Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXX - Your Dark Core

-Millie-

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Paranoia permeates every aspect of living, from the trivial to the trialling; it is currently mid-afternoon, the sky and surrounding area is perfectly clear and perfectly tranquil, but I cannot stop looking over my shoulder.

Never has a trip to the grocery store been this terrifying.

I am alone, and to say that I am a little edgy is an overwhelming understatement. Every individual who brushes my shoulder in the street, every stray glance in my direction, every shout and holler and call increases my pace substantially; by the time I have turned left from Porter Street to the reassuring row of black polished doors comprising Baker Street I am on the verge of running, desperate to elude the silhouette at the back of my mind.

However, I am forced to slow as I near the café's red overhang in order to catch my breath. My lungs are unfamiliar with sudden exertion, and my heart – the drug-addled muscle pumping irregularly in my chest – is hammering in a way that makes me feel physically sick: as I close my eyes and take in shallow breaths that do nothing to reduce the growing pain knotting in the left half of my ribcage, I curse the euphoria, the addictive nature of substance abuse that left me the gaspingly inadequate wreck of a woman I am today.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I jump violently and spin around, my blood cold, brandishing my milk carton as a makeshift weapon–

Jamie backs away rapidly, hands held up in a shy surrender.

"I'm sorry," he apologises, breathless. "I tried calling your name, but you didn't turn around."

I blink, and lower the milk carton, trying to still the heaving rise and fall of my shoulders. Jamie frowns. "Are you alright? You didn't look too stable on your feet from over there."

"Fine," I swallow, and I manage a weak half-smile. "You startled me. That's all." I look around. "Is Mycroft here?"

Jamie shakes his head. "No, no – just thought I'd visit. I don't have much to do, at the moment." He smiles, wryly. "I'm not used to the liberty."

Confident that I can now speak without panting between words, I scan Jamie properly – the lightless quality to his pupils and the bruising shadows beneath his eyes – and ask, "Is something wrong? You look tired."

"Late nights," he says, a little sadly. "Plural."

"Why? Is something bothering you?"

"You could say that."

I pause by the door. "Well, you're welcome to-"

I am interrupted by the sound of something shattering upstairs and a muffled, horrified shout of exclamation.

Jamie looks up at the window. "Was that...?"

"What in God's name are you doing here?" comes John's voice, followed by a loud, "You were dead!"

I push open the door and step into the hallway, waiting for Jamie. He deliberates, uncertain, then says, "I'm not good with confrontation." He ignores my protests and smiles, digging his hands into his jacket pockets. "I'll visit tomorrow. Same time – and I'll try not to induce a heart attack."

"Are you sure?" I ask, balancing precariously on the ledge between the door and the hallway.

"Quite sure." He gives a disjointed wave. "I'll see you around."

I watch as he walks away, quick-paced, and turns down the next backstreet, out of sight.

The shouting and general clamour increases in volume as I ascend the stairs, reaching its peak as I stand by the door, grocery bags digging purple grooves into the pale skin at the crook of my elbow; I can hear John's muted cursing and, more alarmingly, Sherlock's silence.