Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XI - Lock and Key

-Millie-

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It is a perfectly pleasant, unremarkable Saturday morning; I match Sherlock's pace stride for stride as we walk, the pearlised silk of my blouse flattened against my chest, our suitcase wheels clicking on the pavement tiles. We were given instruction to walk to the end of Crawford Street, where our transport – pre-arranged on Mycroft's orders – would be waiting to drive us to a private terminal for take-off. We have been told that, upon arriving in Vermont, we must climb into the awaiting vehicle, no questions asked, and trust the duplicitous British government to take us to the lodgings of Colonel James Moriarty.

I think that my trepidation is, in this situation, justifiable.

Sherlock was forced to accept that he was going to have to work with his brother should he wish to meet this Irish-born enigma in person. I admit, I’m just as curious – although more than a little suspicious. I know precisely what kind of man Jim Moriarty is and I am finding it difficult to convince myself that his twin will be any less poisonous, having grown up alongside the most dangerous and most callous mind our society has to offer.

"Wait."

Sherlock stops without warning, holding out an imperative arm as means of halting me.

"What?"

"There," he says, nodding in the direction of an empty bus shelter. He reaches inside his coat pocket, extracting a wad of banknotes and an ink pen. He talks as he writes, scrawling across the crumpled print, "I've been short on recruits. Must be heroine season."

"Recruits?"

"My network."

I realise then that the bus shelter is not as deserted as I had initially perceived it to be; hidden behind the painted metal is the outline of a homeless woman, sitting beneath the folds of an oversized men's jacket, a couple of pound coins collected in the tub at her feet.

"Do you have to do this now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Mycroft's waiting for us."

"The anticipation will do him good," he says, approaching the bus shelter with the blunt audacity of a man who cares nothing for the unspoken rules of social hierarchy.

The woman looks exhausted, her dark skin bruised and swelling, her hair missing in hanks and her lips oddly sunken, as if teeth were missing from her gums. More curiously still, she's not attired in the usual garb of the homeless; she's wearing a dress – a filthy, white dress, lined with black lace – and there are a pair of scuffed stilettos tucked beside her jacket.

Her black eyes widen as Sherlock hands over his offering.

"Is this a joke?"

"I'm not the jesting type," he says, quite seriously.

"I can't accept that."

Her voice, like her dress, does not fit her current status. She sounds well-educated – more so than half the population of London – and it contrasts oddly with her battered exterior.

"It's not optional."

He drops the money into the plastic tub.

She shakes her head disbelievingly, "I don't know what to say."

"I advise you check the money before spending it."

"Sherlock," I say, glancing down at the frosted face of my watch. "We're going to be late."