Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter I - Black King, White Queen

-Millie-

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The tension in this room is palpable; a weight, tight around stomachs and chests and throats, heaving with each laborious intake of breath.

John's brow furrows, the creases lining his forehead deepened by acute concentration. Mary leans forwards, I bite my bottom lip, and Sherlock's eyes narrow, calculating, his fingers laced and resting on the sanded wood.

Anyone would think we were planning a military operation.

"Careful, Millie," warns Mary. "He's watching your left."

"Not that one. He'll take you out straight away."

"No, I think she's right, John."

"Don't take any risks." John turns to Mary, and hisses under his breath: "If he wins this, that's it. She can't afford to be reckless."

I scan the board in front of me, mapping out every potential route, every possible arrangement, until black and white squares flash behind my eyelids.

John watches my fingers pause over the ivory sovereign.

"Don't do it."

I pick up my piece, and, with slow hesitancy, slide it across the glossed surface.

John's shoulders sag, defeated.

"That's it. It's over."

I stop — one final analysis — and then let go of the white queen, looking up at Sherlock with quiet satisfaction.

"Check."

Mary reaches for John's wrist, holding it tightly.

"Your move, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't respond at first; he simply sits, statuesque and grim, the slight rise and fall of his shoulders the only indication that he is a living, breathing organism. I can see the chessboard reflected in his pupils, and my hands, pale against the soft cream of my shirt, contained within the distorted panorama of his eyes.

He must reach some unspoken conclusion, because the stillness shatters – he pushes his king one space to the left with his forefinger, and John sighs, irritably.

This game of chess surpassed leisure a long time ago; it is now a vicious, silent competition between myself and Sherlock. He has taken it very, very seriously, scarcely speaking, refusing to smile, and — despite initially riding on John and Mary's joviality — I too have found myself hooked; it is ridiculous, and petty, but I want to win this more than I want to preserve Sherlock's inflated pride.

"Check mate."

I look up, startled.

During my moment of detached reflection, Sherlock has set his queen down in a position that utterly eradicates all possible movement. I shift in my seat, realising that I, for all my dedication to the traditional methods, have been placed at an irreversible disadvantage.

There is a short, questioning silence, as we both survey the board for a mistake, for an overestimation.

We find nothing.

Sherlock leans back into his chair, the severity softening, his mouth breaking into a wide, triumphant, infuriating grin.

John rests his head in his hands. "Here we go."

"I told you. There is simply no point competing with me."

"Sherlock-"

"It was too easy."