Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXVIII - Shadow Man

-Emily-

~~~~~~

"I'm sorry, I didn't have chance to tidy up."

We stand in Molly's cramped flat, all of us oversized in what feels like a doll's enclosure: the space is defined by pastel pink, littered with magazines, packets of tissues, sweet wrappers, discarded hairbands. It's almost comical, the way these saccharine surroundings clash with various objects from the morgue – there's a handful of grisly photographs scattered across the kitchen countertop, a scalpel by the coffee mugs, an assortment of human bones stored in a polka-dot box beside the laundry – and, as if to bridge the gap between the two opposites, both girlish and gory are flecked with an abundance of cat hairs.

On cue, I feel something warm brush against my ankle.

I curse and jump, startled by the sensation and – against all instinctive reflex – refrain from kicking the offending animal across the room.

"Toby," says Molly, bending down and scooping up an armful of cat. "Don't do that." She looks up at me apologetically. "He can be a bit too friendly sometimes."

"I can tell."

"Here," she says, holding it out to John. "Would you mind holding him for a minute? I'll put the kettle on."

John opens his mouth to protest, but is promptly silenced by ten pounds of fat and fur. I watch Molly in the kitchen, her face flushed and hair dishevelled: she looks tired, underweight, her cuffs gaping and jeans a little too big for her legs. She sighs as she searches for the plug socket, and as she does so I notice the slight slope in her narrow shoulders; an instinctive, involuntary hunch, as if she herself is trying to minimise the space she takes up in the room.

We're here entirely by accident. It all started with a pre-planned distraction: on arriving back from the empty manor, Sherlock spiralled into a state of such silent intensity he didn't leave his room for three days – when the third tray of microwaved food came back untouched, John, Mrs Hudson and I met for a hushed tactical session in her backroom kitchen. The consensus ruled that Sherlock must be re-initiated into the world of white-collar crime in order to focus his mind. On the fourth day, I broke the lock to his door and kicked it open. John walked into the room, pulled the curtains apart, and together we dragged an unkempt and unresponsive Sherlock Holmes out of his mind palace and into the living room.

He looked positively ill as we stood over the slab in St Bartholomew's mortuary, matching the corpse feature for feature; his skin has taken on an ashen undertone that darkens beneath his eyes, his hair nears chin-length and stubble shades the lower portion of his jaw in grey. There is no gleam of brilliance in his eyes now, no contempt in his smile, no sense of ingrained superiority.

He is a shadow man.

I saw the shock in Lestrade's face. He and John shared a glance that was as despairing as it was horrified, and when Lestrade recovered enough to ask for information on the body in front of us, his voice betrayed his disbelief. His fears were not assuaged – it took Sherlock several minutes to process the question, and, when he spoke, his deductions were so hoarse and disjointed they bordered on incoherent.

It was during this grim showcase of Sherlock's decline did I notice Molly, who had previously blended in with the background. She stood a little behind Lestrade, holding a file with white knuckles, face pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She didn't move for several long minutes, and so I broke away from the sad entourage standing over the corpse to join her.

"Molly?" I said, hoisting myself up onto the counter. "What's wrong?"

Molly didn't turn away from Sherlock. "He looks like him."