Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXIII - White Fear

-Millie-

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The crying is incessant.

I press my lips together in an effort at containing my frustration, put the spoon down, wait for Addy's features to smooth, then try again – to no success. She bats my hand away. Puréed vegetable spatters my sleeve.

Her current mood reflects the general attitude at Baker Street: John hasn't returned, I haven't slept in a solid forty-eight hours and Sherlock, in his state of resentful, unprocessed grief, makes no effort to initiate conversation. When talking is a necessity, our exchanges are unbearably clipped. I think he blames me for John's departure and increasingly probable murder. I'm starting to blame myself, too.

Addy's cry becomes a scream – a drawn-out, full-bodied howl, continuous and grating – and my attempts to placate her are proving utterly ineffective. I lift the spoon to her mouth. Her screams become louder. I return the spoon to the table. In a display of discontent, she raises her fat fist and, with the deliberate viciousness habitual to children, knocks the jar off the counter.

I lose what is left of my patience.

I shut the front door with enough force to shake its wooden frame, seething as I step out onto the dark pavement and begin my pacing. I walk for a full hour, my footsteps quick and body tense, and as I do so I grant myself a moment of selfish speculation: I feel bitter, betrayed by the unjustness of my circumstances and cheated of a certain happiness – what have I done to deserve such misery? I've tried to be impartial, tried to keep everybody functioning, and to what avail? I'm being hunted by a face I can't remember, John's gone, Mary's dead, Sherlock and I can't bear to be around each other–

The distant slam of a car door brings me to my senses.

I look around; it's only half past five, but, as is the case with England's seasonal incompetence, it's dark now. Too dark to see.

Too dark to feel safe.

I can't locate the car responsible for the noise, and I don't like the ensuing silence. Instinctively, I quicken my pace, looking behind me with the clichéd furtiveness of a comic book caricature. My breath snags, my heart protests weakly at the sudden exertion, but I don't stop until I have the main road in sight–

My arm is grabbed unexpectedly.

I am hauled backwards, into the small alleyway behind a grey-streaked building. The base of my skull catches the brickwork and spots of condensed light – too bright to be considered colour – break apart my vision. I let out a stifled yelp.

A hand is clamped over my mouth.

No further action is taken: my head ceases its spinning, the pain fades, and I start to struggle, the reality of my situation registering fully. I look up at the perpetrator, dazed, numb and sick with terror.

Sebastian's face comes into focus.

"Don't talk."

The fear doesn't diffuse, but I arrange my expression into one of recognition. I stop my struggling. Once he's confident I'm not going to shout out, he removes his hand; cautious in his movement.

I keep very still.

Sebastian takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks around. Through the grey haze of tonight's low cloud, I make out his appearance – he's changed since I last saw him, become more rugged, more unkempt, his hair left to grow longer, blond and curling at his forehead. His muscle mass has increased substantially, too; a packed bulk of strengthened tissue, straining beneath the fabric of his sleeves. It's not his physical attributes that give me cause for concern, however. It's his countenance: his eyes are too bright, the potency in his expression too acute. He looks haggard, worn to the brink of instability. He looks wild.