Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LVIX - Loved and Lost

"Personal relation to victim?" I offer.

"Impossible. Adamek is Polish. Yakovich has a Russian suffix."

"Mutual dislike?"

"Possible. Moriarty could capitalise on that. Kill two birds with one stone. Did she ever mention a Yakovich?"

John shakes his head.

"It could be Moran," I say, thoughtfully. "He's gone astray once. Moriarty wouldn't trust him. Perhaps Yakovich is high risk."

"He didn't want that one to get away, so he sought external aid."

"Blackmail could have come into it."

"Put a bullet in his head and earn your secrecy–"

John returns his glass to the table with enough force to stop us mid-speculation. Whether he's fuming or on the brink of breakdown, I can't tell, but he's struggling to keep his composure; his eyes are too bright, his breathing uneven. Sherlock opens his mouth to continue, but I elbow him, softly in the ribs. He closes his mouth.

John clicks on a new tab. It opens to reveal a profile; we see Mary, a very different Mary, her hair brown and longer, tied back in a loose bun. She doesn't smile at us, in the picture. Her expression is one of perfect control. Her eyes are lighter, too. Blue. She must have been wearing contacts.

"Anastazja Adamek."

I begin reading over John's shoulder, although my sense of rationality is telling me to stop. Curiosity is a toxic thing. People are willing to die in order to satiate it.

I am no exception.

Anastazja was born to Anna and Jaček Adamek. Both parents were documented as dead by 1980, the year of the Polish Crisis. I consult my limited knowledge on Eastern European history; the Polish Crisis was, I believe, a period of time characterised by a series of worker's rebellions and strikes and the establishment of independent trade unions. Soviet supporters and Polish capitalists fought tooth and claw for twelve months. Pockets of violence must have been commonplace. The Adameks were, evidently, the victims of that violence.

Records indicate Anastazja was placed into adoption, but there is no concrete evidence to confirm this; the adoption agency in question has no address, no co-ordinator of events, no known data. I doubt it was an adoption agency at all – more likely a training facility, if Mary's skill-set is to be explained.

She resurfaces at seventeen years old, which concurs with the first documented killings. There's other information too, irrelevant facts: she was fluent in Polish, Russian, French, Italian, English, German and Spanish. She changed her name per case. Sometimes she claimed to be married. She dabbled in gang membership – which, in hindsight, explains the small tattoo on her ankle. It was a hand; a raised hand, thumb crooked and fingers straight. If I were to look it up, I'm sure I'd find the organisation associated with it. There is, however, no information on a current spouse, no information on a child. Either this was written before she married John, or she chose to omit it. I suspect the latter.

John stands, suddenly.

I watch as he exits the room, shoulders squared, stature rigid. He leaves his laptop running and doesn't so much as glance at Addy, who is still contentedly chewing on my phone. I close the laptop lid for him, wondering how long this violent grief is going to last for.

Sherlock is looking decidedly pensive.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Moran."

"What about him?"

"Do we have anything on Moran's history?"

"What has that got to do with–"