Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter CVII - Bittersweet

-Emily-

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"Let me clarify," says Mycroft, coldly. "You are asking me to sanction a multimillion-pound sting operation, several military-grade helicopters, and forty armed members of the police force to retrieve a woman who may well be dead, from an unconfirmed location?"

"She is alive. You saw the photograph."

Mycroft looks down at the picture on the table, eyebrow raised. "Yes. It's a lovely set of pixels."

"It's the most reliable lead we've had so far, and if we don't act–"

"We have been acting for the last fourteen months, Sherlock. We don't have the resources to endorse your chivalry."

"Oh, please. You've been sitting on your growing backside for the last fourteen months silencing media outlets. I wouldn't call that action. I'd call that laziness."

"I don't have time for this." Mycroft leans forward, knuckles white on his umbrella handle. He lowers his voice to a restrained hiss: "You've cost the country a small fortune already. Do you have any idea how foolish this little production of yours has made our department appear?"

I take it he is referring to the two helicopters currently circling the building and the armed police stacked like a pack of cards up the stairs. Sherlock's claims of being held hostage by the Slovenian mafia were taken a little more seriously than he anticipated – John is currently pressed between wall and guard, Sherlock is balancing on the sofa edge, and I am sitting on the periphery, struggling to maintain concentration. My mind is still with the explosion. I tell myself I can smell the smoke, hear the first ambulance mourning cry; I run through the possibilities, tantalising in their awfulness. It might be a death threat. It might be an invitation. You never know with James Moriarty, and I suppose that is what makes it so appealing. It is a line I find myself longing to tread again.

"Perhaps you forget the significance of Yakovich's current status," says Sherlock. "One of the most prolific serial killers the world has ever seen is walking free. The country looks pathetic. You look pathetic. One man versus the entire United Kingdom, and you still haven't managed to bring him in. If you want foolishness, look no further than the mirror."

Mycroft narrows his eyes. "There is a national crisis unfolding as we speak, and I am standing in my addict brother's squat, being insulted and listening to his attempts to rescue a dead woman. I had you down as irrational, not idiotic. It appears even the best can be proved wrong."

"What's one operation? Forget her," says Sherlock, brushing Millie's name aside for the sake of persuasion, "if she's dead, so be it. He won't be. I'm confident this is his location, and that a sting operation carried out within the next twenty-four hours would result in his capture. Tell me, how often am I wrong?"

"He has a point." We look up at John, surprised. "What?"

"You're defending him?"

John folds his arms. "Listen, I like Sherlock about as much as a man likes paying his tax returns–" He ignores Sherlock's indignant gasp. "But he's right. If Millie isn't... If she didn't make it, then that's no skin off your nose. You'll still get Yakovich. If she is alive, then that works to your favour."

"See? John gets it," says Sherlock.

"Don't push it."

Mycroft looks between his brother and John, silent and calculating – if tension were carbon, I would have asphyxiated a long time ago; the air is thick and sour with it, I can taste it at the back of my throat. After a small eternity, Mycroft turns to address the nearest man with a police rifle.