-Emily-
~~~~~~
I stuff my fist into my mouth and bite down, stifling what would have been a four-lettered profanity. It's everywhere: the blood is warm on my skin, diluted with sweat, and it is unceasing – the type of persistent bleeding that cries its red tears regardless of the number of times the wound is cleaned. I turn back to the mirror. Half of my face is flushed, my left ear raw and fiercely scarlet. The throb keeps tempo with the grim two-tap beat of my heart.
I take a deep breath, and I lift the needle back up to the side of my head.
I'm bitterly regretting the decision to play body modifier. It was very much on a whim – I decided I missed having a row of silver studs from lobe to cartilage – and, after salvaging the necessary jewellery and needle, it seemed a perfectly achievable goal. The first four were comparably painless, just quick pinches; the splitting of softened scar tissue. Now I am reaching the top of my ear, the thickened cartilage, and I don't remember the last time I felt such agony. Exaggeration doesn't come into it.
Steeling myself for the quiet pop of metal through skin, I close my eyes, hold my breath and force the needle through my ear.
I scream abuse at my reflection.
"Emily...?"
Through watering eyes I see Millie – soft in lilac, crumpled from sleep – standing in the doorway. I turn around and bare my teeth in a grimace-smile, trying not to look like I have just mutilated myself in the name of vanity.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No. I couldn't sleep."
I watch her gaze move to the needle currently impaled through my cartilage. My jaw is starting to ache.
"Is that hygienic?"
"Yes," I say. "Well. Probably. I have a lighter. Sterilised the needle."
Millie pauses, torn between concern and something that looks suspiciously like amusement.
"Do you need a plaster? We have some in the kitchen."
"It should be fine," I lie, returning to the mirror. I force the needle all the way through, out the other side, keeping my expression set in this horrific imitation of painlessness. The stud stings as I clip it into place. "See?"
"Your neck, Emily."
I look down at the thin trail of blood and wipe it away, hastily. Millie laughs, the sound softly sonorous, and moves to turn away.
I seize my opportunity.
"Millie?"
She looks over her shoulder.
"Do you have a minute?"
I point to the side of the bath tub. Millie raises an eyebrow, then walks back into the bathroom. We sit on the chipped plastic together.
"Is something wrong?"
"You could say that." I brush back the strands of hair from my neck. "We've got to talk about it."
She frowns. "It?"
I gesture to her stomach. Her brow furrows, perplexed – and then it clicks. I sense the barriers go up; the previous softness hardens, chills, becomes cold in the face of unwanted conversation. Speaking quickly to get my point across before she shuts down entirely, I opt for the blunt approach.
"You've got to get rid of it."
Millie doesn't move for a long time. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, she sighs, and straightens up.
She shakes her head.
Something weighted balls in my stomach. "Why not?"
"I can't."
"You can."
"No," she says. "I won't."
"You've got to."
"I won't."
"Listen to me," I say, feeling the beginnings of irritation prick at my compassion. "You're not strong enough. John says your heart won't be able to maintain blood pressure – plus you've got withdrawal to think about, and if he finds out–"
"Why would he?" she asks, coolly.
"What's stopping you?"
She shakes her head again.
"It doesn't hurt. Trust me."
Millie laughs without humour. "How would you know?"
There is a telling pause.
"We have more in common than you think." I choose my words very carefully. "Involvement with criminals. Ending up in this situation."
"You've done it?"
"Once or twice. When I've had to." I shrug. "I'm not mother material."
Millie is watching me, appalled. The look on her face makes me grit my teeth in an attempt at temper control. It proves inefficient.
"What?" I snap.
"How can you even begin to compare our circumstances?"
"They're similar."
"No." The acrimony is palpable. "That was all you."
"Oh for God's sake–"
"You had control. I didn't."
I become aware of the heat circulating my face; the blood beneath my skin is burning, and it is proving increasingly difficult to focus on anything else. She looks at me with that same reproach – it's infuriating, her self-righteous contempt. It was all me. Perhaps she thinks I went out of my way to make my life a living hell. Perhaps she thinks I enjoy it.
I am struggling to keep my response at an acceptable volume.
"I didn't choose that."
"You chose to put yourself in that position," she counters. She's angry, now, meeting my fire with an icy derision of her own. "You didn't want to stop drinking, so you continued. You didn't want to be alone, so you went back to him. You always do what you want. That's no exception. I didn't choose this."
My control disintegrates.
"I chose, did I? Did I choose to stand out on a street corner every night? Did I choose that? Did I choose to leave my friend because I was too busy pining for a frigid detective? Did I choose to give myself a lifelong crack addiction? Did I get knocked up by a necrophile? Did I? I don't remember–"
"You chose to marry a man who felt sick at the sight of you."
I strike her across the side of the face with enough force to split the skin on my knuckles.
The blow knocks her off the bath edge and onto the floor; she lands on her hands and knees, but I don't give her the luxury of standing – I take Millie by her white throat and lift her up, holding her against the tiles. Blood carves its way down her chin.
"You made him like that," I snarl, tightening my grip. She chokes. I feel my adrenaline spike. "That was you. You made him sick."
I hit her again, harder this time, because it's true, because they see her pain and not mine, because it should be me, because she's not resisting, she's just standing, bleeding, gripping my wrists. I hit again. I wish she would resist. And again. I don't want her here. Again. I don't want her looking at me with that reproach, that wariness, that superiority. I want her gone. If she's gone, my guilt goes with her. Sherlock will recover. John doesn't care. I want her to stop, to stop being wretched, to show Ivan what it feels like, to have love butchered – and so I take her jaw and flex my arm and prepare for the muted crack of a shattered spine–
Her fingers find the cup holding the toothbrushes. She lifts it from the sink and drives it into my temple – it's poorly aimed, weakly dealt, but it's enough to splinter the vision in one eye and force me to let go, just for a second. Millie makes a hoarse noise of genuine terror, pushes me away and runs, out of the bathroom.
My skin is blistering.
I wrench the handle down, ready to take her by her pretty curls and split her skull on the plaster–
The front door slams. I stop, breathing heavily, and wipe the hair back from my burning forehead. There's moisture on my hand, and when I look down I see the blood on my knuckles. Her fault. I kick the bin viciously, out of frustration, then hurl the nearest mug at the wall, deriving savage satisfaction from the shattering. The glass tumblers are next: burst like crystal bombs against the paintwork, lashing the wall with their liquid.
I continue like this, denting and smashing and throwing, throwing glass, throwing china, throwing cutlery, until eventually my energy runs out and I am forced to stop, forced to slow my breathing.
By the time the red-tint fades, Millie is long gone.
~~~~~~
"What do you mean, she's gone?"
I look down at my laptop.
"Emily."
John and Sherlock arrived ten minutes ago: Sherlock, newly informed, walked past me white-faced and unresponsive. I haven't seen him since, but I don't dwell on it. I have more pressing matters on my mind.
Millie hasn't come back.
It's been three hours. The clock on the wall nears midnight. Behind my mask of indifference, I am a wreck – I don't know what happened, can't understand why I spiked so quickly. About an hour into my descent from fury, the guilt kicked in; guilt became regret, and the regret became so achingly potent in its intensity I could have fashioned a noose from the shredded tablecloth and hanged myself there and then. She's vulnerable. She's pregnant. It's a new low, even for me. Monstrosity with a conscience.
Sherlock resurfaces, then. I can tell by the look on his face that he's picked up on her absence.
"Where is she?"
"She went out," I say.
John stares at me, horrified. "And you didn't try to stop her?"
I hold my silence, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. I sense the scrutiny begin.
"It was you," he says. "You lost control."
I continue typing.
"Your knuckles. That's not accidental damage. The bruising, look at the bruising, that's bone on skin–"
"Alright," I snap, closing my laptop lid forcibly. "We argued, I lost my temper, she ran. I don't know where she is."
"What did you do?"
I hesitate.
Sherlock's expression darkens, John takes a step forwards – our fragile truce is crumbling – and I brace myself for impact.
The sound of a lock turning interrupts our stand-off.
Everyone gets to their feet and together we struggle to the stairs, crowding at the top of the landing.
Millie closes the door behind her.
She's sopping wet, her pale coat made dark with rainwater and hands in her pockets. I don't think she knows we're here.
"Millie?"
She jumps, startled, and then turns her head up to look at us. The damage is made worse by the yellow lamplight. Her face bears a bouquet of bruises; a smattering of purple blossom across her jaw, a red rose around her eye, her nose and lip crusty with scabbed blood, crystallised like black pollen. Sherlock inhales sharply. John turns to look at me, but I don't look back. I feel his disgust like mud on my skin.
"Where were you?"
Millie glances at me, warily. "I went for a walk."
They descend the stairs, the pace of their footsteps betraying their relief. I stay where I am.
"For the love of God," says John, opening the door and checking outside. He shuts it with some force. "Don't do that again."
"I lost track of time," she says. "It got dark sooner than–"
"Pockets."
She turns to Sherlock.
"Sorry?"
"Pockets. Empty your pockets."
Her face pales behind the bruises. For a moment, I don't think she's going to move – but then she sighs and extends a hand, holding out a cardboard packet of ibuprofen. She places it in Sherlock's upturned palm.
"Keep going."
Another two packets are handed over.
"I didn't think purchasing painkillers was a crime," she says, folding her arms. "Are you–"
"Pocket."
She stops talking abruptly.
I watch her meet Sherlock's eye, see her silently plead, trying to communicate without words. Sherlock's face betrays no facet or gleam of emotion. John visibly stiffens. I hold my breath.
"I haven't got anything."
Slowly, and with painstaking care, Sherlock reaches forwards and slips his hand into her coat pocket. Millie closes her eyes and exhales; the act is dropped and despair seeps in, gradually, saturating. He pulls out a small, plastic bag.
The cocaine shifts like powdered ivory.
Millie's face flushes a violent shade of red, scarlet in her embarrassment. She pushes past him in an uncharacteristic display of aggression, up the stairs, past me. The door to her room is shut.
The atmosphere cools rapidly after that.
Eventually, Sherlock, John and I sit around the low coffee table, the traitorous bag of cocaine in front of us like some grim centrepiece. It's a couple of pinches at most – a party-goer's sample – but it's there, and it's proof. No one has spoken yet. We sit in varying stages of despondency: Sherlock's numb, mine guilt-ridden, John's exhausted.
The door clicks. We all look up.
Millie enters the room again. It's been an hour or so, and we've heard nothing from her until now. Something has changed, however; her countenance hints at relaxed – assured, even, and I start to wonder if this processed poison wasn't all Millie purchased on her late-night jaunt. When she sees us gaping, she arranges her features into a smile.
"You can get rid of that," she says, pointing to the bag. "I don't want it, anymore."
She goes into the kitchen, still smiling, and starts making tea. The kettle boils, the contents are poured into four carefully selected mugs. She drops something, bends down to pick it up and resurfaces with the sugar. The chink of the stirring spoon resonates oddly in the silence. We stay speechless as she comes over and sets the mugs down in front of us.
Nobody moves.
"It won't kill you."
Automatically, we reach for the drinks. I take a sip. Mine is distinctly bitter, but I don't pass comment for fear of shattering this strange, sudden tranquillity. It strikes me as incredibly fragile. Millie rests her hand on my arm – we both flinch at the action, but I manage not to pull away and she manages to keep it there. Her fingers are very cold on my skin.
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she says, quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."
I nod, stunned, and offer a similar apology of my own. Millie then initiates conversation. After some staring, John joins in, eager to ease the tangible tension. Sherlock sips his tea in silence. I begin contributing to discussion, not wanting to be left out of the reconciliation process. I can't stop glancing at Millie: with the exception of her fingers – they don't stop trembling; she's struggling to hold her own mug – she could almost be her old self, softly radiant, eyes wide and neck flushed pink. There's a quiet hum in the air, and it blends with the voices; one continuous shift of sound. I realise then that I haven't slept in days. It's exhausting, this place. The room is very warm. My head lolls forwards, eyes weighted – I half-heartedly fight to maintain consciousness, but it doesn't last long.
With the aid of the muffled conversation, I drift into sleep.
~~~~~~
"Emily?"
I groan and turn over, pressing my face against the sofa cushion.
"Emily, wake up."
I open my eyes. They feel bruised. There's a metallic taste on my tongue; I cough, twice, feeling it stick to the back of my throat.
John is shaking my shoulder with strange urgency. I sit up, yawning.
"Did I oversleep?"
"Millie's gone."
It takes me a second to connect the two words together.
"What?"
"The room – her room, it's empty."
"How?"
John curses, raking his fingers through his hair.
"She must have put something in the tea."
The bitterness coating my teeth takes on a newly sinister meaning.
"Why would she put–"
"To knock us out."
Realisation sinks like a dead weight.
"Where's Sherlock?"
"Turning her room inside out. We've called Mycroft. Lestrade's on his way."
I swear and stand up, unsteady on my feet. The door is pushed open without warning; Sherlock comes into the living room, frantic, moving with a speed that warrants fear. He's scared. Sherlock's never scared.
"She planned it," he says, too quickly. "She must have planned it. Taken her phone and coat, some money – that's it. No identification." Sherlock turns on the spot, unable to stand still. "She's been gone hours. Where would she have gone, where could she have gone? It doesn't make sense, I can't make it make sense–"
John's voice cuts across his vocalised panic.
"She took the cocaine."
I look down at the empty table.
Chaos ensues.
I'm desensitised to it: the shouting, the accusations, the terrible possibilities. They don't register. I block out the sound and move stiltedly, woodenly, making my broken way over to the window.
My fingers part the curtains.
Pale sunlight sears; through the sting and the shouts and the phone calls, the first clear morning of the month paints the pavement gold.
The world, it seems, is celebrating.
~~~~~~