Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter L - Judge, Jury, Executioner

"Ms Shon," says Mycroft, coolly, "makes a cogent point."

"It's dangerous."

"Tracking a serial killer is dangerous. So was breaking into Baskerville's military core. And Magnussen's office."

"If she catches you–"

"She won't. Besides," I say, pressing my fingertips against the edge of Mycroft's desk. "It's Emily."

"Exactly," counteracts John. "It's Emily."

"Your transport will be arriving within the hour. I suggest you make a decision."

I look around at the serious faces – pale, like white thumbprints on black paper – and then at Jamie, who gives me a shy, albeit uneasy smile.

I turn to Mycroft Holmes in an uncharacteristic display of conviction.

"I've already made it."

~~~~~~

-Emily-

~~~~~~

I step out onto the rain-lashed pavement, shielding my laptop with the stack of legal documents my client insisted I read – a poorly-concealed threat, should my hacking fail to meet their standards. I don't think this individual quite grasped the nature of my business. The law no longer dictates what I can and cannot do.

That's the wonderful thing about crime. You stencil over the rules.

Orchestrating my premature departure from hospital was easier than initially anticipated. Jim, as it turns out, was behind Lestrade's delay – he'd blown up a car on the main motorway as means of distraction – and was long gone when Scotland Yard made their appearance. I was beyond the point of rousing, watching a sleep-induced dream-film comprising flickers; a flash of Jim's face, the arm in the alleyway, the sound of his voice in my ear, hushing me, faceless, tapping his tongue against his teeth in a tut, a glimpse of the sky before the lights went out, black and bearing pricked, white holes.

I thank my non-existent Lord for the bruising that concealed my identity.

When I woke again, Lestrade and his team had left, and I was informed by a nurse that they'd be back within the week to question me on my survival. By that evening I'd planned my escape, and by the following morning I'd limped my way from ward to lobby and from lobby to parking lot, where I promptly hailed a taxi and travelled back to the penthouse uninhibited.

In regards to Jim's "floral artist", all has been comparably quiet. No new murders. No horrific displays of affection. I've attempted some research, to no avail – Scotland Yard were pitifully correct in saying that all biological information was recorded with no name to match it with. The sites of body discovery vary, but continue to circle around Baker Street with sinister repetition. His victims fluctuate in age, too, with the youngest recorded just eight years old and the oldest at thirty-six. All female. There's no consistency in occupation; most have been scrounged from the streets, but a select few are corporate company high-fliers – a medic, a law student, an IT technician.

Progress is virtually impossible.

I haven't seen Jim since our conversation in the hospital room. I've received a couple of brief emails with instructions regarding clientele, but that's it. Moran made a rare appearance yesterday afternoon – he walked into the penthouse in brooding silence, took one look at me sitting in Jim's chaise longue and turned around, slamming the door with enough acrimony to shake the foundations. Whether Ivan has been in contact or not, I don't know; the police collected my phone as evidence, so I've had to buy myself a new model. I shouldn't risk a personal visit to inform him of the change – but then again, I've never been one to abide risk's restraints.