Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXII - Polarised

-Millie-

~~~~~~

I am jolted from sleep by the panic-inducing sensation of having both shoulders shaken. My head snaps forwards. I blink, wide-eyed and unseeing.

"Millie."

The initial blind terror subsides when I see Sherlock standing opposite me, but flares once more on observing him properly; he's pale-faced, hair mussed, eyes ringed with the bruised purple of an insomniac on the verge of breakdown.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice rough and cracked from sleep. "What's going on?"

"John's gone."

Something cold and wholly unpleasant curdles in the pit of my stomach.

"What...?"

"He's gone," repeats Sherlock, numbly.

"Gone? Where?"

Sherlock walks out of the bedroom, leaving me to stumble to my feet. My question remains unanswered. I stagger a little, adjust the fallen strap on my shoulder, and then follow him through the corridor, into John's room–

It is utterly empty.

"I've looked around. He's taken his wallet, his phone, enough clothing to last him a week. He's packed for permanence – you don't take clothing with you if you're going out briefly." Sherlock runs his finger along the chest of drawers. "He moved something from here recently. The dust has been disturbed. It's patchy."

"The memory stick," I say. "He's taken the memory stick. It was there this morning – I saw it."

Sherlock presses his lips together and turns away, opening drawers at random and rifling through the contents for further evidence.

"Why do you think he left?" I ask, my mind fogged with sleep's grey residue.

"Never mind why," snaps Sherlock. "Where."

"Why didn't he tell us?"

"Irrelevant. John doesn't think, he never thinks – he must have left something behind," says Sherlock, turning around in a full circle. "The train timetable, a receipt of purchase. Something. There's always something."

"If he was overwhelmed, he would have–"

Sherlock spins to face me, hands lifted as if wringing them in despairing frustration. "None of that matters. John's emotional state won't help me find him. You're mixing it up. I can't process, I can't think."

"Of course you can't think. You're looking at it too literally."

"When has figurative speculation got anyone anywhere?" he says, harshly. "It's useless."

"Do you truly believe searching for some record of his absence is going to help you find him? He's thought it through – he won't stay in one place. If he's avoiding you, he'll have taken into consideration how you think–"

"Don't talk. It's making concentration impossible."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, listen to yourself–"

"I am. I'm perfectly lucid. You, on the other hand, are perfectly irritating."

"This isn't going to get John back."

"You're right. It's not. In fact, I'd be surprised if we ever got John back. Balance the probability," says Sherlock. "Good bye, Mr Watson. Au revoir."