands.

---------------

Millie's POV

I watch the silent conversation between Sherlock and Emily. I'm somewhat reassured by the knowledge that she never intended to pull the trigger, but, bearing in mind I have just witnessed Emily kill a man, I'm far from relaxed in her presence. There is something unnerving in her countenance; a vicious energy, humming and volatile and trapped beneath the surface. I don't like the expression on her face.

Emily walks over to John, the gun still in her hand, and takes her sister off him. She's still struggling violently, but Emily gently moves her over to a quieter place in the car park, and begins calming her down.

"Touching. Such sisterly love."

John visibly tenses, his face shifting into something darker.

"Oh, I forgot. How tactless of me. How's your sister, John? Still a hopeless alcoholic?"

"You little-"

"John," interjects Sherlock, not taking his eyes off Moriarty.

"And you, Sherlock, you know all about family bonds. Darling Mycroft. Such generosity. A little overweight, granted - but he has a heart of gold beneath all those layers. I'm sure of it."

"On the contrary. I find him unbearably conceited."

"Oh? But he was so willing to help me out. Told me all about you. Wanted to be a pirate, did we? Is that where Redbeard came from?"

I frown, looking at John for further explanation. Sherlock freezes at the name.

"I have to admit, I certainly wasn't expecting someone of your intellect to be so pitifully dependent on the memory of a dog. At that age, I was playing little Carl like a chess piece, but you - you were playing pirates with the family mutt."

"Is this all you're here for? To taunt us?"

"I really wasn't expecting to be here, but I was invited - and I never decline an invitation - so I don't have much planned, I'm afraid. Taunting will have to do."

"You're sick," spits John, still fuming about the remarks made about his sister.

Moriarty pouts, mocking offence, and then turns to face me. My pulse stutters involuntarily at his attention, my memories jolting back to the poolside, where my hands were slick with his blood.

"So sorry, Millie. I've been ignoring you, haven't I?"

I don't say anything.

"How are things? With Sherlock?" he says, as if we were having a casual conversation, not surrounded by a dozen snipers in a dark car park.

"Ask him yourself. He's right there."

"But I'm asking you. You're one of the family. I'll have to find you a nickname too. The Iceman, the Virgin - can I still call you that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock remains icily unmoved.

"Have you broken him in yet?"

John scoffs, visibly riled. Moriarty looks over his shoulder.

"Don't be immature, John Watson. We all know where your feelings lie," he says, raising both eyebrows at the last sentence and scanning Sherlock up and down.

John stops laughing, and resumes glaring.

I look around at all of us. We're all vulnerable, all verging on snapping point; a grim game of chess, tactical and ongoing.

----------------

Emily's POV

They're all talking in the background, but I can't hear what they're saying.

I focus on Elena.

He's right. They're going to find her, and they're going to arrest her. The thought of her, alone in a cell, trapped within a complex of cages - the walls of the prison, the white-bone curve of her skull, the confines of her mind - makes me sick. However, if I let her go, she'd be on the streets again - and that alarms me more so; something's gone, in her mind, something's snapped, something's strained and severed and will not be fused together again. She wants to kill. She likes it. Sadism preys on her like the vulture it is.

Through the high-pitched whine in my head, I am granted perfect clarity.

"Elena," I say, softly.

I release her arms gently, and she turns round to face me, her face contorted.

"Do you remember, Elena? The park?"

She stops, confused. I force myself to continue.

"I'd just come back from training."

"They sent you away. You learned to fight. And you taught me."

"That's right. But I came back, didn't I? It was raining, but we went to the park anyway. You wanted to. It was the only bit in the area that wasn't grey - it had grass, and a lake, and you loved it there. Remember?"

She softens in front of me.

"Yes."

"Listen to me. I want you to imagine it. I want you to see the park in your head. Can you do that?"

She stares at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, completely immersed in the memory.

Slowly, so not to startle her out of her daydream, I press her into a loose embrace. I feel ridges beneath the thin cotton of her shirt, her ribs, the jut of her collarbone; she smells faintly filthy, of neglect and vulnerability. I wrap both her arms around me, and although they don't return the gesture, I find comfort in the action.

"He said sorry, Elena. Moriarty said he was sorry."

She sighs, contentedly.

"That's good. Tell him I forgive him. That's what you told me to do, wasn't it? Forgive people. Tell me more about the park."

"Picture it. The lake, the wall we drew on. Can you see it?"

She smiles against my cheek.

"I can see it. Can you?"

I raise the gun up to the back of her head, still holding her tightly, and say.

"Yes. I can see it."

I pull the trigger.

---------------