Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXVIII - Just Like Flying

-Emily-

~~~~~~

It's the chill that jolts me from sleep.

By the time I have fully regained consciousness, my fingers are numb and turning a mottled shade of grey. I turn over, squinting through the shafts of light at the cracked pipework – I don't need a degree in engineering to know that the heating system in this room has been broken for months. The window weeps condensation tears in agreement. In the distance, I hear the kettle being boiled, followed by the familiar clatter of cutlery. John must be back.

I sigh, heavily. The sheer normality of it all is overwhelming. There are days when I wake up, startled from a dream, expecting to see glittering grandeur or my own, dark reflection in Jim's mirror-ceiling – only to be bitterly disappointed by the greenish damp growing up the walls. Two years ago, and this would have been veritable luxury. Now, it's all but poverty. Wealth is a drug in itself.

Grimacing, I sit up, blowing the loose hair from my face and fishing for the discarded band to tie it back. The circles under my eyes ache when I blink; sore and raw like bruising. It's been too long since I last slept on a mattress, but I can't appreciate it fully because it's so cold. It wouldn't surprise me if I found out I'd developed stage two frostbite in my sleep.

I realise then that the sheets on my side of the bed are distinctly lacking – and when I turn around, I see Sherlock, sleeping contentedly under surplus warmth.

I wrench the covers back with enough force to jar him awake.

Startled, he jerks upright, panicked beyond coherence. I don't relinquish my grip on my newfound comfort. Sherlock's eyes narrow – whether this is the result of the bright light filtering through the blinds or my presence next to him, I don't know. He doesn't speak: instead, he tugs the sheets over his shoulders, using the weight of his body to keep them in place. When I open my mouth to protest, he simply turns his back on me.

"Sherlock."

He doesn't bother responding.

"Move up." I hit his shoulder, to no avail. "Don't ignore me."

Sherlock continues feigning sleep as if I had not spoken.

"I'm not above throttling you in your–"

"Your voice is excruciating."

His own voice is somewhat gravelly; gritty, broken, deeper than usual. I swat the back of his head in irritation.

"It's freezing."

"Get dressed."

"You're not dressed."

"It's my bedroom."

"I'm a guest. You should be courteous."

"You're an unnecessary migraine," he snaps, abandoning sleep. He turns over to squint at me. "Why haven't you gone?"

I cross my arms. "Ever the romantic."

"Romance is a disease. Not a good one, either – can't make you cough blood. I'd rather contract tuberculosis." He waves a dismissive hand in my direction. "Don't you have something to do?"

"Don't you?"

"Yes. Sleep. My mind needs regenerating."

"I could tell Mycroft you're slacking."

"I could get Mycroft to send you back to Bronzefield."

"Your hospitality is overwhelming."

"This isn't a hotel."