Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCI - Lolita

-Emily-

~~~~~~

Silence clasps the room in a vice-grip.

The rubble settles; chunks of fragmented marble, jagged and quartz-flecked, warped metalwork, glass, broken glass, glass shards and filaments of glass so fine it resembles sand. The smoke hangs like a funeral shroud, and it obscures the worst of the damage – as I rise from behind the upturned table, our makeshift barrier, I can make out the outlines of bodies between the hunks of rock and dying fires, dark shapes, the edges of their clothes glowing orange and skin charred beyond human recognition.

I squint through the dust.

I can discern the windows – the glass blown from their frames – and the remnants of the curtains, shredded silk. They catch on the breeze. I can see movement, as other survivors struggle to their feet. I can sense the end of this stunned silence approaching.

I can't see Millie in the wreckage.

"Sherlock? Emily?"

"Here," I say. Molly's voice barely registers. I try to pinpoint six feet of skeleton amongst the movement.

"Sherlock?"

There's a grunt, followed by the materialisation of Sherlock's outline beside me. He staggers a little, but appears largely unharmed save for his lacerated suit and singed hair – I myself bear no war-wounds, having ducked first and braced for impact. Molly coughs twice. I glance at her, then offer her my hand: she stands, dabs the blood from the small cut above her eyebrow and turns to me.

"You knew that was going to happen. How did–"

I choose to ignore the question, and, before further probing warrants confession, vault over the table-barrier. I kick off my shoes – the floor hot and rough beneath the undersides of my feet – and walk into the dense epicentre of the smoke without waiting for my company.

The ash sticks to my airway. I choke down a lungful of burning air, cover my mouth with my hand and press forwards: there are macabre mementos scattered across the floor, an incomplete set of three fingers, still attached to a portion of the palm they once belonged to, a broken arm with a macerated stump, the crown of somebody's head. I step over what I can, and continue my search. The screaming has started. Two faceless people knock past me, running in the opposite direction. Someone is praying loudly; someone is limping. Others are crawling on their hands and knees. I slow to a halt, unable to keep walking on a floor that sizzles with spilt champagne, rotate on the spot – and then I stop.

She's trying to stand by the window: I recognise her from a distance, see her alarming silhouette through the smoke and watch her white arms reach up for the windowsill. She struggles with her own body weight, attempting to haul herself up and failing, falling back into the crush of silk comprising her skirts. She sits back against the marble and closes her eyes, defeated.

I force my way past the dying and the dead, let fear and guilt and whatever is left of Jim Moriarty in my mind give way to instinct: I rely on ingrained training, years spent in preparation, a red dress instead of a Jihadi's jumpsuit, climbing over the charred marble and kicking rubble aside, through the smoke, to the window. The closer I get, the more difficult it is to see – the smoke becomes denser as I approach her, the heat more intense. I stumble as I near, falling to my knees and catching myself on the dismembered shoulder of a shattered bust. The granite sears. I retract my palm rapidly, cursing under my breath, clench my fist to contain the blisters and continue on. Millie begins to come into focus. There is a thin slit in the fabric of her bodice: it curves beneath her ribcage, slicing the material in two, and I can see the white skin beneath, the startling line of crimson beginning to show.