Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXVIX - Inhuman

-Emily-

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The dark backstreet is entirely deserted; my heels mark out each step on the tarmac, my breathing is uneven under the influence of adrenaline and every sound is heightened, magnified against the muted engines that replace silence in the city of London.

There are no shouts, here. No drunken clamour. No cries, no noise.

I look down at the pale face of my watch. Two o'clock: an inhuman hour for inhuman people. This is my second week doing this, and I have remained irritatingly unharmed.

Making myself poisoned bait was easy enough; every night I slip on my shoes and my blazer and I leave the limited security of the penthouse for the streets in order to continue my search. I walk the same alleyways, using my pitiful sense of direction as a guide, turning corners blindly and hoping I'll encounter this well-dressed stranger with his smile and his charm out of luck and luck alone.

Attempting to catch an invisible predator has proven more difficult than expected.

Trisha's murder is playing on my conscience. I see her when I sleep; I wake, cold and panting and still locked in a state of lucid unawareness, to catch a glimpse of her body with its red smile and floral decorations at the foot of my bed. I convince myself I see snatches of her face in the mirror when I turn away, and hear her voice, distant and warped beyond understanding, in moments of silence. It harrows me, it haunts me, and I can't comprehend why. I've seen many a cold-blooded killing – I've felt the life beat from a person beneath the tips of my fingers, at the crack of bone in my palms.

I am no stranger to violent deaths, and yet I cannot shake Trisha's from my mind.

I stick to the pavement, ensuring that I am dangerously conspicuous in the yellow light cast off by street lamps. I'm not entirely sure what I am going to do when I meet this man face to face; I presume I'll recognise him and receive the confirmation I need to do to him precisely what he did to Trisha, minus the stab wound and with additional agony, as is my style.

It is at this moment I realise that I am being followed.

I slow my pace.

I can hear footsteps behind me, quick footsteps, soft and light on the concrete. I turn a corner. The outline in my peripheral vision turns that corner too. I stop, briefly, and hear the individual behind me stop, then start again as I begin walking. I wait until I have reached a secluded area, hidden from the main street and darkened by lack of lighting, and I pause, preparing myself for onslaught–

A piece of paper is pressed into my palm.

I watch – startled by the sudden contact – as the figure walks past, unaffected. They don't look particularly threatening; an androgynous shape in an oversized sweatshirt, hood up and hands in their pockets. In fact, their demeanour is that of a homeless individual – certainly not the sharply dressed stranger said to be prowling these backstreets at night.

I turn the scrap of paper over in my hand.

Written in delicate italics is a name, presumably that of a café, and the time 8:16.

When I look up to address the giver of my invitation, they have turned down another backstreet, out of sight; I am left alone beside the rubbish crates and the graffiti, taken aback by the quiet nature of this unforeseen confrontation.

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I'm aware that I look very out of place in the confines of this boxed, greasy café – for the first time in my adult life, I am too expensive for the establishment, not the other way round.