Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XL - Femme Fatale

-Millie-

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"Does she usually cry like this?" asks Irene, pressing two elegant fingertips to her temple.

I hold Addy at arm's length, wincing as she opens her mouth – complete with newly developed teeth, pearls in miniature – and say, "Mary said she's teething."

"Can't we tranquillise her?"

I sigh, wistfully, and continue moving this small bundle of furious discontent on my lap. Sherlock is currently sitting on Irene's singular armchair, as far away from Addy as possible, his legs brought up to his chest and eyes narrowed at the sound.

She cries an awful lot, as it turns out.

Adeline Watson is incomparable to the red-faced newborn I met last year – this chunky infant is more akin to a toddler than a baby, now. She's been cursed with thick hair, not dissimilar to my own, of which grows upwards in celestially stubborn curls. There is a distinct Watson air about her expression; a wide nose, soft, blue eyes, a thin mouth and, in accordance with her Morstan gene pool, a pointed chin and high, round forehead.

With some reluctance, Mary was convinced to hand Addy over to Sherlock and I for the night, whilst she and John wined and dined in honour of their one year anniversary. I'm still a little shaken from my ordeal with household narcotics – a little paler, a little thinner, and the insomnia continues to prey on the starved carcass of my mind like some emaciated beast – but all in all, I've regained control. John tactfully suggested we take Addy to Irene's apartment; I don't think he trusts my current mental state and Sherlock's disregard for the fragility of youth, hence our presence in Irene's externally unconvincing accommodation.

I lift Addy awkwardly, trying to determine why she's howling so lamentably: she's clean, fed and, by my standards, well rested.

I certainly wouldn't be crying if I was in her situation.

I've never been particularly good with children – they alarm me, somewhat, with their temperamental fluctuations and sudden bouts of screaming, but since Sherlock point blank refuses to touch her and Irene regards her with the wariness of a wild animal, it is down to me to pacify her when necessary. At a loss as to what to do, I offer her her bottle, and watch as she bats it away with her pink hands, furious at my stupidity.

The television is on, now, and the noise contained within the pearlised walls of this living room is nearing unbearable; the news starts up, and Addy responds with a scream so grating it takes all I am not to sob in exasperation. Sherlock shifts in his armchair and uses his coat collar as a sound buffer, Irene has resorted to chain smoking and I am trying to suppress an internal meltdown, when the headline catches my attention.

"The body of twenty nine year old Millicent Raen was discovered just off Baker Street, surrounded by flowers, at ten o'clock this morning. Witnesses describe the scene as "sick" and "twisted", and police comment that recent events "have been the worst of their kind–"

I focus intently on Addy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Irene look at Sherlock; they exchange silent conversation. There's a sharp exhalation. I glance up – and then I stop. They do not show the victim's face or chest, but from the photograph taken on a witness's phone, I see that Millicent Raen is wearing a dress. A dark, charcoal dress. My dark, charcoal dress. The same dress I wore to John and Mary's wedding – the same dress I had, as of last week, held in my hands and debated donating to Mrs Hudson's ongoing sewing circle.

The same dress I could not locate the following morning.

"Millie-"

Irene makes a lunge for Addy who, in my state of shock, has started falling backwards. She catches her before her blonde head becomes red, thrusts her at Sherlock, who promptly stumbles back, appalled. The television is turned off. I try to remember how to operate my diaphragm. Addy screams. The headline plays over, and over, and over again, and I see the dress, I see the flowers, I see the faceless man at the end of the street–