Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter L - Judge, Jury, Executioner

My new phone vibrates. I fish it from my pocket and squint at the screen through the rain – Jim's back in England, and will be at the penthouse within the next half an hour. I return the phone to my jacket pocket and, musing over the possibility of initiating contact with Ivan, climb into the awaiting taxi.

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-Millie-

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I can feel my heart – this cocaine-wearied muscle clenched like a red fist in my chest – beat hard at my rib cage as Jamie presses the key card to the recognition device.

He was silent for the entirety of our journey, sitting grim-faced in the back seat as we were driven from the safety of Mycroft's office to the building; an impossibly tall, curved piece of architecture with silent doors and an entourage of hired security at every entrance. As predicted, Jamie received no more than an acknowledging glance – I kept in his slipstream, avoiding the watchful gaze of security cameras and guards alike.

We step into the penthouse. Jamie closes the door with purposeful force, pressing a finger to his lips and motioning for me to keep back, out of sight. We strain for an indication of company.

All is mercifully silent.

"You start there," I say, my voice a shadow of itself. "I'll work my way upstairs."

My hunt becomes an exploration; I ascend the crystal staircase with wide-eyed awe, admiring the modernist's take on luxury – there is no shortage of visual satiation, here. From the cut-glass chandelier, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, to the rooms themselves with their window walls and vast beds; the minimalistic opulence is difficult to comprehend. Amongst it all are remnants of Emily Schott that twinge chords in my chest: a stray coffee mug balanced on a ledge, an abandoned shoe left outside what I presume is her new bedroom, loose papers piled haphazardly and the occasional smudge of dark, wine-tinted lipstick.

My observations are cut short by what sounds like the slam of a door within the complex.

I stop moving, and am met with further silence. With some difficulty, I coerce myself to slip out of the corridor and back down the stairs – Jamie is standing frozen in the corner of the room, clutching a discarded bottle like a lifeline.

We do not breathe.

Footsteps sound from the flat beneath us.

I allow myself to exhale. Jamie is the colour of greying parchment; I do not need a detailed knowledge of medical ailments to know that he is on the cusp of collapse. I ask if he would like to sit down. He doesn't move.

"Jamie...?"

"I can't do it," he says, more to himself than to me. "It's going to kill me. He's going to kill me."

I take a hesitant step in his direction. He looks on the verge of breakdown.

"Why do I keep doing this?" he asks, faintly hysterical.

"It's not for long–"

"It's for the rest of my life. Six months. Two weeks. Whatever's left of it." He looks at me, quite suddenly. "They won't let me stop."

"You're not their puppet," I say. "Insist you don't want to continue."

There is frenzy in his despair.

"And then what? I live my life under surveillance. I get mistaken for my brother and assaulted in the street. Those close to me are punishable by death. I can't do it."

I take Jamie by his suited shoulders and say, in a voice as firm as I can manage, "We're going to get this memory stick. I know Emily. She's not the secretive type. I'll keep looking – you stay here, just in case. We'll give it to Mycroft, and then you are going to decline further participation without consequence. I'm afraid I don't know much about politics, but I do know it's your constitutional right to privacy. You didn't commit those crimes. You're in no way affiliated with your brother. I'll speak to Sherlock. He'll help. We'll help."

Jamie looks at me strangely, then nods, quiet in his restlessness. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile, and turn to commence my investigation–

"Millie?"

I turn back around – only to be stopped and thoroughly startled by the soft sensation of his lips on mine.

I make a muffled noise of stifled surprise, too stunned to move from my rather graceless position by the staircase – one arm still half-outstretched, my torso twisted – and stay very still as his lips part and I feel his breath, sweet and hot, on my skin. He presses his mouth to mine once more, still with the same note of urgent, wild irrationality, while I stand, unmoving, unresponsive as I experience this unprecedented display of desperation and something else I'm not quite familiar with.

Jamie pulls away after a minute, blinking rapidly, cheeks flushed pink and eyes too bright.

I can only gape at him.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't–"

There is a noise from the hallway, the sound of something small, compact and plastic hitting the marble – we both jump, violently, and spin around.

Emily is standing by the open door, the coveted memory stick at her feet, her face a curious combination of golden skin and mottled green and raw, raw purple. It bears an expression so genuinely horrified, so truly shocked, it could be considered comical if I were not aware of the thin line between that horror and homicidal rage.

She looks between Jamie and I, her hands still clasped as if holding her dropped memory stick. I try to register the emotions moving across the multi-coloured contours of her face. Primarily shock. Disbelief. Another response I do not recognise.

Jamie holds his breath beside me. I do not move.

We stand in mutual silence for two, excruciating minutes – and then, with a mechanical stiffness, she closes the door behind her. For a moment, I am deceived by the slowness of her actions; I misinterpret it as calm, as understanding. I think I see control.

My illusion disintegrates when she turns back around.

Cornered, vulnerable and guilty of a crime I did not commit, I am forced to watch as the tenuous thread of that control snaps in two.

Her expression is our death sentence.

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