Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XII - Vivienne Westwood

-Emily-

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The repetitive thump of knuckles against leather resonates in this empty room, synced with each, laboured intake of breath; I stand with my feet apart, fists clenched and wrapped in training tape, watching the punching bag jar on its hinges with each calculated blow delivered.

I am very much alone in this low-ceilinged, blue-lit room – which I suppose is a gym of sorts, located on the ground floor of this monumental building – and I am struggling. It's been some time since I last engaged in a physical regime, and my body is utterly unrecognisable. I have reached a record low in terms of weight and muscle mass, with the strength that built me up stripped away by months of alcohol abuse and packets of cheaply branded cigarettes. I look older too, with fine lines marking out a permanent frown around my lips and my eyes dulled, the life behind them muted, filmed over by hardship and personal loathing.

I have to pause in my training, panting for lungfuls of burning oxygen, furious at myself for my own lack of stamina. One year ago I could have struck this bag from its metal joints. Now I am fighting to keep up the same intensity for ten minutes.

After I'd certified my premature demise with a shake of his hand, I was told that, if I am to represent him and his network, I need to be in a physical condition worth preserving. He looked me up and down in a way that was as humiliating as it was infuriating and told me that he would not send me to fraternise with his clients until I had regained my former strength. There was no argument. No sugar-coating.

I have an ulterior motive for agreeing to his demands. Without clients, I do not have money.

And without money, I do not have alcohol.

I have been living in this penthouse for the last week like a prisoner under house arrest; I do not leave, save to use the training facilities at the bottom of the building, and I am alone. I presume he's away on 'business' and, although I have every intention of avoiding him once I have generated enough income to purchase my own flat, I am beginning to feel a little frenzied with the silence.

My days follow the same habitual routine. I wake up in the oversized bed with the silk sheets, avoid looking at my reflection in the above mirror, and begin my daily exploration. This living space is unlike anything I have ever seen before. The luxurious bedroom I am claiming as my own is but a mere addition to the core of the accommodation; it exists over three floors and is entirely open plan, with large, glass staircases linking layers like crystal ladders and priceless furnishings jutting and curving at odd angles. At the epicentre of this minimalistic network of black and white modernism is the central space; a room with a window for a wall, a chaise lounge, an unused grand piano – here for the sake of show, I expect – and a black, diamond chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, suspended jewels casting unnameable shapes on the marble floor.

There are several kitchenettes and bar counters that look untouched, devoid of all alcoholic beverages, and a long, imposing room on the middle floor with direct lift access. He must hold mass consultations here, for the polished table could comfortably seat a party of thirty, and there is a screen spanning the length of one of the white-glossed walls. I've found everything from en-suites to walk-in showers lined with fine-grained slate, and a room that resembles that of an interrogation space with its single chair and reinforced door. On one of my lonely investigations I discovered a series of equally impressive bedrooms with mirrored ceilings, and, at the very top of the penthouse, a locked office.

I cannot begin to comprehend how one man can live in such an expensive, spacious environment alone.

It is impossibly quiet, here. If I am not scouring the penthouse for a forgotten bottle of whiskey or medicinal alcohol, I'm either sleeping or pounding the stuffing from punching bags. The latter is fundamental for my continuation; I get a kick from it – a temporary boost – and, if I train myself to the brink of collapse, the ever-elusive sleep follows swiftly.