Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LVIX - Loved and Lost

-Millie-

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For one, treacherous moment, I think that nothing has happened, that the memory stick has nothing on it, it's blank; a cruel joke.

The file is white. John doesn't move.

Slowly, and with the unwillingness prolonged inactivity breeds, the laptop fan begins to whir, signifying the transferral of information; tiny, rapidly-moving flecks of data, travelling through metal filaments at incomprehensible rates and translated visually onto the screen.

Then there are names.

There's a list of them, scrolling quickly, far too quickly for me to read and process. The screen flickers with this information overload for two full minutes, then stops, suddenly and without warning. A pixelated hyphen flashes at the bottom of the screen, welcoming input.

Sherlock inhales sharply beside me.

"Do your worst," says John. The grip on his glass is very tight.

Sherlock says nothing.

I clear my throat. "Is it a hitlist?"

"No. It's a record."

"Of what?"

"Everyone she's ever worked for. Everyone she's ever–" Sherlock cuts off, aware of his audience. "All the victims."

John laughs, darkly.

There's something heated in this realisation; a flush-cheeked denial, a hot-blooded refusal to accept this as the truth. I don't want this to be Mary. I don't want the guilt. I don't want to loathe her memory, but I don't want to excuse this, either. Sherlock is regarding the screen with interest – the desire to pick apart this enigma piece by piece is stronger than his sense of tact and diplomacy. He's smiling, not at the situation, but at the opportunity to process this raw evidence.

I sincerely hope John doesn't notice.

The names come in blocks; dates strung together, sections with the same name, repeated five, ten, fifteen times, the same employer. Sometimes the employer joins the list of victims. Through the surnames I can make assumptions as to where Mary was based at the time: twenty-five years ago and there was a succession of Polish names, twenty years ago and the Polish names became German. German became French. French became English.

I recognise American public figureheads too, civil rights activists, leading politicians who were shot on parades and their framed assassins accused and jailed. About ten years ago, the blocks of names and nationalities crumble and they become random – some employers are one-off business partners, some have no employer name at all. The term 'self-employed' comes to mind. A couple of Swiss individuals join the list, coinciding with our trip to Zurich; legislators who were a little too radical in their political opinions. They slow after that, down to the odd one or two. One year ago and there's victim Magnussen, A. Charles.

There's only one name without the status deceased. It's pending, at the bottom of the list: employer, then designated victim, then status. It was processed within the last few weeks.

27/09/15: Moriarty, A. James//: Yakovich F. R. Ivan//: status: (A)_

"She was working for him," says John. He smiles; a twisted smile, bitter and dark. "Of course she was. Moriarty and Mary. Good mix."

"Why Mary?" says Sherlock. He's got a gleam in his eye that tells me this is no longer sympathy; it's a case, and one of absolute intrigue. "He's got Moran. Moran's lethal. Why Mary?"