Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXVI - Night Terror

I don't want to watch.

Instead, I force myself to move, jogging back along the side of the building until I catch up with Sherlock. He doesn't acknowledge me. I slow my pace beside him. We walk in silence for some time, his footsteps soft and muted by the damp grass, mine sharp and staccato on the flagstones.

Eventually, I am granted a response.

"What are you doing?" he asks, as I lead him to the arched door.

"Helping."

Sherlock snorts. "I don't need your help."

"I didn't say I was helping you."

The door is pushed open, and Sherlock steps inside the marble corridor with its gold curtains and dark, locked doors. I recognise it as the left wing of the building. I'm not overly familiar with this section, which comes as a relief – I don't think I could bear walking through the rooms I have grown to associate with the untouched bliss of my recent past; the bathroom with its porcelain centrepiece and steam-swirled memories, the bedroom, the adjoining lounge, the ballroom we circled in clumsy, alcohol-induced dance. I cling to these recollections with the desperation of a drowning woman, and detach myself from the present. Perhaps this is all a vivid night terror. Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow morning with Ivan's heavy, unmoving arm around my waist. Perhaps this is temporary.

We begin searching rooms at random. They are unfamiliar, dark, empty, easily checkable. Sherlock is muttering something about 'it all making sense' under his breath, but I don't care to listen. I reach the end of this particular corridor and open the final door – and then I stop.

I recognise this one.

My ghost sits on the edge of the embroidered sofa. She's on her laptop. Ivan's ghost stands behind her, smiling, one hand twisting her hair in gentle affection, the other holding his drink. He raises the glass to her lips. She takes a sip, and I taste the vodka on my tongue. My eyes sting. The room blurs.

My ghosts fade.

If Sherlock is aware of my lapse in ability, he's chosen to overlook it. He's opening and closing doors sporadically, checking the rooms, moving on, checking, moving on, checking, with the determination of a man on the brink of breakdown. I wipe my eyes and step out of the room, following Sherlock back through the corridor, down a flight of white steps, both of us checking, both of us falling into a pattern: open, look, check, close, open, look, check, close, open, look, check–

"Sherlock."

I hear him stop behind me. I point to the closed door. The light is on – a pink light, visible beneath the gap and stretching out across the white marble. Sherlock inhales sharply. I close my eyes and immerse myself in my self-constructed theory: the quicker I face the horrors of my imagination, the quicker I will rouse from my hellish dream sequence. I'll tell Ivan about it, and he'll laugh and lift my chin and ask me with that brilliant smile if he looks like the sort of man capable of murder. I'll shake my head. He'll kiss the corner of my mouth. We'll fall back into routine. I believe it wholeheartedly.

I raise a finger to my lips and motion for Sherlock to stand back, but he ignores me, fierce in his desperation, and pushes the door open with a force bordering on violence.

He stops.

I move around him, preparing myself for red, for gore, for whatever vile tableau my sleeping mind can concoct.

At first, I think she's dead.

She's lying at the back of the room, her skin glowing pink, unmoving, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something I can't see. Her shirt has been torn open, her jeans at her knees. There are tears on her cheeks, but she's not crying. She's too still. I'm trying to understand, trying to process, when she moves, only slightly, a small hitch of her breath. Her eyes are closed. There's a little blood collecting at the crease of her elbow, more on the back of her arm. Her lips are swollen. Her hair has been fanned out behind her, brushing the marble in damp curls.