Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLIX - Murder Most Foul

Mary lifts the hand holding the syringe.

"You're stopping me from doing that, Emily."

She adjusts the plastic pouch and, taking care not to rupture it past repair, pierces it with the needle tip. I watch in coerced acceptance; her thumb tests the textured pad of the syringe, the white liquid swirls – a premature death suspended mid-spiral in liquid – and waits, poised to drain into my lifeless arm.

"Dear me, Mrs Watson."

If I am startled to hear Jim's voice, Mary is positively jolted; she reacts quickly, turning in the direction of the incoming threat but keeping the needle in position. Her hand moves to her coat pocket instinctively – I suspect she has a pistol concealed beneath the folds of red fabric.

I can see him in the corner of my peripheral vision. Having lost the ability to turn my head, I stay still, straining against sleep to watch him walk to the bedside and hear him say, in a voice reminiscent of a mock-American drawl, "Be a doll. Put the needle down."

Mary meets dark humour with cold, hard threat.

"Take one step closer and I swear," she says, her thumb positioned to administer the dose of liquid execution, "I will kill her."

Jim pulls out the chair next to the bed and sits down, settling back against the faded leather and crossing his legs – if anyone were to look in, they'd see two visitors engaged in casual conversation over a poor, beaten woman on the verge of unconsciousness. Nothing to warrant a second glance. Jim looks around, then reaches for the nearby fruit bowl.

"Apple?"

Mary's hands do not move; one positioned at her coat pocket, the other at the drip fluid.

"I'll take that as a no." He picks up a green apple for himself, and polishes it with the cuff of his sleeve – before addressing the brunt of her threat amicably. "Go ahead. I won't stop you."

She keeps very still.

"But know this," he says. "You push that syringe, I play my ace. You'll be a celebrity by the end of the week – a criminalised celebrity, true, but a celebrity nonetheless. I might ask for my signature now."

Her expression remains flat, but I can see her calculating; processing this new information, this new player, with a mechanical rationality not unlike the cores of the software I code.

"Doesn't strike your fancy? Not to worry. The newspapers will love it." He bites into his apple, then gestures widely, as if displaying a headline. "Housewife gone bad. No? What about 'Mother, nurse, and part-time assassin'? I've got quite a few in mind."

"Don't try to play me."

"Oh," says Jim, leaning forwards. His voice drops the jollity. The smile is gone. "I'm not playing, Mrs Watson. I'll have your life history sold to every major company before you step out of this building. It'll be on every news station, every tabloid front, every book cover in every shop in England – but don't worry. I'll make sure your husband gets the first copy. A hand delivery." Jim lifts the apple to his lips. "I want to see the shock on his face."

Slowly, with painstaking reluctance, Mary removes the needle. A bead of water rolls down the plastic contour from the perforation.

"Atta girl."

"From a man of your reputation, I expected better," she says, putting the cap back on her needle. "I'm a little disappointed."

Jim holds a hand to his chest; theatrical offence. 

"You two are co-dependent," she continues. "I didn't believe it at first – but this? This is proof. Our world is survival and self-preservation, not alliance, not partnership. It's savage. She's got you blind."