Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLVIII - Lovesick Bastard

-Millie-

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"Good God," says Sherlock, groaning as Irene throws open the curtains. "Your enthusiasm is sickening. Close the curtains. It's too bright."

"What's wrong with you?"

"I don't feel right at all," he says, dolefully. "Head pain, dry throat, nausea. Light sensitivity." He presses two fingers to the underside of his wrist. "I have all the early signs of a cerebrovascular accident."

"That," says Irene, "or you're pitifully hungover."

"Self-diagnosis. I'm never wrong. I can't remember anything after the cake, and memory loss is its defining feature."

"I'll fill you in, shall I? You fell over twice, called your brother overweight, drooled, knocked your mother's vase from the mantelpiece and told me I was pretty."

Sherlock blinks, mouth open. "I didn't." He turns to me. "I didn't."

"Well, I might have made up that last one – but I can assure you, you made a delightful fool of yourself."

"Impossible. I'm the epitome of class."

I smile at his outrage and take a cautious sip from my mug; a hesitant temperature gauge. After deciding that my beverage is too hot to drink, I hold the mug in my hands, using the heat to warm my fingers: sunlight filters through the curtains in shafts and Irene – who, having slipped into the room with feline stealth – re-ties the silk belt around her dressing gown.

It is the picture of soft, morning quietude.

"I apologise on his behalf."

"Apology accepted. Besides," says Irene. "I'd rather deal with a salivating Sherlock Holmes than one, sober Mary Watson."

I glance in the direction of the door. Satisfied that Mary isn't in earshot, I turn to Irene and ask, in a voice that betrays my internal discomfort, "Why don't you two get along?"

Irene pauses. She curls her fingers, the red tips catching little crescents of white light. "There are some people who just don't warrant my sympathy. She's one of them."

"But what has she done? You say you know something about her that we don't. What is it?"

Irene sighs, and holds her hand to her lips; the stance of a serial smoker.

"I can't afford to tell you, Millie."

Sherlock's phone begins to ring and promptly cuts my protest off mid-vocalisation. He winces, straining as he reaches into his coat pocket and squinting as he processes the name on the screen.

"Lestrade."

Irene raises her eyebrows. "I'd answer it, if I were you."

"I don't see why. Geoffrey never responds to my messages. He says they're obnoxious," says Sherlock, irritably. He presses his phone to his ear. "What do you want?"

I watch his expression change; it's a rapid process, completed in a series of facial alterations, from bad-tempered impatience to interest, and from interest to something entirely unreadable.

"Another one?"

I begin to feel sick. Irene comes over, leans down and taps her ear. Sherlock puts his phone onto loudspeaker and Lestrade's voice – urgent and somewhat strained – fills the room.

"They found her just off Southwark Street. Unidentified. He's beaten her face past recognition. They've got her in ICU for questioning."

"Sexual assault?"