Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXVII - Till Death Do Us Part

Graphics by SeraSki, chapter gist by 8WorldsWithWords. You're both brilliant.

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-Emily-

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"We've got all day, Ms Schott."

The detective leans forwards across the table, resting on the worn elbows of his nylon blazer. There seems to be a planned uniformity about the detectives of Bronzefield: they all have cheap jackets and ill-fitting shirts, yellowed nails, shaving cuts – and they all walk with the same, weary determination, smelling of the pine-shaped air fresheners hanging from car mirrors. I turn my attention to the ceiling and begin inspecting the cracked plaster in a poor imitation of indifference; in reality, I crave these daily interrogation sessions and attempt to draw them out for as long as possible. Here, I'm safe from my memories – dark, persistent things that pick the toughened sinew from the carcass of my mind like coffin flies.

"I'll stay here all night if I have to. Compliance is in your best interest, so I'll ask you again," he says, straightening up. "Where can we find Ivan Yakovich?"

I run my tongue over the cracks in my lips, and I continue inspecting the ceiling.

This room is bleak in its entirety; I sit on a grey chair fixed to the concrete by heavy bolts, opposite this bland detective, separated by a low, white table. Both hands are fastened to the chair by handcuffs. The starched cotton of my prison jumpsuit pricks my ankles and bunches beneath my arms – it's too big around the chest, too tight at the hips, stained from previous inmates and fraying a little at the cuffs: efficiency at best, humiliation at worst. I continue breaking down the contents of the room into their components. It's another tactic of mine; a numbing agent. Better senseless than sensitive.

"We know you were with him in Moscow."

"Good."

"And we know you engaged in frequent fraud under his name."

"Yes."

"What else happened in Moscow?"

I say nothing.

"You knew of his psychosis?"

"No."

"Did you talk often?"

I close my eyes. The detective sighs, heavily, and reaches for his lukewarm coffee.

We go round in circles: he asks me a question, I shut him out, he tries a different approach, I give him a monosyllabic response, he attempts to build on it, I shut him out, he asks the same question again. One hour becomes two, and two becomes five. Eventually, I wear down the remnants of his patience – he stands and leaves, his coffee cold on the table, and I am left alone and at the mercy of my mind.

I've been in this establishment for five weeks. It was inevitable: I was hauled into custody after my discovery on the night of Millie's rape, kept there because no-one would consider bailing me out, and then presented for the world to see in a heavily-publicised trial. With a handful of confiscated pocket change to my name, a defence lawyer was out of the question – not that it would have made a difference.

My fate was sealed the moment I stepped into the police station; once my name was registered and the investigations took place, the facts began to resurface. Dark details. Brutal truths. My mother sold my story for millions – I saw it on the front page – and I was branded a terrorist, an Islamist, a fanatic. Then came the hacking. The accusations stacked up; my laptop was found in the house and dissected like a human heart, and on it they found ample evidence of unscrupulous cyber activity. People started coming forward with stories: Amy Walksin's Norwegian half-sister told of her sibling's murder, some of Carver's men contacted the media with accounts of his death and Lucy Gold's untimely demise. I had a homicide count of twenty-three – and was, consequentially, labelled a 'serial killer'. The papers loved that. The murderess and the necrophile. Till death do us part.