Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXVII - Numbing Agents

-Emily-

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"Sherlock."

He doesn't look up. I rattle the spoon against his plate, but his attention remains focused on the papers in front of him; stacked with haphazard disregard for gravity.

"Sherlock."

No response.

I cross the room and take a seat opposite him, slamming the tray down on the desk surface: the pen jolts in his hand, his scrawl spiking, jerked in an ink electrocardiograph.

"You haven't eaten in two days. Mycroft's texted me six times in the last hour. Spare me a seventh."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the microwave meal and – his voice broken and patchy from disuse – says, "Is that the best you can do?"

"I'm a hacker, not a chef."

He scoffs, and turns back to his work. I abandon maturity and spread my hands over the open map. He glowers at me, but I cut across, impatient in my frustration.

"Sherlock, you're not going to find her if you're running on one hour's sleep and an espresso shot. Eat something."

"Digestion slows down my mind."

"So does sleep deprivation. At least take a nap–"

"What are you, my mother?"

Irritated, I swipe the papers off his desk, watching them catch at the corners and slice the air thin. They settle on the floor at his feet. I stand up, kick them for good measure, return to the sofa – still doubling as my makeshift bed – and pick up the bottle from the table, cracking the cap with my teeth.

I've been alone with Sherlock for the last six hours, and it is beginning to take its toll on my sanity: John left with Addy this afternoon – the constant police activity had her blue-faced and screaming ceaselessly – and will not return until tomorrow. Ironically, the police presence in the apartment declined after his departure, leaving me prey to darker speculation. Sherlock has put everything into the search. He used Mycroft to gain access to Millie's cartel history, had me provide him with security footage from all the hotels in the vicinity, bribed his network of tramps to scour the streets, spent his day visiting drug den after drug den and his night sifting through paperwork, newspapers, maps, documents, legal and illegal records. He hasn't spoken bar this evening, hasn't eaten, hasn't allowed any conversation or interruption or visits. Time has passed excruciatingly slowly.

I haven't vocalised the grim possibility at the back of my mind.

I'm no stranger to desperation. I know that obtaining a fix takes precedence over morality and integrity and safety. I know that, when faced with the absence of alcohol, I turned to a person I'd spent months loathing, fearing, in a frenzied state of uncaring. I know that addiction is ruthless. I also know that Ivan Yakovich has more money than sense and contacts in every miserable part of the world.

From a purely practical perspective, cocaine has never been so easy to procure.

I don't know if Millie would be so desperate, so foolish – but if my fears have any weight to them, we stand little to no chance of pinpointing her whereabouts. I've witnessed his elusive abilities first-hand. He has an unrivalled skillset: the vast selection of names and stories at his disposal, his ability to feign monolingualism, to act, to bribe, to smile and cooperate and lodge his knife in your back when you turn away. Tricks of the trade. In the dark place he calls his mind, people are cards, the chase is the game, she is his prize. It makes me sick.