Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XC - The Great Gatsby

Hello, All. Remember me?

I'm not dead – on the contrary, I'm very much alive, and very preoccupied with the commence of university. I'm sorry for the shocking lack of activity, and, for those of you still around, I can't promise regular updates for the time being, until the initial workload/chaos of the first term dies down. That being said, I shall try my best to juggle writing with my timetable. Consider this dissertation of a chapter my apology, and, to all those who haven't given up on this macabre story, thank you for putting up with my inconsistency.

~Shem

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-Emily-

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"Ready?"

Sherlock doesn't reply immediately. He looks positively sick, his face white in the black of the taxi backseat, and, while he's better for his formal transformation – clean-cut in his suit, coerced into a satin tie, hair forcibly combed, brushed back – he still retains the ashen pallor of a man on his deathbed.

He turns to me after his second of deliberation.

"Of course."

I nod at the blatant lie and twist to my left to look at Molly, who, to her credit, has dressed for the occasion. The cardigans have been replaced with cashmere; a pink swathe of netted fabric, cinched at the waist and skirting the tops of her shoes. She's unfastening and re-fastening her earrings with an air of nervous neuroticism, but, when she sees me looking, she arranges her features in a tight smile.

"I'm fine."

I sigh, and crack my knuckles. The anticipation has me shaken, humming with a frenzied energy that makes sitting still an impossible feat: I find myself straining at the confines of my designated ball gown – the fabric silk and red and filched from Irene's wardrobe – and twisting my unfamiliar hair between my fingers. It was Molly's idea to flat-iron the curls into a sheet of singed strands, namely to avoid recognition, and I spent an excruciating session having my scalp grazed by heated plates and ringlets ironed into submission. Baker Street reeked of burnt hair for several hours afterwards. Admittedly, it provides a curtain behind which I can assess the surroundings. I keep it loose, hanging over my forehead; a warm, soft-stranded reassurance.

The taxi wheels spit gravel like seed shells as we turn into a drive.

"What happens if he sees us?" asks Molly.

"He won't see us."

"But what if he does? What then?"

"She'll sort it out," says Sherlock, with a dismissive head tilt in my direction. "That's why she's here."

I raise my eyebrows. "It's nice to feel loved."

"You're not here to feel loved. You're here to break Yakovich's neck if he tries anything."

"I don't see you doing anything to help."

"I orchestrated this."

"You accepted an invitation that wasn't yours. Hardly masterminding."

"I'm getting Millie out of there."

"Yes," I say. "Foolproof. I'm sure if you ask Ivan nicely he'll let you borrow his beau. Don't forget to say please."

Sherlock turns away, expression dark. "I won't be asking."

"That'll go down well. It's not as if he has a reputation for being protective. Or clinically insane."

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

"I'm not here to make suggestions, remember? I'm here to take the blows on your behalf."