Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter CIII - Stay Down

Somewhat desolate, I lean forwards, looking into the small mirror hanging next to the coat stand. There's condensation gathering on the glass. I wipe it away with the cuff of my sleeve and study my reflection; her face is red-flushed, made raw by temperature and alcoholism, her hair rain-grizzled, pasted to her forehead, her lips cracked, her eyes ringed with forgotten product that, as a tribute to her current state, has run like black tears down both cheeks.

I don't look like me – but then again, I'm not sure what constitutes me anymore. I'm not the hacker, or the prostitute, or the criminal businesswoman, or Ivan Yakovich's glittering trophy wife. I'm not a Bronzefield inmate. I'm not a true Baker Street inhabitant. Perhaps these nondescript features, this uninspiring canvas marked by cheap make-up and systematic alcohol abuse, is all that is left of my multi-faced history. I sigh, rubbing the remaining lipstick from my chin. I've been staying with Irene. This waxy slash of coral red is a memento; her own, personal brand, smudged across my skin.

It's during this grim self-analysis do I become aware of the noise upstairs. There's thumping, then shouting, then the jarring sound of shattering glass. Another thud. A child screaming. Experience has me fearing the worst: I abandon the mirror and start up the stairs, taking them two at a time, leaving a line of wet on the wallpaper where my shoulder brushes the plaster.

"After everything. Everything we've gone through. After everything, after her, you think you can–"

I turn the corner, using the bannister to swing myself round, and force open the door. Addy is curled up under Sherlock's desk; her knees pulled up to her chest, hands over her ears, sobbing with a child's terror. The shouting continues. I identify John's voice.

"You can't even hear me, can you?"

I skid to an ungainly halt, and I see it all – the wrecked kitchen, John's takeaway coffee dropped, abandoned on the floor. Sherlock is sitting on what is left of the chair, broken king on his debris throne, feet resting on the table, newspaper on his lap, surrounded by pots and pans floating in the stagnant water. At first, I think it's some parody, a tableau joke, a dark comedy – and then I see Sherlock properly. He's dressed strangely, his blazer around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone, his sleeves rolled; he's unshaven, unkempt, eyes red with lack of sleep but otherwise unaffected by the chaos surrounding him.

My confusion is rapidly cleared on locating the bag of white powder, perched on top of a stacked tower of kitchen utensils; a culinary pedestal.

"How can you sit there and–"

"Do shut up, John." Sherlock swallows dryly and swats the air. "I'm trying to enjoy my cocaine. You wouldn't believe how much drug prices have risen lately. I blame Mycroft. And Brexit–"

"Stop it."

John seizes Sherlock's jacket lapel and throws him back, without warning, off the chair.

"Stop it. Now."

I watch as John raises his right hand, a fist, as if to compound his demand – and then brings it down, striking Sherlock with all his strength. The sound of the blow resonates oddly, falling flat: Sherlock is knocked from his knees to his side, landing heavily on the floor with its thin layer of water. Gasping, he props himself up on his arm.

"Is this," begins John, punctuating his punches with words, "a game?"

Sherlock is forced back onto the ground. I am so thoroughly shocked by the violence of his outburst, so genuinely taken aback, it doesn't occur to me to intervene – I can only watch one man against the other, both of them at tipping point; a display of volatile desperation from both parties, a clash of coping mechanisms.

"Don't you think we've had enough games, Sherlock? After Moriarty? After Yakovich? After Mary? Wasn't it enough for you?"

Again Sherlock tries to rise up, and again John strikes him down: he kicks Sherlock's body hard, then again, twice for good measure. Addy has started screaming. Sherlock groans, and John moves to kick him a third time – I move forwards, then: I take his arm, his sleeve fabric loose in my fist, and attempt to pull him back.

"John. John."

I am pushed away with enough force to unbalance me: I fall heavily, unable to catch myself in time, and feel the side of my head make contact with wood.

"Don't. Don't you open your mouth. You're just as bad as him. You get kicks out of this, both of you. You're sick. Sick in the head."

He turns back to Sherlock, who, still on the floor, is bracing himself. He's shaking – from the sudden assault or cocaine surging through his system, I don't know – and there's blood on his face, thick from his nose, collecting in the fine hairs of his eyebrow and welling at the welt across his bottom lip. He spits red, and tilts his chin upwards, fixing John with a clear-eyed look that is defiant in its indifference.

I decide that verbal bargaining is no longer an option.

I move quickly, retaking John's arm in both hands, wrenching it down, forcing him to one side. The reaction is violent, as expected: he twists, furious at my intervention – but my fingers find purchase at his coat collar before he can launch a second assault; I slam him against the broken oven, block another strike, clench my jaw and free my left hand, holding him grimly by his throat. It isn't enough pressure to cause lasting damage – I'm somewhat familiar with the nuances of chokeholds – but it's certainly enough to stop him in his tracks. His struggles begin to slow in their intensity. I watch the fight drain from his system.

Cautiously, I release my grip. John sags a little, then stands, steadying himself on the counter. After a moment spent catching his breath – head bowed, fist clenched – he straightens, and steps over Sherlock without sparing him a second glance: he moves over to the sofa, sits down, face in his bruising hands. When Addy runs up and attempts to hide behind his legs, he doesn't react. He doesn't so much as look up.

Breathless, I turn to Sherlock – he doesn't bother resisting as I pick him up roughly by the front of his shirt.

"You. Out. With me. Now."

He spits another mouthful of blood, and then wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

"I politely decline your kind offer."

"I wasn't offering."

I begin dragging him from the kitchen: he lets himself be manoeuvred to the door, and then stops, refusing to take another step.

"This is my flat," he says. "My high–"

I raise an eyebrow, and, using his neck as leverage, bodily haul him from the room.

"Don't make me push you down the stairs."

Sherlock sniffs, staggering a little. He looks down at the black staircase and says, darkly, "Why not? It'd complement the scars."

However, he begins moving down the steps: one by one, unsteady on his feet. I follow him, he opens the door, and together we step out into the rain.

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