Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXVI - Golden Wine

-Millie-

~~~~~~

Withdrawal subsides, just in that moment.

The sight of the landing jolts me back to a recent past: a hallucinatory reminiscence, kick-started by the remnants of the drugs in my system and re-lived in real time, so that when I take a step forwards the image moves with me. It's no longer night, and I am no longer accompanied by the man from my nightmares. I'm alone, I'm standing in Sherlock's coat and it is morning; an autumnal morning, judging by the colour of the light passing through the window at the top of the stairs. Pale yellow. It thickens the air, makes it rich, liquid honey, sweet to inhale and warm to touch.

I experience tranquillity again.

There are voices coming from upstairs, familiar and muted: John's a murmur, Emily's loud and very distinguishable, Sherlock's a baritone drawl. I can hear Mary, too. Her voice is higher than Emily's, but less aggressive in its volume; the latter lacks the ability to tailor her tone to the occasion. I can make out her words through the walls. Don't look at me like that. He had it coming.

In the distance, the television hums.

Each step is a luxury. I reach the landing and find the door, pushing it open softly, so not to interrupt the conversation inside. Mycroft's here. I recognise his voice – he'll be visiting about that case, the one with the orange pips. I prepare myself for the cold civility. It will be a clash of the glacial; icy courtesy. Mycroft and I never thawed towards each other.

As I walk, I register a drop in temperature. Perhaps the heating system has broken again – I'll need to ask John for the plumber's number, because if I don't sort this out, we'll be living in sub-zero conditions for the foreseeable future. I remember the last time it happened: Sherlock had insisted the apartment temperature was perfectly well-adjusted and that I was being a hypochondriac – until his lips turned blue and he could no longer stutter out damning observations. The repair wasn't scheduled for another week, and so we resorted to sitting by the fire grate – half choked by the ash – with blankets over our shoulders, cross-legged. I recall turning away to warm my hands, and turning back to see Sherlock sit down with two dust-frosted champagne flutes and a bottle of prosecco, filched from John and Mary's wedding. 

"Are we celebrating?"

He regarded me with scathing disregard for my humour. "It's a vasodilator."

"What is?"

"Alcohol. Temporary warmth."

"And there I was thinking you were being romantic."

He'd scoffed, and passed me the bottle to open. "The cold's got to your head. You sound like the women in John's poetry."

The cork dislodged with a muted pop. I poured the contents into our glasses and set the bottle down, running my finger around the flute circumference to clear the dust.

Sherlock raised his glass.

"To hypothermia."

I remember laughing, the clink of glasses, the sharp fruit tinge on my tongue.

"To hypothermia."

My memories soften the chill considerably.

I look around – the kitchen itself is still chaotic: Sherlock's microscope and slides and stacked Petri dishes sit beside the unwashed plates and takeaway cartons, and I can see the sink has reached its full capacity. I make a mental note to wash the contents at the next available opportunity.

I turn around, anticipating the crowd I heard on the landing–

I am met by an empty room.

My smile falters. The speech is muffled, softened, spoken underwater. I look around. Everything's in place; the newspapers are where Sherlock and I left them, as are the cigarette butts, the skull, the taxidermy butterfly display, my books, his dressing gown.