Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXII - Black Tongue

"I suppose you could count my NHS days as government service."

"Not what I had in mind." Irene turns to John. "You have your own place, I take it?"

"Yes," he says, surprised by the abrasive nature of her enquiry. "We do. Why?"

"What's it like?"

"Victorian villa. Small. Homely. Not like this," interrupts Mary. Her words conceal a pointed undertone.

"How quaint."

John clears his throat. "It needs some work doing. I've got to get someone to re-tile the roof. The internet's down at the moment. Little things. It's far from perfect."

Irene raises an eyebrow. "I know someone who's very good with technology."

"Do you?"

"Guaranteed to have your internet connection running at breakneck speeds. Programmes defensive software, too. You won't have to worry about viruses."

"How much does he charge?"

"She," corrects Irene.

I sense where this conversation is heading, but am too slow in my realisation to stop it from progressing.

"As for the price... you'll have to negotiate with her on that." Irene takes a drag from her cigarette. "An apology would act as sufficient payment, I'm sure."

Her words have a catabolic effect on the group mentality: Mary's entire countenance darkens, her mouth straightening from forced smile to blank indifference. John's face sets in a similar expression. I feel Sherlock tense beside me, his hands clasped with determined rigidity, and I swallow, sinking further back into Irene's sofa in an effort at folding in on myself and away from the inevitable guilt this conversation will bring.

"I didn't come here to discuss Emily Schott," says Mary, coldly.

"No? Well, change of plan. I think she makes wonderful conversation."

"We've moved on."

"She hasn't."

"That's her problem."

"When she's baying for your blood and living with the one man who can and will tear you apart piece by piece, it is most definitely your problem."

"We'll deal with it. There's nothing to talk about."

"I beg to differ."

"We've been through this," says John, his grip on the sofa armrest a little too forceful to be considered controlled. "Drop it."

Irene chooses not to hear John, instead turning back to Mary. "Run me through the events of the night Charles Magnussen was shot, won't you? It's all a bit hazy."

Mary adjusts the coat behind her, composed. "She was drunk. She was armed. She didn't appreciate my intervention."

"And she shot him in front of you? How scarring."

"Magnussen was dead when I arrived. She was past rationality. I couldn't reason with her."

"Funny," says Irene, head to one side. "I didn't think she knew how to handle a gun."

John laughs. "When it comes to violence, there's nothing that woman is unfamiliar with."

"Have you ever seen her fire a kill shot?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Where was Charles Magnussen shot?"

"The head." Mary's answer is clipped. "Why?"

"Point blank range?"

"No."

"So she managed to put a bullet in his skull, from a distance, under the influence of alcohol? She must be talented."

"What are you implying?"

"It just seems a little odd, that's all." Irene leans forwards. "That Emily Schott, the woman you tell me derives pleasure from cracking bone in her hands, chose to fire a gun at a man during a business meeting."

"It wasn't a business meeting. She broke into the place."

"How on earth did she get past all that security, I wonder?"

"Like you said," says Mary, curtly. "Her skillset knows no bounds. She's not like you and me."

"How did you get past all that security, Mrs Watson?"

"That's enough-"

Irene does not pause for breath. "Anastazja Gabrysia Rościsława Adamek."

Mary inhales sharply, arms locked, shoulders set, lips slightly parted, all still save for her eyes; they move over Irene, quickly, as if running through a calculation.

I scarcely allow myself to breathe.

Sherlock sits up, I turn to John, John looks from Mary to Irene and back again.

"What? What does that mean?"

"I have no idea." Mary reaches for her bag, the slight tremor in her fingers barely perceptible. "I'm not staying here."

"Mary-"

"No. This is ridiculous." She slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'll be in the car."

We listen to the slam of the door and the quick, light footsteps on the iron staircase. It takes John a few drawn-out minutes to process what has just been said, and when he does, he rounds on Irene with fiery acrimony.

"What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"Polish," says Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

"Precisely that," says Irene. "Polish."

"Don't play games with me. That was a name. What was it? What did it mean?"

Irene simply turns to John, the stub of her cigarette glowing amber between her newly-trimmed nails, and says nothing.

"Tell me."

"I think you'd better ask your wife."

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