-Millie-
~~~~~~
The hard silence continues after Jim Moriarty's exit, punctuated only by the intermittent pat of liquid on stone. It beads at my fingertips and hemlines, then falls, a soft succession, leaving the ground pockmarked with little red scars.
I don't feel fear. It's very strange, the absence of it – I feel its omission, the gap where it should fill in the centre of my chest, but the emotion is lost on me. It's as if I've been shot through: a bullet-wound cavity, round and carved and compact, that split second of empty before the blood curtain falls. I watch him, as he watches me, both of us still. The wedding dress is very heavy. My joints begin to tremble in protest and, one by one, start to give: I sink slowly, softly, into the white fabric, the base of my spine hard against the marble. I turn my head, disoriented. The black that had been collecting around the edges of my vision grows, then recedes, and when I blink again the room has fallen with me to its side.
I see his shadow first. He stands just out of reach, his face inscrutable, head tilted. The floor seems wonderfully solid. It is comforting to know I have fallen and can fall no farther. I wonder what form it will take – I've come close before, when I hung from the bathroom light fitting, when I pushed one too many syringe, swallowed one too many pills, inhaled a dose too much powder. It is always a loosening, slackening, of body, breathing, mind. I hope the pain won't spoil it.
His outline disappears briefly. I hear him bend, hear the delicate scrape of a metal knife edge as he retrieves one of Moriarty's parting gifts. There's warmth as his body nears mine; he kneels beside me, and I feel his hand on my cut neck, see him lift it to his face, angle his glistening palm from side to side and then curl his fingers into a fist. Blood is forced through the little lines and fissures of his skin; it cuts a red line down his wrist. His hand returns, this time to my cheek, and he brushes the hair from my face – then he pulls my head back, neck arched, so that the curved ridge of my jugular strains. His pulse is rapid against my temple.
I close my eyes, because I don't want to see it. Instead, I feel: cold against my throat, light pressure, my skin offering its fragile resistance. There's a quick movement – and then nothing at all. No pain. No heat. I do not breathe, or open my eyes, daring to hope it is over. I await the tell-tale looseness. I sense him shift, feel his heat over me, smell the musk and the blood, his lips very close to mine.
"Do not move," he says.
His voice is so soft it is little more than an exhalation: he holds me down for an indefinite amount of time, his breathing hot and quick, mine long and shallow, and I am secure, comforted by his closeness, embraced in preparation for permanence.
He sits up suddenly. The change makes me open my eyes – I lift a hand to my neck instinctively, expecting the wet of a hot open wound. I feel nothing more than the thin cut inflicted by Moriarty's men, the blood beginning to cool and dry on my throat.
I look up at him, unfocused: he's watching the door, as if listening, and when the silence confirms his unspoken enquiry, he turns his attention to me.
"We are alone, I think." He must see the confusion in my expression, because he manages a brief smile, and, by way of explanation, says, "I am an excellent actor, am I not?"
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all – but then I see behind his smile is strain, and for all his nonchalant humour, he hasn't let go of the knife in his hand. His grip is a little too tight to warrant the control he preaches, and when I focus my vision on his face, I see his pupils blown wide, the flush in his cheeks. He waits, seemingly intent on listening, although I suspect there is something considerably more violent contained within his skull. He struggles to remove himself from the red-flowered canvas of my chest. His attempts at concealing the evident hunger generate the sudden urge to reach up, offer a sensory reassurance, but I am slowly losing my grip on reality as the morphine and the adrenaline and the blood loss combine to produce a cocktail that is far too potent for my mind to handle.
When I come round, time has passed. I am lying flat, on something hard, and there is a light above me. The room is freezing. I process the blurred panorama: hazy shapes, dark walls, a line of silver hooks fixed to the ceiling. Frost licking the metal. Circle lights. His shimmering outline, bent over me. I see the flash of a needle dip down and out of view.
Real pain kicks in then, delayed and devastating in its intensity: I cry out, shocked by it, as my body rebukes the lack of morphine. It is a stinging, searing sort of pain, all over, a sharp gnaw at tissue and bone, cutting through the dull ache offered by bruising. It is difficult to breathe. There's another spike of sensation, followed by a localised burning, and I realise I am being stitched. I twist with the animal urge to escape and see the blood and cotton wool, scattered like dead-headed bells of foxglove flowers, and the silver dish, filled with pink water. It is a nightmarish wonderland.
I try to move away from the source, turning to my side, palm on the concrete: his mouth twists, and he places a forearm over my torso, pinning me back down with taxidermic determination. I try to lash out against him, but he is stronger, stronger than me, and he continues his grim needlework with a crystal sheen of sweat on his forehead. There's a tug. Another compact burst of pain. He snaps the thread with his teeth, and then removes his arm slowly, sitting back. His face is grey, save for the revealing pink creeping up his neck. I don't care for his control, made savage by the pain morphine has staved off for so long – until he returns with the brilliant outline of my syringe, and the stinging and searing and core-deep ache is lifted quite suddenly.
I exhale, feeling my chest sink low into the ground. There's a pause – and then he bends down without warning and takes me in a violent embrace, one fist at the nape of my neck, forehead at my shoulder, his breathing ragged. Weightlessness sets in; a dizzy, sweet sort of displacement, and it takes all my strength to lift one arm and place it on his shoulder. I see the delicate stitches, little bands of blue, the way the blood has been daubed away. The mottled bruising is just beginning to paint my skin purple. I'm no longer in the wedding dress. The knife is lodged in the opposite wall as if thrown in frustration, and there are scratches on his arms – I recognise them from my own attempts at controlling the urge for chemical release, inducing pain to quell the craving. I see it all, and I hold him as best I can, because he has succeeded in what I, for all my years of substance abuse, have yet to manage.
He pulls away, and I take the opportunity to study his face. The symmetry is fascinating to me: his jaw is shaped with geometric precision, his top lip pointed, his bottom lip round, his nose straight. He is algebraic in his lines and curves. His hair glints like dark copper as he shifts, and I try to pinpoint those strands that catch and throw the light – but then he moves, and his lips are on mine, and the sensation is foreign, and strange, and more desperate in its force than lust-driven.
I blink twice, caught off guard by the warmth rising in my throat. His lips part; his breath is hot against my teeth. I sigh softly, and, holding on to his sleeve lest I slip away, begin to return the kiss that defies memory.
~~~~~~
-Emily-
~~~~~~
I step into the hallway, pressing the door shut with my shoulder and peeling the damp jacket from my arms. My eyes take some time to adjust to the lack of decent lighting, and so it is with some fumbling do I eventually succeed in hanging the leather on the hook at the back of the door – not the stand, because Sherlock gets irritated when I take up his coat space. I sniff, my nose numb from the rainwater; I'm greeted by the smell of wet wood and fried meat, and the tinny whine of Mrs Hudson's kitchen radio. An appropriately luxurious entrance.
Somewhat desolate, I lean forwards, looking into the small mirror hanging next to the coat stand. There's condensation gathering on the glass. I wipe it away with the cuff of my sleeve and study my reflection; her face is red-flushed, made raw by temperature and alcoholism, her hair rain-grizzled, pasted to her forehead, her lips cracked, her eyes ringed with forgotten product that, as a tribute to her current state, has run like black tears down both cheeks.
I don't look like me – but then again, I'm not sure what constitutes me anymore. I'm not the hacker, or the prostitute, or the criminal businesswoman, or Ivan Yakovich's glittering trophy wife. I'm not a Bronzefield inmate. I'm not a true Baker Street inhabitant. Perhaps these nondescript features, this uninspiring canvas marked by cheap make-up and systematic alcohol abuse, is all that is left of my multi-faced history. I sigh, rubbing the remaining lipstick from my chin. I've been staying with Irene. This waxy slash of coral red is a memento; her own, personal brand, smudged across my skin.
It's during this grim self-analysis do I become aware of the noise upstairs. There's thumping, then shouting, then the jarring sound of shattering glass. Another thud. A child screaming. Experience has me fearing the worst: I abandon the mirror and start up the stairs, taking them two at a time, leaving a line of wet on the wallpaper where my shoulder brushes the plaster.
"After everything. Everything we've gone through. After everything, after her, you think you can–"
I turn the corner, using the bannister to swing myself round, and force open the door. Addy is curled up under Sherlock's desk; her knees pulled up to her chest, hands over her ears, sobbing with a child's terror. The shouting continues. I identify John's voice.
"You can't even hear me, can you?"
I skid to an ungainly halt, and I see it all – the wrecked kitchen, John's takeaway coffee dropped, abandoned on the floor. Sherlock is sitting on what is left of the chair, broken king on his debris throne, feet resting on the table, newspaper on his lap, surrounded by pots and pans floating in the stagnant water. At first, I think it's some parody, a tableau joke, a dark comedy – and then I see Sherlock properly. He's dressed strangely, his blazer around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone, his sleeves rolled; he's unshaven, unkempt, eyes red with lack of sleep but otherwise unaffected by the chaos surrounding him.
My confusion is rapidly cleared on locating the bag of white powder, perched on top of a stacked tower of kitchen utensils; a culinary pedestal.
"How can you sit there and–"
"Do shut up, John." Sherlock swallows dryly and swats the air. "I'm trying to enjoy my cocaine. You wouldn't believe how much drug prices have risen lately. I blame Mycroft. And Brexit–"
"Stop it."
John seizes Sherlock's jacket lapel and throws him back, without warning, off the chair.
"Stop it. Now."
I watch as John raises his right hand, a fist, as if to compound his demand – and then brings it down, striking Sherlock with all his strength. The sound of the blow resonates oddly, falling flat: Sherlock is knocked from his knees to his side, landing heavily on the floor with its thin layer of water. Gasping, he props himself up on his arm.
"Is this," begins John, punctuating his punches with words, "a game?"
Sherlock is forced back onto the ground. I am so thoroughly shocked by the violence of his outburst, so genuinely taken aback, it doesn't occur to me to intervene – I can only watch one man against the other, both of them at tipping point; a display of volatile desperation from both parties, a clash of coping mechanisms.
"Don't you think we've had enough games, Sherlock? After Moriarty? After Yakovich? After Mary? Wasn't it enough for you?"
Again Sherlock tries to rise up, and again John strikes him down: he kicks Sherlock's body hard, then again, twice for good measure. Addy has started screaming. Sherlock groans, and John moves to kick him a third time – I move forwards, then: I take his arm, his sleeve fabric loose in my fist, and attempt to pull him back.
"John. John."
I am pushed away with enough force to unbalance me: I fall heavily, unable to catch myself in time, and feel the side of my head make contact with wood.
"Don't. Don't you open your mouth. You're just as bad as him. You get kicks out of this, both of you. You're sick. Sick in the head."
He turns back to Sherlock, who, still on the floor, is bracing himself. He's shaking – from the sudden assault or cocaine surging through his system, I don't know – and there's blood on his face, thick from his nose, collecting in the fine hairs of his eyebrow and welling at the welt across his bottom lip. He spits red, and tilts his chin upwards, fixing John with a clear-eyed look that is defiant in its indifference.
I decide that verbal bargaining is no longer an option.
I move quickly, retaking John's arm in both hands, wrenching it down, forcing him to one side. The reaction is violent, as expected: he twists, furious at my intervention – but my fingers find purchase at his coat collar before he can launch a second assault; I slam him against the broken oven, block another strike, clench my jaw and free my left hand, holding him grimly by his throat. It isn't enough pressure to cause lasting damage – I'm somewhat familiar with the nuances of chokeholds – but it's certainly enough to stop him in his tracks. His struggles begin to slow in their intensity. I watch the fight drain from his system.
Cautiously, I release my grip. John sags a little, then stands, steadying himself on the counter. After a moment spent catching his breath – head bowed, fist clenched – he straightens, and steps over Sherlock without sparing him a second glance: he moves over to the sofa, sits down, face in his bruising hands. When Addy runs up and attempts to hide behind his legs, he doesn't react. He doesn't so much as look up.
Breathless, I turn to Sherlock – he doesn't bother resisting as I pick him up roughly by the front of his shirt.
"You. Out. With me. Now."
He spits another mouthful of blood, and then wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
"I politely decline your kind offer."
"I wasn't offering."
I begin dragging him from the kitchen: he lets himself be manoeuvred to the door, and then stops, refusing to take another step.
"This is my flat," he says. "My high–"
I raise an eyebrow, and, using his neck as leverage, bodily haul him from the room.
"Don't make me push you down the stairs."
Sherlock sniffs, staggering a little. He looks down at the black staircase and says, darkly, "Why not? It'd complement the scars."
However, he begins moving down the steps: one by one, unsteady on his feet. I follow him, he opens the door, and together we step out into the rain.
~~~~~~