Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXIV - White Heart

-Millie-

~~~~~~

It is early evening when I receive the message.

I'm sitting in the quiet comfort of my bedroom, curtains drawn, sitting with my back against the headboard and repeating my stitching in an attempt at calming my nerves.

Twenty-four hours have passed since my encounter with Sebastian in the backstreet, but I'm still shaken. In hindsight, I realise I acted rashly and without reason – but it was instinct, and I couldn't afford to ignore it.

I'm becoming well acquainted with instinct, nowadays.

The text came through about an hour ago, and it surprised me. It was from an unknown number, including an address and a time, and it was signed Emily. I've toyed with calling back, ignoring it, texting for more details. I've acted upon none of the above.

I sigh, heavily. I know what I should do. I should delete the message as it stands and forget I ever received it. This is the woman who lost herself to alcohol-fuelled sadism, who fell, was picked up and dusted down by a man who lives to hurt, and who destroyed all she once stood for in order to construct a weapon from the rubble. However, this is also the woman I saw crumble on the night of Mary's death – the woman I've wrongly accused, pushed aside, left vulnerable to Jim Moriarty's influence. She owes me her time. I owe her mine.

This is the deciding factor.

I stand up, place my stitching down, and push open the door. Sherlock is sleeping in the kitchen, his head on his arms, in front of his microscope, the smudges of chemical deposit still streaking his face. He looks very pale, in the yellow light, almost ill; ashen in sleep. His hair is unbrushed. He's lost an awful lot of weight too – something I don't notice when he's moving. The cuffs are loose around his wrists. His cheekbones are positively painful. He doesn't look like the all-seeing, all-knowing detective like this. He looks vulnerable.

Reluctant to wake him, I decide to depart alone. I'll make it my priority to smooth things over with Sherlock once I return. The functioning of our three-person existence depends on it.

With this newly-established determination in mind, I take my coat from the hook, descend the stairs, and, glancing up at the ceiling as I open the door, step out into the rain.

~~~~~~

-Emily-

~~~~~~

"What's the time?"

Ivan looks down from the mirror at his watch. "Six o'clock."

"She should have been here half an hour ago."

"Да," he says, sighing as he pulls his tie loose and tries again. "I would not worry. It is probably traffic."

"I'm not worrying," I lie. I watch as Ivan makes another attempt at his tie, skews the knot, curses in Russian, and tugs it undone for the fourth time in ten minutes. "Need any help?"

Ivan shakes his head at his reflection, then turns around, allowing me to take the slim pieces of silk in my hands and cross one over the other, bringing the shorter of the two under and over and threading it through the crossed material. I push the knot up to his collar, hold him at arm's length, then nod approvingly.

"Not bad."

He tilts my head up, kisses me in wordless thanks, then returns to the mirror. I stand next to him, regarding our reflections with a sense of ingrained pride; he's dressed for formality – sharp in his suit, smart with his tie – and I look like I could secure a deal with a corporate company without so much as having to open my mouth. It is taking an awful lot of self-control not to rip the shirt off his back, tie included.