Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLIII - When All Hell Breaks Loose

-Millie-

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I push the needle through the slip of perforated cotton and tug, drawing the thread out and up; a mechanical process I've honed through repetition. Sherlock sits with his back against the adjusted bed, skim-reading a newspaper, and John stands by the bedside, polystyrene cup of watered coffee balanced on the table. Mary watches from the plastic chair, safe in the knowledge that Addy is in the hands of a licensed caregiver as opposed to two detectives and a dominatrix, drumming her fingers on the metal bedpost.

"New hobby?"

When nobody responds, I realise Mary is addressing me and look up, startled. "Hm?"

"The sewing. You haven't stopped."

I regard her in careful quietude, needle poised, and then – without providing an explanation – resume my line of stitching. Mary shakes her head and shifts in her seat, unwinding the patterned scarf from around her neck. John takes a sip of his unpleasant beverage. Sherlock turns a page.

Footsteps sound in the hallway.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he reads. "All rise for Her Royal Highness."

John snorts mid-gulp as Mycroft, in his regal obliviousness, steps into the room. Mary hides her smile, Sherlock doesn't, and I continue stitching, reaching the edge of my designated canvas.

The courtesy in Mycroft's voice is strained somewhat.

"You're awake. Wonderful."

"You couldn't sound more disappointed if you tried."

"Believe me," says Mycroft, standing over the bed. "I could."

"Did you bring the cigarettes?"

"Don't be absurd."

"Then get out." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I'm busy."

Mycroft reaches down and removes the newspaper from Sherlock's grip in one, swift movement – Sherlock's eyes narrow in furious disproval and he makes a grab for it, succeeding only in straining his stitches and falling back against the pillows, wincing.

"I'm injured. You're supposed to be empathetic."

Mycroft's lips twist in a smile that is more akin to a grimace. He folds the newspaper in half – a crisp crease through the middle – and places it on a table well out of Sherlock's reach.

"I am being empathetic." He ignores Sherlock's derogatory snort and retrieves a slim, black case from his blazer pocket. "I've brought you a gift."

Mycroft tosses the uninspiring rectangle onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock picks it up, inspecting it in the light and running his forefinger along the plastic edge.

"A disk. Video footage," says Sherlock. He looks up at Mycroft. "If this is your unreleased endorsement of some cake-related, fetishized activity, I'll tell you now, as your brother, I'd rather be impaled by a maniac than sit through forty minutes of fleshy, batter-smeared hell."

"Fetishized activity is Ms Adler's forte. How is she? I don't believe we've had a chance to catch up since Karachi."

John looks at Sherlock. I stop stitching. Irene has worked tirelessly to prevent the discovery of her resurrection – to hear Mycroft speak so casually of such a coveted piece of information is jarring to an extreme.

Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. "You've had someone following me."

"Brotherly concern. I think it's justifiable – particularly with the recent activities of our besotted florist."