Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXVIII - Shadow Man

"Him?"

"My dad."

I'd looked at her very strangely. "Your dad?"

"Right before he died," she said, "he just gave up. Decided he didn't want to keep living. That's what he looks like."

"Sherlock hasn't given up," I said, without much conviction.

She didn't bother responding. I began leafing through the paperwork on the counter, trying to numb the pounding craving for alcoholic alleviation. The urge to drink has become so overwhelmingly potent nowadays, it takes all I am not to reach for the bottle of medicinal ethanol in the bathroom when my supplies are running low. I near poisoned myself the day after Irene's visit – I remember passing out on the sofa to the glee of the encroaching memories, and fitfully dreaming about Millie, in the apartment, begging me to wake up. Ivan featured in that hellish dream sequence too. He'd spoken so softly, felt so real, I could swear I smelt the lingering notes of tobacco on his skin. The following morning left me with a hangover whereby I could scarcely turn my head – and yet I resolved to drink more that evening, and the evening after that.

Molly snapped out of her speculative trance in time to see John beckon me over in preparation to leave.

"Wait–"

Everyone but Sherlock had turned to look at her in genuine surprise.

"Don't go. Not yet." Molly took a quick, shallow breath, as if the air gave her the confidence she needed to continue. "Come back with me. I haven't had anybody round in months." She glanced at Sherlock and said, with characteristic tact, "It might do us all some good, you know. My mum used to say company was the best cure for sadness."

John looked sceptical, and I doubt Sherlock even picked up on her offer, but I heard the edge of desperation in her voice. I don't know what occurred during her father's regression, but I suspect there was a desire to right some wrong in Molly Hooper: she looked so thoroughly anxious in waiting for our response, I decided to make an executive group decision.

"We'll come."

John turned to me, disbelief on his face and unwillingness in his tone. "We will?"

"Distraction," I said, pointedly. "Remember?"

He conceded with raised eyebrows, and so we watched Molly peel off her surgical gloves and replace her lab coat with a cardigan, and then we – minus Lestrade, who had to return to Scotland Yard with the knowledge that his best detective had ceased to function – followed her back to her box flat. Sherlock was taciturn for the duration of the journey, and remains in a state of emotional lockdown as we each take a seat in Molly's pink-tinted living room.

"I've got biscuits somewhere," says Molly, putting three mugs down on her coffee table. "I can have a look–"

"We're fine, Molly," says John. He smiles with an air of strained reassurance. "Thanks."

A painfully laboured silence sets in.

Molly clears her throat, twisting her watch strap around her wrist.

"So," she says. "Have you made any progress?"

"It's slow work. We think he's changing his place every few weeks," I say, when no one replies.

"What about Millie?"

"What about her?"

"Is she...?" Molly tails off, then sits up in her seat. "Have you heard if she's still–"

"Alive?" I laugh, bitterly. "Who knows? Prince Charming always liked his brides a little frosted around the edges."

"Emily," warns John. He tilts his head in Sherlock's direction. I bite my tongue and rein in what I can of my growing irritation, and then turn to give Molly the statistical low down–