Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCVII - Sociopathy

Sherlock comes to a halt in front of me, pale in the yellow light. He's a little haggard – his hair mussed, his shirt purple and creased and chemically bleached at the cuffs – and he's holding something in his left hand. I regard him with some confusion. He's looking at me with a very strange expression on his face: it's deadpan, save for a slight curl at the corners of his mouth, and there's a fevered glint of anticipation in his eyes, a point of colour at each slanted cheek.

"What?" I say, when the silence becomes unbearable.

"You look appalling."

I glower at him through swollen eyes. "I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"Is it infectious? It looks infectious."

"I hope so." I cough deliberately – the chesty, hacking kind – and Sherlock recoils. "I'm taking you down with me. Tuberculosis and all."

"Do you practice being this repulsive, or does it come naturally to you?"

"It's a talent."

He wrinkles his nose, as if further communication risks imminent infection. I roll my eyes.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock clears his throat and holds out the object; a cautious offering. It is small, oblong and wrapped so hideously in several layers of Christmas-themed paper I can't discern much more.

"Careful. You can't touch me," he cautions. "It's your viral death sentence. Not mine."

Eyebrow raised, I take it from him, ensuring I brush my clammy palm against his fingers. He withdraws his hand rapidly. I grin, he spits something unflattering about disease-ridden prostitutes in his flat. I turn the mystery object over: there are not one, but three variations of Christmas wrapping paper involved in this small atrocity, one green, one red, one silver. At least two rounds of clear Sellotape have been used in bullet-proofing his creation.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

"I'm going to regret this." I lift it up to the light. "Will it explode?"

"If you're lucky."

"Is it a thumb? John said you hoard them."

"It's not a thumb," he says – and then, under his breath, "Besides, I don't hoard them. Hoarding is for recluses with too much time and not enough social interaction." He sniffs, proudly. "My thumbs are a collection. Best in London."

"Whereas you're definitely not an antisocial recluse with too much spare time."

"Is that meant to be a joke?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." I give the item a testing shake. "It's a thumb. I know it's a thumb."

"Oh for god's sake," he says, impatiently. "Mycroft walks faster than this."

"Fine, fine. I'm doing it."

With some difficulty, I pull apart the hash of Sellotape and Christmas goodwill. A memory stick – cheaply made and plastic – falls out of its paper shell and into my lap. As I puzzle, Sherlock covers his mouth and sweeps the tissues off the sofa, clearing a space: he sits down, keeping the maximum distance between us. I pick up the memory stick.

"What's this?"

"My brother," says Sherlock, his voice muffled behind his hand-barrier. "Well. It's his recent security programme. Currently in development. No one has been able to crack it yet, so I took the liberty of borrowing it for your entertainment. See if you can do it."