Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XX - Burn the Ashes

-Millie-

~~~~~~

I flatten the newspaper on my lap, reach for my cup of cold tea and, with a sense of nervous anticipation, begin reading the product of our unscrupulous labour.

Brother testifies shocking new evidence regarding self-titled 'consultant criminal'. Made infamous by his interactions with London's own Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty is a man at the top of the global Most Wanted index — and with an upbringing like his, it's not difficult to see why. Beaten mercilessly by alcoholic aristocracy and subjected to unrelenting taunts at school, the Dublin-born—"

The slam of the front door and consequential thump of footsteps on the stairs interrupts my reading. I glance at Sherlock, who is currently squinting at a pipette, either oblivious to or ignoring the imminent company.

John steps into the room.

"Morning, all."

I lift my mug as means of a greeting, intent on completing the article, and Sherlock grunts non-committedly, concentrating on the scalpel in his hand and the liver on his tray.

John takes a seat. "It's nice to be missed."

Something in his tone makes me look up.

His face is wan; drawn and agitated, his eyes ringed with a bruised, sleepless purple and his hair uncombed. I put the newspaper down.

"John?"

"What?"

I regard him through narrowed eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Hm? Nothing."

"Untrue."

"Nothing at all."

"Ask him about his wife," says Sherlock, without looking up from his slips of sliced liver.

John opens his mouth as if to contradict him, but thinks better of it — instead, he shakes his head, rubbing the furrow between his eyebrows.

"We had a disagreement."

Sherlock laughs, softly. "A disagreement."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"What happened?"

John sighs. "Mary...didn't want you two to publish his story."

I stop what I am doing.

"Why?"

"She wouldn't tell me. I told her that my name hadn't been mentioned in the article," says John, tiredly, "but that didn't matter. She was furious — I slept downstairs. I'm not feeling my best."

"I don't see how it affects her."

"It doesn't."

"Then why—"

"I told you. I don't know," snaps John.

I raise my eyebrows and turn my attention back to the newspaper, adjusting the pillow behind my back. This sofa is serving as my temporary bed because I refuse to sleep in the room with its lingering notes of charred wood and graffiti.

The word haunts me.

I hear it whispered, I feel it breathed, I see it tattooed into the pale lilac of my eyelids when I blink. Mrs Hudson knew nothing of it. John was horrified. Sherlock was stunned into silence.

John insisted we visited the crime scene in Regents Park. The acrid smell of singed skin and wood smoke intensified upon entering and, on closer inspection, we saw the true magnitude and detail of the construction; logs had been bound in heavy-duty rope, the wood dark and slick with water and marked with desperate scratches. The man was burnt alive. Tied to a post and set alight. No mercy shown. They'd put the fire out before he was reduced to ashes and we were presented with the stiffened body; mouth locked in a soundless scream, skin black and cracked, dried gums studded with ash-flecked teeth.