Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCVIII - Stockholm Syndrome

-Millie-

~~~~~~

Morphine is kinder than cocaine. It lets me walk, permits me thought, soothes the howl of cocaine's withdrawal. It numbs feeling. I move through this multi-roomed manor like a spectre of myself.

I look down the corridor and I see it in heightened detail; the ceiling is arched, supported by great curves of cut stone, painted white, chipped at the edges and collecting a very fine layer of dust along their precipices. The curves lead to pillars, and the pillars stand on a chequered floor. I study it with interest. It is comprised of tessellating diamonds; white marble and slabs of something mottled and pink, like muscle tissue. It's well-polished. If I glance down, I see a distorted image of myself: the woman beneath me is pale and warped, dressed in white silk, this negligee that isn't mine, one strap over her shoulder, the other half way down her arm. I adjust it, and then I stop.

I can hear piano music. It's nearby, and so I follow it, drawn to the melody. The breach of silence feels rebellious.

I press open the door and step inside: it's a sad room, a melancholy room, and I find its state of poetic lamentation untouchable – I should not be here, disturbing its quiet mourning. It's far too large, and there's not quite enough furniture to fill it. The few existing contents stand in a condition of suspended decay: the chandelier wrapped in strips of silk to preserve the glasswork, the mirrors covered, floor protected – from what exactly, I don't know – by a sheet of grey cloth. The curtains are drawn. It is lit only by the wall fittings: gentle, orange light that paints the air amber and makes the exposed woodwork glimmer like trapped flame. Pressed to the far wall, by the magnificent window, is a piano, a grand piano, a great piano, a piano that issues an appropriately mournful sound.

The piece picks up. I listen, fascinated: it is agonisingly soft, and his fingers lift it slowly, walk the melody from andante, to allegretto, to agitato. Without warning, there is silence – and then the faint trickle of the higher notes, the tremor of vibrating air. The piece teeters on the edge of silence once more, and then plunges back into a fiercely rhythmic repetition. It is play between the two, man and instrument, and I watch the keys give under his pressure.

The music is a catalyst of sorts. I begin to feel a stirring in my mind – a rustling of pages, the commence of speech – and then suddenly, unexpectedly, the space inside my skull lights up. I see him, in the headlines, his face monochrome and unsettling in ink. I see Lestrade on the television, hear him give warnings about walking home. I see him again, but this time he is fresh from the shower and vulnerable as a child. There are so many contradictions. His syndrome, his condition, his state of mind – it has a name. I know it does. If I could understand him, if I could lay him down on the silver slab inside my head and take a scalpel to his mind, dissect each intention and incentive, then I would be freed from fear. Perhaps I could help him, too.

The melody stops, quite suddenly.

The new silence is jarring. I do not move. He blinks, surprised, and then smiles his easy smile, his teeth orange-tinted in the light.

He holds a hand to his heart. "You startled me, myshka."

I say nothing. He tilts his head to one side, and his hands with their melody, their music trapped beneath his skin, fall away from the piano.

"You do not look so happy."

I take a shallow breath inwards. The dust slips past my lips, down my throat.

"Play again."

He laughs, a sound I have not processed before; it's a pleasant laugh, a genuine one, light and rising towards the end. He gestures flamboyantly, a mock bow.