Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXVI - The Price

-Millie-

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Emily is the first to succumb to sleep.

She's always been softer like this. In unconsciousness, her edges blur, her brow smooths, the perpetual hardness around her mouth fades to something youthful and full. Her head rests against my shoulder, one arm across my lap, her nails little, bitten crescents. Behind the wisps of hair her ear bruises. I see scabs beginning to gather around the perforated skin.

John's next. His head nods once, then twice, and then falls forwards. He doesn't look up again. Sherlock meets my eyes, and I know in that moment he understands what's happening. He's worked it out. I can't look at him, as he opens his mouth to speak – but then his eyelids flutter and he sighs, softly, the strain in his expression lifted through chemically aided sleep.

I check their breathing individually, just to make sure: Emily's is shallow and quick, John's heavier, Sherlock's light and slow against my hand. He's awfully white, even in the orange lamplight, and when I coerce myself to press my fingertips to his cheek his skin feels very warm. I study his face in a state of quiet speculation, fascinated by the details: the pointed dip in his upper lip, the way his hair knots at the nape of his neck, his eyelashes, so pale at the tips they could be translucent. I take my time as I observe. I form a memory.

I don't know when I'll see him again.

Eventually, I look away. I turn my attention to the small bag on the coffee table. When I pick it up, the powder moves within its plastic prison as if alive, sliding and settling and shifting in white peaks. My fingers have been shaking so violently and for so long, I can't line it up on the counter; I have to sweep it into my waiting palm and try again, attempting to sculpt the little ridge with a precision I no longer possess.

I'm out of practice.

I only use half – enough to get me through the taxi journey, because that'll be the worst bit, when I am most susceptible to doubt. I'll finish the rest when I arrive. I pull the folded banknote from my pocket, roll it between my fingers: the cocaine glitters like powdered diamond, and it is with trembling anticipation do I lower myself to its level, admiring its sheen. I press down on one side of my nose and inhale sharply. The cocaine is bitter on the back of my throat, chalky, distinctly metallic. I stifle the coughing as best I can, keeping my hand over my mouth. I never liked it this way. The effects are too slow, the procedure too messy.

I return to the bedroom and lift my sopping coat from the door, feeling for the money tucked behind the skirting board. I count out the notes I've saved. Enough for the taxi, enough for two consecutive highs. I debate on whether to bring a phone, decide that I can always sell it if my financial situation becomes too weak to fund my needs, and open the door–

The high hits without warning.

The term rush doesn't do it justice; it's unlike anything else, this expansion of the mind, as if the very crux of cognitive function has burst free of its confines. Light brightens, sounds soften. I make a quiet oh of surprise. The ache in my skull dissipates. The anxiety fades. It's a gentle swell, relieving my body of its dense weight, leaving me buoyant, suspended – the intense paranoia of the last month slips away so quietly and with such ease, I question why I felt quite so fearful in the first place.

When I take my first, tentative step, I stumble a little, because the carpet has disintegrated beneath my feet. This feeling is worth so much more than the possibility of danger. There's no dread. I'd fight anything, tooth and claw, if it meant I could maintain this state of mind. Dimly, I move away from the people in the room with their petal faces and red-gash mouths, down the stairs, out of the door. The air is cold. I extend my hands, imagining it eddying around my fingers like chilled water.