ANARCHY [BBC Sherlock Fanfiction] [On Hold]

8

(Sera.)

"In loving memory of a father, a lover, and a friend, rejoined at last with Emma and Marlow Mathers.
SAWYER MATHERS"

I stared at the epigraph tracing the curve of the simple headstone with my fingertips. The dark earth beneath my shoes was freshly packed and three bouquets of garishly colored flowers had been carefully propped against the monument.

The new ones had always been my favorite to visit. Perhaps because they felt less distant, like this buried corpse was less dead than the other boxes of bones submerged beneath the ground. Skeletons were past death, and death is a state of living.

I turned away from Sawyer Mathers, and strolled down the aisle of older headstones, drips of lime-colored lichen stretching down each of their sides. The London sky was its customary grey, and it smelled like rain, something I hadn't realized I missed from my stint in Sherrinford. All my time there was spent inside and away from any sort of fresh air, something that didn't quite occur to me in the moment. Circumstances are dire when London is one's source of fresh air.

Huffing, I pushed the cemetery gate open with my hip, entering the flux of pedestrians.

Something about graveyards calmed my mind, they always had, and I sure as hell needed all the calming I could get if I was going to pull off this stunt. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my favorite black coat, something that, if today went successfully, wouldn't get to be worn quite as much as I'd have liked. My favorite grey trouser suits would be subjected to the same fate.

The walk to my new flat was short, and yet, oddly enough, that wasn't something I was thankful for. Perhaps my distaste for exercise was being overpowered by the pit of dread in my stomach. Failure today would cost everything, something I couldn't afford; unfortunately, defeat was overwhelmingly likely.

I dug the newly cut key out of my pocket and twisted it in the lock until the varnished wooden door clicked open.

Inside the flat was completely bare, save for my open suitcase in the corner which was thrown next to the white pillow and sheet I'd nabbed from Sherrinford. Call it an act of vengeance.

The only thing softening the stark whiteness of the room was the pale sunlight filtering in through the back window, illuminating swirling dust motes.

I tossed my keys onto the sheet, making a mental note to get a bed as soon as possible, before rummaging around the already messy case. It was a wonder I'd survived this long without a mattress. I'd done some shopping as soon as I had arrived back in London three months ago, procuring all that I'd be needing today. It had to be down to the most finespun detail, the most precise image I could possibly conjure up. And if it wasn't, those months of sleeplessness would all slip down the drain.

Her second favorite. That's what she'd called me. It hadn't been a leap to assume the first was her brother, the consulting detective. She said she had a soft spot for the emotional ones, and from what I'd read in the recent papers, Sherlock Holmes fit that bill. Her intentions with him, however, were what worried me.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, shoving the looming unease to the back of my mind, as I pulled a pair of plain jeans and a dark red sweatshirt from the suitcase. They still smelled new, which wouldn't work in my favor.

I quickly misted my bare throat with a new bottle of scent, recoiling slightly. This noxious rubbish would have been my last choice of perfumes. The thick, flowery smell made my stomach clench unpleasantly. Perfect.