Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXIV - Lust, Lust, Insanity

-Emily-

~~~~~~

I sigh with a heaviness that has become habitual to me of late, kick the shoes from my feet, adjust the pillows behind my back and reach for the remote control, turning on the television at the foot of the bed and anticipating the worst.

The worst is what I get.

"Following the discovery of Beatrice Montague-Reed's body - the seventh act of homicide in the recent chain of so-called 'iris killings' - police have issued a warning to the general public emphasising the danger of walking alone at night. The following precautions have been advised: stay in groups of three when possible, avoid backstreets and do not engage if approached by a solitary individual. In yesterday's press conference Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stated that Scotland Yard is now consulting Mr Sherlock Holmes to aid the process."

The news reel cuts to the aforementioned press conference; Lestrade stands at a long, black table, surrounded by reporters, the sweat glazing his forehead highlighted by camera flashes. He swallows, and addresses the crowd.

"We can't stress the importance of keeping your wits about you enough. We're taking every measure we can to prevent another killing, but naivety will get you nowhere." He shuffles the papers in front of him. "Evidence suggests that the criminal responsible focuses his attention around the Baker Street area, is male, tall, well-dressed and drives a black Porsche-"

Someone in the audience calls out, evidently riled. "Is that it?"

Lestrade looks desperately uncomfortable and chooses to avoid the question entirely, instead offering some bleak advice: "We can only urge the public to report anything suspicious."

The news reporter is back, serious and unsmiling. "David Antony reports live at the scene. The following footage may be disturbing for some."

"Thank you, Sally," says the man on the screen, pressing two fingers to his earpiece. Behind him is the street I have grown to associate with deep-rooted resentment, the blue and white police tape bold against the tarmac. "The body of sixteen year old Beatrice Montague-Reed was discovered here on Baker Street at six o'clock this morning - fourteen hours after her parents reported her missing - in what has been described as a 'state of brutal mutilation', notably the stitching of hair to her scalp. This discovery is the seventh in a chain of linked homicides: Ciara Winter, Lauren Hollaway, Wren Kowalski, Ruth Smith, Katherine Tanner and, most recently, Trisha Stewards precede the devastating news today. All victims were found in similar areas, bearing a single, fatal knife wound, and varying numbers of white irises have been retrieved from every scene. Mr and Mrs Montague-Reed do not wish to appear on television, but have issued the following statement: 'We cannot express the grief afflicting our family today. This man has taken something very precious away from us, and we can only pray that the investigation is successful in bringing him to justice."

I turn off the television, disgusted.

Irene has not been back in contact; I've spent my days in a state of numb distraction, my thoughts orienting and re-orienting around the events of last week. Ivan Yakovich refuses to leave my mind, and his offer is causing me more internal conflict than it should. I've found myself reaching for my newly-purchased phone with every intention of arranging a second consultation, stopping, starting again and hesitating once more. I loathe how compelling his memory is; I cannot shake it, and I return to it again and again, mulling it over, rebuking myself, craving answers to the questions I cannot articulate. Jim has been back for some time now, but I have been so utterly consumed in this self-deliberation I have not thought to seek him out and press for new work. My training regime is deteriorating. My routine has all but disintegrated. It is debilitating.