Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCIII - Best Served Cold

We lived in that hospital for a fortnight.

Mrs Hudson visited with a tissue cone of wilted flowers Millie never saw, because the hospital didn't permit potential infection. Mycroft visited briefly, only to cast a wary eye on his brother's steadily depleting physical state and tell us that all publicity regarding Millie's discovery had been silenced. Irene visited with an empty red smile and a bottle of liquor for me. Lestrade visited – pink-eyed, unshaven – and brought us news of Molly's funeral. There was a decent turnout of decent people. She was cremated. Her cats have gone to family friends. His voice cracked when he told us how much she cared about us. John had to go outside with him for half an hour, and returned alone.

I vividly remember standing with Sherlock following that final visit, our backs to the hospital bins and sharing his last packet of cigarettes.

"How's your head?"

Sherlock exhaled, watching the smoke curl and writhe and dissipate. "Fine. Never better."

He'd been released from the minor injuries unit two days prior; diagnosed with a concussion and given four soluble stitches to patch the cut across his eyebrow.

I inspected the glowing stub between my fingers. "You know, you don't have to stay."

"Hm?"

"Here. Watching. Millie's not going to come back to Baker Street any time soon, you of all people should know that. She'll be in and out of rehab for the next year." I watched a nurse wheel a dying man past on a stretcher. "You don't have to be here."

"I suppose not."

"But you're going to stay anyway."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock tilted his head in the direction of a passing paramedic. "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – it's incredible, the type of imbecile they let work on the bodies of the masses. Anyone could do it."

I laughed, and dropped the cigarette. "You're avoiding my question."

"That woman, over there. Single mother–"

"Fine, have it your way." The stub was ground to fine ash at the heel of my boot. "Come on. Let's get back."

Last week they moved Millie out of the ICU. Her condition was stable, they said. She opened her eyes for the first time four days ago – they were full of unfocused reproach, as if she were frustrated at our persistence. We explained as best we could and she received the information without much emotion. It was only on hearing of Molly's death did she show signs of distress; a quickening of the pulse monitor, a furrowing of her brow.

When we finished telling her about the funeral, she spoke, her voice a shelled husk of its former self.

"You could have stopped the bleeding."

"What?"

"Molly. You should have stopped the bleeding."

"I was busy," I said, a little shortly. "With you, as it turns out."

Millie fixed me with her grey gaze, as if to say exactly. I understood the connotation. It has troubled me since –  saving the woman who so desperately wanted death, letting the other die in keeping with some sort of sacrificial irony. Misjudgements haunt me.

Sherlock stood up without warning and left the room, and Millie followed him with her eyes. When he came back, he was very white and smelt of burnt tobacco: she reached up with trembling determination and rested her hand on his wrist. Sherlock didn't respond, didn't so much as flinch –  but many hours into that evening, when John was asleep with Addy's head on his shoulder, I saw him move and take her hand. It wasn't so much a providing of reassurance as it was a need for it. Her fingers lay across his palm, his curled lightly around the very tips of her nails. When I woke up, they'd retreated into their separate worlds.