Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXII - Black Tongue

-Millie-

~~~~~~

"Sherlock."

I get no response.

"Sherlock. That's my leg."

"I know."

I try again. "I'm not very comfortable."

"I am," he says, shifting in the car seat – and in doing so digging the heel of his shoe into my thigh – to prove his point.

I sigh and attempt to move to one side, succeeding only in knocking my head against the car window. John insists on sitting in a seat that is pushed back to its limit, restricting what is already a chronic lack of leg room to a veritable constriction device; my legs are currently bent at the knees and lifted to my chin in an effort at maximising breathing space. Sherlock sits between Addy and me, using my hip as a foot rest, back to Addy's plastic car seat and coat collar turned up in petulant irritation, oblivious to the discomfort he is causing.

Without warning, Mary tugs at the gear stick, cursing under her breath as the vehicle slams to an ungainly halt at the red light. Addy rouses, blinks at the unexpected audience, frowns – and then opens her mouth to commence a screaming session so grating, I consider forcing open the car door and walking the rest of the distance to Irene Adler's apartment.

Sherlock recoils. "My God. Has it ruptured an artery?"

John passes a white bottle through the gap between the seats, sighing heavily. Sherlock looks down at it, then at Addy's purple face. "Can't you turn it off?"

"Just give her the bottle."

I watch as Sherlock takes the bottle from John and, in complete earnestness, places it in Addy's lap – whereupon it rolls from her tiny, outstretched hands to the floor.

"Sherlock."

"You told me to give her the bottle. I gave her the bottle."

"For the love of-"

"I'm not a transportable milk dispenser. You should train her to feed at certain times. They do that with dogs."

Frustrated, John reaches back – whether he is grabbing for Addy's discarded bottle or Sherlock's throat, I'm not sure – and Sherlock twists in his seat to avoid the incoming hand: I get an elbow to the side of my chest and, following a kick to the ribs, make a noise of startled discomfort, consequentially fuelling Addy's choked screams further.

Mary slams her foot down on the break; the rubber tyres screech in protest, the car jerks to a halt, and we all snap forwards in our seats.

"For God's sake," she shouts, over the disgruntled mutterings and Addy's howls. "I'm trying to drive."

"You're doing a poor job of it," says Sherlock. "We've stopped at a junction. Is that legal? I don't think it's legal-"

"Do you want to become Molly's next autopsy?"

"Not particularly."

"Then shut up, sit back, and let me concentrate."

Sherlock scowls and resorts to a stony silence; Mary takes a deep breath, smooths her hair and starts the car again, leaving Sherlock nursing an injured pride, me a bruised rib, and John looking stolidly out of the window.

~~~~~~

"This is the place."

It was blunt curiosity that coerced us to accept Irene's ambiguous invitation. Her sudden resurrection is not sitting well with any of us – Sherlock in particular. He has spent sleepless nights in his armchair, dressing gown creased and feet bare, attempting to force proverbial puzzle pieces into place with little success. I think it is fair to say he would rather perish than let the opportunity for answers slip him by, and today is no exception.