Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXIX - Purgatory

She stops. She stares. She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.

"Emily?"

I make a toneless noise in acknowledgement.

"I thought..." Mrs Hudson looks at Sherlock for an explanation. "She was–"

"Less talking, more beverages. Coffee for me. Black." Sherlock starts up the narrow staircase, only to pause on the third step. "On second thoughts, make it a brandy."

"You know I don't keep alcohol, Sherlock. Gave it up with the dancing."

"No you didn't." He gestures for me to follow him. "Under the sink. I checked."

"Sherlock Holmes–"

"Don't forget the ice."

I stop listening, then. This is an unsettlingly surreal experience, walking up these steps – it isn't nostalgia. Nostalgia is a pleasant word to describe pleasant memories. The memories waiting for me upstairs are far from warm. Dust motes dip in and out of the bands of light that break through the blinds on the landing window; I breathe them in, inhale the musty scent of unwashed fabric and forgotten paperwork. On this staircase I am in a perceptive purgatory: recent memories hiss and spit at the bottom step, unable to reach me here, while older memories of furious injustice and Mary Watson wait for me at the top, ready to welcome me into Baker Street with open arms. I step into their grim embrace. Sherlock pushes the door open with his elbow.

The first thing that strikes me about the flat is its scale. It's so small; the landing is too narrow, the ceiling too low, the living room a cramped mess of sprawling urban poverty. I see the creases in the wallpaper, the cracks in the linoleum, the blistering paintwork. Sherlock's armchair has faded, John's left to collect dust. The sofa sags as if exhausted. Amongst the chaos are glimpses of familiarity; the same kettle in the kitchen – yellowing plastic, its spout warped from exposure to temperature – the same piles of untouched paper, journal articles, torn extracts from books, the same friendly disarray, the same dust-flecked bell jar on the coffee table, the same skull. Memories in miniature.

I rotate on the spot, slowly, processing the remarkable normality of it all.

"It hasn't changed."

Sherlock kicks the gathering heap of laundry to one side. "Working class not suiting you?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I suppose you're used to the company of criminal kings." He walks into the kitchen and, after squinting at the sell-by date on a milk carton, returns it to the fridge. "Should I curtsey?"

"If it makes you feel better."

He gives me a small, strained smile, and then reaches for the cupboard. A forced tranquillity ensues. I tread softly, testing the space at my disposal, cautious not to disturb the sad silence that pervades the very oxygen of this place. The curtains haven't been washed in years, and I stir a veritable storm of dust as I part them; outside, the street darkens, the reporters have abandoned hope of a headline and the faint choir has fallen prey to the growl of traffic.

"Mycroft said John had left."

Sherlock grants me a non-committal noise in response, sweeping the stained mugs from the counter.

"Will I be in his room?"

"No. Addy sleeps there." He finishes stacking the mugs into the sink, then points at the sofa. "I hope such measures won't be too jarring, your majesty."

"Who's Addy? New roommate?"

He gives me a strange look. "You have missed a lot."

"Addy?"