Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXVIII - Shadow Man

"Doesn't matter."

We all stop, and turn to stare at Sherlock. He's not looking at us – his eyes are fixed on a point beyond the cream chevron wallpaper – and Molly blinks, taken aback.

"What doesn't matter?"

"She doesn't." His lips scarcely move. "She doesn't matter."

"Sherlock–"

"Balance the probability. She's dead."

"Don't say that."

"I'll say what I want. She's dead. She won't come back. Murder, overdose, suicide. What difference does it make?"

"Stop it–"

"No point in grieving. She went back to him." Sherlock doesn't pause for breath. "She isn't worth the energy it takes to miss her memory."

There's an excruciating, drawn-out silence – and then Molly Hooper raises her right hand and delivers such a vicious backhand blow to Sherlock's face the air hums with it.

I sit up in my seat. John's jaw drops.

We all gape at her, open-mouthed, Sherlock pink-cheeked and stunned and – for the first time in weeks – showing signs of self-awareness.

Molly points an accusatory finger at his chest, jabbing his shirt with each fierce, furious syllable.

"Don't you dare tell me it was her fault. Don't tell me she isn't worth missing. She's done more for you than you've ever done for anyone, so you're going to stop this, stop pretending you don't care and do what you do best. You're going to find her. You're going to catch the man who did this and you're going to bring Millie back. I won't let you treat her like she meant nothing to you. Not her."

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. Horrified as he may be, I can see the unprecedented bout of violence has stirred something in his mind; there's a new alertness in his posture, a fevered rush of energy that makes him sit up and shake off the remnants of whatever dark grip had kept him pinned down previously.

I lean into the sofa, and I start to clap.

Molly looks around, suddenly aware of her audience, then flushes a soft shade of fuchsia and steps back – knocking into the coffee table as she does so. The mugs topple in a cascade of china; hot tea lashes the table surface and all the various mail, pooling on the glasswork and saturating the carpet. Molly makes a quiet, panicked noise and gets to her knees, trying to salvage the table contents. John drops Toby to the floor and, after searching and failing to locate something to daub the mess, shrugs off his jacket, pressing the tea-soaked paperwork. Sherlock is still holding his cheek – the picture of offence – and so I take the initiative: I lean forwards and scoop up a handful of letters, scalding my fingers in the process, and spread them out across my lap–

The breath snags in my throat.

I pick up the invitation – letters italicised, cardboard thick and glossy and the colour of heavy-set cream – and study the name.

"Molly," I say. "Who gave you this?"

She looks up. "Oh, that. They turned up at work last week. Everyone had one."

"Who gave it to you?" I repeat.

"We don't know who he is – someone's relative, probably – but he's supposed to be a billionaire, and he's throwing a party. I've never been to a mansion before–"

"Vasiliev. It's signed Vasiliev."

"Yes." She laughs. "It's funny, because no one knew how to pronounce it. We thought it must be Eastern European."

Sherlock's head jerks up. John looks between Molly and Sherlock, and then inhales sharply.

"It's Russian," I say, hoarsely.

Molly's smile fades. "Sorry?"

"He's used it before, when we were travelling. It was on our passport. Vasiliev."

Molly glances at the invitation, a small line between her eyebrows.

"It can't be him. Why would he ask our unit? We're just the pathologists at the morgue–"

"Audacity."

We look over to Sherlock. He meets our collective gaze and continues, "Your unit has handled more of his victims than any other. If he's going to flaunt the law, he may as well make a spectacle out of it. Pathologists at a killer's gathering. Witty."

"That's sick."

"I'm sure it's all very funny to Mr Yakovich."

"It's flat-out dangerous," says John. "Don't even think about going. Look at the last thing he attended, the chandelier–"

"It's an opportunity." Sherlock gets to his feet. "If she's alive, she'll be there."

"You've got to be joking," says John. "It's madness."

"He has no reason to cause collateral damage, not this time – he's got everything he wants. This is a conman's showcase. The display."

"It's a death wish, Sherlock."

"Then on my head be it."

"You can't go."

"We have to,"' says a small voice to my left. We all turn to Molly, who has pocketed the invitation silently. "We have to go."

"For the love of God. Am I the only sane one here?"

"I told Millie she was very brave once," says Molly. She loops back two strands of hair behind her ears and manages a thin-lipped smile. "Now we've got to be brave for her."

After a small pause, John addresses me.

"Can you face him again?"

"Of course she can," says Sherlock, shrugging off his coat. "Where are the biscuits?"

"Shouldn't we phone the police?"

"And alert Yakovich of our intentions? He's got more strings in his web than syllables in his name. He'd be out of there hours before Scotland Yard arrived. I admire your righteousness John, really, I do, but sometimes your stupidity causes me physical pain." He turns to Molly. "Do you have bourbons?"

"Slow down, Sherlock–"

He sniffs at the token wafers, then moves to walk away. "We have four days to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

We don't get an answer. He begins texting rapidly, gesturing to us with a vague, flippant wave of his hand. He exits the room, presumably to begin the assembly of the tramps he still has at his disposal, but then his footsteps stop – we hear him halt and say, "One more thing."

John sighs, heavily. "What?"

Sherlock's head makes a brief reappearance around the door.

"Don't tell Mycroft."

~~~~~~