Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LVI - Ready, Aim, Fire

-Millie-

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We knew something was very, very wrong when we saw the two security guards lying slumped at the lift doors. We didn't say anything, but there was a mutual panic – a unanimous urgency: Sherlock led the way, quick-paced, John and I followed, through the open door and into Jim Moriarty's penthouse with its slick opulence and harsh monochrome. We were expecting brutality.

The tableau I am presented with, however, renders me utterly speechless.

It shocks me so thoroughly, stuns me so completely, I can't quite process the details; the intensity of emotion in this room is far too strong, and I am forced to revert to basics, to break down what I am seeing into simpler segments.

I see Emily, standing with stitches on her face and her arm in a plaster cast, bruised and bloodied and holding a pistol in her hand. I see Mary, terrified, shaken, backed up against the wall.

I don't see Jamie at all.

When Jamie was instructed to enter the penthouse for the fourth and final time, I'd started to protest – only this time, he cut me off, silenced me before Mycroft could interrupt with dry condescension, and told me he had nothing to lose. He'd looked so weary. So tired. There was nothing but bleak acceptance in his tone.

Mycroft said that James Moriarty hadn't been seen on the premises for two weeks, and Emily's whereabouts were – yet again – unknown. It was as safe as it would ever be. John suggested we accompany him in what I think was a safety bet; Jamie looked positively unhinged, worn down to the brink of instability by pressure and expectation and accusation, and John took pity on him. Even Sherlock looked concerned. I got the impression we were watching a man lose his grip on identity; falling victim to the first, fatal throes of madness.

"Mary?"

Mary sobs and shakes her head, gesturing wordlessly at Emily.

John turns to Emily, his voice a growl. "What the hell have you done?"

She starts to laugh. It's not particularly humorous – there's rancour behind it, a long-standing resentment, fuelled by something akin to irony. It shows in her smile.

As I continue dissecting fragments of this inexplicable encounter, I become aware of the spattering of blood on the adjacent wall; a flowering of scarlet, a bloom of red blossom. I move with my newly habitual stiffness, passing John, whose voice has risen to a shout, past Sherlock, who keeps very still and silent.

Jamie is lying behind the counter, his hair spiked and sticky, his expression one of soft incredulity. His eyes are open. There's a very thin trail of blood painting a line from the corner of his mouth to his ear.

I sit down beside him.

The conversation is picking up in the background, becoming heated, but I don't care to register it. Instead, I rest my hand on Jamie's cold neck. There's no life in that skin. No heat. No point in checking for a pulse. I surprise myself with my composure, as I close his eyes. There is no panic here. I'm very calm.

John is shouting now, pointing at Emily, accusations lacerating like shrapnel. Emily isn't fighting back, however – she's not even protesting. She simply tosses the gun at Mary's feet and says, very simply, "Take it back. I don't want it."

Something about this picture is disjointed.

I look at Emily. I've seen her angry. I've seen her raring to kill, prepared to tear out tracheae and crack the cartilage from bones. This is not that Emily. This Emily is unresponsive, cold, resolute.