Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter CVI - Le Début de la Fin

-Emily-

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It's strange, the way the ticking of the wall clock makes its presence known: it is a gradual process, the breaking of desensitisation, tapping into my consciousness with each plastic flick of the hand. I watch it complete its circuits, doggedly determined, portioning minutes into segments of sixty. Ten forty-nine. Ten fifty. It's getting late. I've been sitting here for what feels like hours, watching the clock eat the evening second by second.

Grimly inspired by the passing of time, I reflect on the last month. Its endlessness is capped only by the missed calls from Mycroft and an impressive pile-up of letters in the hallway; Sherlock has spent more consecutive days alone than washing. When I do see him, he's unshaven, reeking of chemicals, pasting pieces of paper to the ever-growing wall collage above the sofa. John rarely visits. He moved out officially after The Argument, but he's here today, because he needs to pick up the remaining boxes from his old bedroom. The last time he made an appearance was disastrous – he brought Addy to see Mrs Hudson, but that excursion was quickly vetoed after we found her sitting cross-legged with an empty needle, chewing the plastic end. John's seeing a new therapist, now. Moving on.

There are two soft knocks at the door. It opens, and John steps in, a little sheepishly, holding his phone. To my surprise, he asks after Sherlock. I tell him I haven't seen him in days. He glances down at the screen, and then looks up.

"Did you know it's his birthday?"

"What?"

"Today. Mycroft just texted me. Told me to pass on his regards." He laughs – a short, sarcastic sound. "A real charmer, that one."

It takes me a minute to process his words. "I didn't realise he had a birthday."

"Come again?"

I shrug. "I just assumed you had to have been born to have one. Not produced in a laboratory."

John snorts, then sighs, looking in that moment every part his age.

"It must be hard for him. Hers was around the same time, wasn't it?"

I say nothing. In my mind, I replay those days in the past that were ringed on Mrs Hudson's kitchen calendar. Millie never liked celebrating her birthday. It was a week after Sherlock's – an unremarkable affair that I admittedly played my part in forgetting. One year, however, stands out: Molly Hooper arrived unexpectedly, several hideous helium balloons in tow, and made Millie sit with one on the sofa for a photograph. Sherlock was forced into a party hat, John took several incriminating pictures for blackmail purposes, and I took full advantage of the champagne on offer. Millie spent the day pretending to be irritated and trying to conceal the pink-tinted joy in her cheeks. With Molly dead and Millie missing, it occurs to me that this day is one of the few collective moments of happiness we share; a memory that transgresses the tarnish of our recent past.

"Maybe we should have got him something."

Why do you care? I think. What comes out of my mouth is a short: "Like what?"

"A cake?"

"Sherlock doesn't eat cake. You're one letter off." He looks at me blankly. "Coke, John."

John rolls his eyes, then sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly.

"So."

"So."

He shifts, uncomfortable. "How are things?"

"Don't you have better things to do than check up on me?"