Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LVIX - Loved and Lost

"Do we?"

"No. There's nothing," I say. "Remember Zurich? Mycroft tried to pool information then. There wasn't anything in the system."

"There's always information – look at Mary. Data we didn't know existed."

"What's this about?"

"The first reported 'White Flower' murder. When was it?"

I swallow, dryly. "Seven months ago."

"I need the article."

Sherlock is struck by sudden energy; he is up out of his seat, on his feet, stepping from sofa to armchair to avoid treading on the floor with its discarded papers, shuffling files, tearing through clutter to access our stack of old newspapers, on his laptop, ignoring my questions. Addy starts to cry – I look up, and see my saliva-slicked phone drop to the floor.

I sigh, stand up, and, with utmost reluctance, begin my routine where I left off.

~~~~~~

-Emily-

~~~~~~

"Good God," I say, holding up the fur coat; a pale tan, trimmed with darker strands, the lining suede and stuffed for extra insulation. "They must have skinned a neighbourhood's worth of cats for this."

Ivan smiles, lifting the hat from his head and brushing the remnants of snow from his blazer. "It is not real."

"Feels like it. You're the most unlikely vegan I've ever met – not that I've met many," I say, stroking the fur. I turn it over, then whistle at the number printed on the tag. "For this price, it should feel real."

The shop itself is vast; all contrast, white floors, black beaded chandeliers, rows and shelves and stacks of furs of varying hues and thicknesses. I see everything, from the delicate trim of ermine gloves to heavy-duty coats, made for the Russian militia. Everyone owns something fur, here – and with good reason. The snow lost its appeal after five minutes of finger-blackening exposure. I haven't passed anyone, male or female, who hasn't been wearing the thick fur hat so frequently associated with Muscovite culture. Even Ivan, as we walked from his suite to this shop, wore his own pseudo-fur insulation. I insisted I'd cope without one, but he brought me here regardless – seeing as I am incapable of navigating myself around the city, I had little choice but to follow him.

I'd left my room this morning somewhat embarrassed by the previous night's drunken idiocy. Ivan was sitting in front of the television, sipping his undiluted coffee, watching the screen through translucent eyes. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

I steeled myself for humiliation. "Morning."

Ivan looked over his shoulder, smiled, then pointed at the counter.

"I have made two," he said, lifting his drink as an example. "For you."

"Headache cure?"

"Something like that."

I took my coffee, the glass warm and smooth between my palms, then sat down beside him. He winced at the movement.

"Hungover?" I asked, crossing my legs beneath me. "I'm disappointed. I thought the Russians trained with steel, were immune to pain, lived to wrestle bears and wash the blood off with vodka–"

"Blame the English. You have made me soft."

"Do I look soft to you?"

He laughed, and, with a wicked glint in his eye, said something I didn't understand but could fully interpret. I pushed his shoulder, rolled my eyes, and turned my attention to the drink at my disposal. After a few minutes of companionable silence, I'd asked him what I should do in regards to my career overhaul. He told me not to think about it today, because he had plans.