Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXVI - Night Terror

-Emily-

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I find the door just as the first police cars begin to pull up, their sirens wailing in piteous alarm and lights lashing walls in garish red and blue. The motorbikes arrive next, sputtering on their own exhausts, then a van – out of which file armed guards, visors pulled down and guns slung over their shoulders. An ambulance drives up, followed by the growl of an incoming helicopter – presumably the media – and a dark car with tinted windows.

It is a heavy duty operation.

I stagger out of the corridor and make my unsteady way along the side of the driveway, each step laborious, each movement sore, until I am in full view of the cars and the vans and the snarling motorbikes. White light renders me temporarily blind. I raise my hands above my head as red crosshairs prick my skin and the wind catches the loose hairs at my neck, lifting them up, flattening the shirt against my chest.

Someone shouts at me to get down. I oblige, numbly. Twenty gun barrels watch me.

Two people step out of the dark car: Lestrade is first, coordinating affairs, his phone pressed close to his ear, making sweeping gestures at the surrounding officers to clear the space, then Sherlock, closing the car door with some force. He looks positively haggard, his face pinched and lacking all vitality. I watch him adjust his coat. His expression is very flat, but I get the impression there is turbulence behind the straight mouth and narrowed eyes – I take a morbid interest in his countenance, and come to the conclusion that it is fear, concealed under the pretence of indifference. He looks up at the house, sees me kneeling on the gravel, then leans stiffly to one side in order to explain the situation to Lestrade – who, in response, turns around and shouts something at the gunmen. The red lights are trained elsewhere. I am hauled to my feet.

Sherlock approaches me, his face closed. He doesn't mince words.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know," I say, my voice rough and throat raw. "I saw her arrive."

"How?"

In spite of myself and the crippling nature of my circumstances, I find myself raising an eyebrow. "How do you think? I looked out the window."

"You live here." He regards me with cautious distrust. "Why?"

I feel myself falter.

Sherlock's eyes move across my face, observing the sag in my shoulders, the shallow wound at my neck. They flit down, down to the weights tied around the ring finger of my left hand, then the priceless satin of my skirt, the laddered nylon of my tights. He says nothing, for which I am exceptionally grateful, and nods, curtly, filling in the blanks.

"Let's get this place searched," shouts Lestrade, over the increasing roar of the descending helicopter. "Everyone back."

I am tugged into the shadowed alcove, away from the inquisitive glare of the helicopter lights.

When we are safely out of view, Sherlock turns to me.

"How do I get in?"

"Lestrade's taking down the door–"

"Alone."

I lift a heavy arm in the direction of the door. "Back entrance. Over there."

He doesn't wait for further instruction. I watch his retreating figure, shoulders squared, collar up, hands balled in his pockets. In the distance, I can hear the splinter of wood as the front door is wrenched off its hinges.