Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLVII - Bruises Like Kisses

-Millie-

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"Mind the step, Sherlock."

"I'm injured, not blind," snaps Sherlock, positioning the rubber tips of his crutches on the garden step. "I know what I'm doing."

His mother sighs and shakes her head, brushing her hands down on her apron and turning away. Sherlock's parents live the idyllic life of upper-class retirement, and it shows; every aspect of their existence could be fictional in its country-house ease, from their sprawling garden of wild flowers and high grass – on which the deckchairs have been set up – to the house itself, a red-plastered construction complete with hand-sewn curtains, wooden doors, and a sense of wholesome wellbeing that eludes the raw streets of London.

We sit on the lawn: John jogging Addy on his knee, Mary thumbing through a recipe book and Irene in her dark sunglasses, inspecting her nails in the hazy sunlight. Sherlock has managed to half walk, half hobble his way to the kitchen door, where Mycroft stands, severe in his suit and deeply unimpressed by the entire affair.

As far as birthday celebrations go, I've seen worse.

Seeing as Sherlock's birthday coincided with his comatose stay in hospital, his parents – who were enjoying a leisurely holiday in Cumbria at the time – took it upon themselves to organise a celebration in honour of both his birthday and return from hospital. Mycroft was cajoled into taking one of his three day's leave off, John insisted both Addy and Mary meet the full Holmes family, and Irene, who happened to be around when the invitation was received, said she'd come for the sherry.

We were given a collectively warm welcome by Sherlock's parents. I got the impression they were beside themselves in the knowledge that their son had found such a willing, albeit slightly dysfunctional, entourage to share his company with. I had my hand shaken by his father and received a flour-dusted embrace from his mother, but, although perfectly cordial in my presence, their attention was drawn to Irene in her printed dress and wide-brimmed sun hat; the picture of well-bred class. Her recovery is something in itself. The sweater-wearing waif is starting to resemble the dominating escort in my memory.

I  feel somewhat underdressed in my own ensemble: a forgotten, tailored skirt I'd sourced from the dark depths of my wardrobe – formal and fraying at the hem – and a high-collared blouse in the lightest shade of blue I own. It's very hot, but I'm unwilling to roll my sleeves and expose the expanse of pricked skin on my forearms. Instead, I sip from my drink, cross my legs, and continue sewing.

"You never told me," says Mary, putting down her recipe book, "what happened with the double act. We weren't called into hospital, so I presume his twin made it out alive."

"We only received the news today," I say, watching as Sherlock – grudgingly aided by his mother down the steps and into the garden – sits down on the bench beside me, red-cheeked and scowling. "He got the laptop. They've had no backlash yet. Last thing I heard they were having difficulty getting past the defence software."

"Sounds like there's a lack of experienced hackers," says Irene, her tone pointed. "Shame."

Mary raises her eyebrows, but says nothing, and, after an uncomfortable pause, Sherlock disentangles himself from his crutches and sighs, heavily.

"I need a drink."

I hand him the remainder of my sherry. Addy, now crawling on all fours, stops at Irene's feet and begins patting her ankles with her starfish hands: Irene starts, looks down, then gingerly presses the unwanted interruption away with the toe of her court shoe.

"Not good with children, are you?" comments Mary, dryly.

"We can't all be housewife material," says Irene. She gives Mary a falsely sweet smile. "I've always preferred leather straps to apron ties."