Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter CIV - The East Wind

-Emily-

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The rain hits us with wet disregard for our mood: it is a grim downpour, the unrelenting type, so ferocious in its pelting that it succeeds in forcing any late-night drivers from the streets. The lights from building windows shimmer on the tarmac surface, their reflections broken by the torrent in little discs of shattered gold. I spit rainwater and wipe my eyes, turning to Sherlock. He's disoriented, still bleeding from several unidentified wounds on his face: he pushes his fringe from his forehead and, without looking at me, pivots on his heel and sets off walking in the opposite direction. His pace is so abrupt and so determined, I have to break into a jog to keep up.

"Sherlock," I call. My voice is carried away by the wet-rip roar of wind on rainwater. "Sherlock."

Whether he hears me or not, I can't tell – he certainly makes no effort to show acknowledgement. I follow him to the main road, down adjacent alleyways and round countless bends, before eventually slowing, and halting, beside an uninspiring chip van parked opposite a nightclub.

I steady myself against the metal side, breathless. Sherlock is liaising with the vendor. I can scarcely see – my hair has worked its way loose from the band securing it, so that it hangs in front of my eyes in grizzled ringlets – and it is with some irritation do I take Sherlock's shoulder and push him back from the counter.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Ask Mycroft. He keeps a list." Sherlock nods at the menu. "One portion. Medium – no, large."

"Three fifty."

He pats his pockets and turns to me. "Do you have any change?"

"Sherlock, I'm serious–"

"So am I. These chips won't pay for themselves."

The remnants of my limited patience snap. I push him again, as hard as I can, and snarl, "If you think I'm going to stand here and–"

"Hey, hey." The man behind the chip counter raps his knuckles on the metal surface. "I don't want a domestic here, lady. Take your chips and clear off."

Sherlock receives the newspaper bundle and raises his eyebrows. "You heard the man. Clear off, lady."

The ringing sound of knuckles on skin cuts through the downpour. Sherlock reels backwards, hand on his cheek, before straightening up. He moves his jaw from side to side, adjusting to the new and arguably unnecessary bruising – and then he turns back to the stunned vendor.

"You know, she was married once. Not to me," he adds, dismissively. "He was more Russian and more enthusiastic about dead people. Can you believe it? Her, married? I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring, but–"

I growl a series of four letter words and take Sherlock by a clump of his hair, dragging him from the chip van and towards a nearby bench. We've managed to find ourselves by the Thames; the water is black and dark in front of us, a thick expanse of rippling glass. I sit down, heavily. Sherlock lifts his feet and rests them on the railings.

We sit in silence for some time. The weather dilutes my anger; still disgruntled, I look over my shoulder and address Sherlock shortly.

"You owe me a chip."

"Why? You dragged me out of my flat and assaulted me in the street. You deserve a restraining order."

"I saved you from being beaten to a bloody pulp by your friend." I hold out my hand. "I also got you these for free."

After a moment's petty hesitation, Sherlock offers me one. I take it, bite down, and ask through my mouthful, "So. What happened?"

"I got beaten to a bloody pulp by my friend, as you so charmingly put it," he quips, throwing a chip into the air with casual indifference and catching it in his mouth. "You saw as much as I did."