Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXV - Rebellion

"If you're going to keep looking at each other like that, I'll get a move on." He puts his mug down on the counter. "I don't want to get caught in the middle of this."

Irene raises one eyebrow. "Don't you? I'll charge you half. Two for the price of one."

"I'll pass."

"Sure?"

"Never been surer."

I continue my steadfast daubing of the countertop, determined to stay uninvolved. Irene eventually disappears and resurfaces, fully dressed – she doesn't waste time: I'm winked at, John has his jaw caressed, and then she's gone, leaving jasmine and the hum of not-quite-extinguished lust in the air. John sets off soon afterwards. I am left alone once more; my mood retains the gold-tinted hue of the morning – I'm not accustomed to this strange buoyancy and stillness of mind, and I find myself smiling, to myself, simply because I can.

It feels like a rebellion.

I spend a few hours liaising with clients – something I haven't done in weeks – and then, when I've secured several transactions to help boost the dire state of my bank account, I turn my attention to the hunt.

It takes the pixelated outline of Ivan Yakovich to shatter my newfound tranquillity.

This one is new. I play the footage again, grimly, on a loop. It's two days old: he was last seen at King's Cross station, at three o'clock in the morning, guiding a thin figure across the platform. I watch as Ivan checks over his shoulder – once, twice, three times. Paranoia comes to mind. Millie doesn't so much as lift her head; she stumbles, but he doesn't let go. He simply helps her up and continues dragging her in the direction of the exit. They leave together.

I replay it until the memories begin to take form, hissing and spitting at the edges of my consciousness.

Stiffly, I close my laptop lid – and then I stand up, walk to the cupboards and shift aside the strategically placed packets and tins. After some searching, I step back, clutching my illicit relief. The glass is smooth in my palm. I savour the feeling as I sit down and crack off the cap, listening to the sound in quiet appreciation.

I commence my downfall with fiery disregard for my health.

~~~~~~

-Millie-

~~~~~~

The concept found me in the early hours of the morning.

I'm currently positioned at the dressing table, sat upright, my hands laid across my lap. I prefer it like this – I can see him in the mirror, and that reassures me, knowing where he is. I loathe when he's gone. When I see him, I can predict and prepare. When I can't, it is the dark unknown.

He's pacing now, half frantic, checking windows and doors and ensuring all connections to the online world are severed. This frenzy stemmed from the night he came back from the client – he'd kicked open the door and shaken me awake and hauled my paper body through the corridors and into his car. It was a display of forcefulness I hadn't seen before, and I don't recall a time I have been as blindly hopeful as I was then: he didn't speak, didn't listen, didn't cease his freneticism until we were out of that door. I was so sure I was being driven to my merciful murder; that he'd pull over without warning and I would feel a soft blade slip between my ribs.

Never have I been so bitterly disappointed.

His fingers were shaking as he fastened my seatbelt. I drifted out of consciousness, and, as the car fell away beneath me, I dimly remember him saying we were being hunted, that Mr Moriarty would not stop, and neither would he.