Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLIV - Film Noir

-Emily-

~~~~~~

Given the explosive nature of my departure, my re-entrance is comparably quiet; I move softly, pressing open the door with the palm of my hand and padding along the hallway corridor, holding my stilettos by their straps.

My mother is sitting on the stool of the grand piano, elbow propped on the polished wood and hand bandaged. She pauses, takes in my outline and her conversation with Jim, who stands by her side, cuts off abruptly. She gives him an expectant look.

I keep walking.

The throes of evening have never been so radiant.

I take my seat on the stiff-leather chaise longue, silent, and lean back against the single armrest, lifting my feet and reclining; the picture of disinterested relaxation. The whiskey fumes are strong, here, and reminiscent of the alcohol poured in Ivan's hotel room.

I close my eyes, and think back to the events of the last hour.

The whole ordeal had a film noir air about it; the way we sat, opposite sides of a glass table, shadowed, talking in softly dangerous tones until the sun fled for cover and night took hold, the way he adjusted the hands of the silver watch on his wrist, the way he brushed his knuckles along the stubble of his jaw. The way his fingers drummed the table surface, keeping a regular rhythm: forefinger, tap, middle finger, tap, ring finger, tap, forefinger again.

"You shouldn't have come back."

Her words hold no weight.

I open my eyes, slowly, and exhale, seeing the invisible smoke of our shared cigarette. Tobacco is good for the nerves, he'd said. I'm inclined to believe him. Nicotine and alcohol worked to cool the fire of my outburst; I'm granite, now, the remnants of magma-rage, solid and unmoving in the wake of further provocation.

She owes her life to Ivan Yakovich.

He'd picked me up from the mossy bench in a black car, all silver-capped tyres and supple leather seats, and driven me to the hotel room I am becoming increasingly familiar with. We sat, we drank, we smoked, we talked. I wanted her gone. I wanted it brutal. He told me, in his velvet voice with its broken syllables that, much as he understood the resentment behind my homicidal intent, he would like to offer an alternative solution. Less blood, fewer questions. Besides, he'd said, pressing a thumb to the corner of his mouth in speculative humour. Murder wasn't his forte.

I look down at my watch face. Two minutes.

I got the impression, as he spoke to me, that this was not the first time he had planned a demise of this nature. In fact, he was so perfectly polished in his diction, so unnervingly smooth, I began to question the truth behind his commitment to the 'anti-fear policy'. There was something inherently unsettling, enticingly unsettling about the level of manipulation he presented; a darker shade to the many-faceted face of this Russian oligarch extraordinaire. It is impossible to place, even now. He's fluid. Artificial in a way that hints at flawed. Contradictory.

My mother's phone rings in her pocket.

Jim watches, cold-eyed, as she answers the call. I wonder if he recognises the voice on the other end of the line.

I regard him with a small smile on my face. I hope he does.

"Who is this?"

Her expression works tirelessly; from irritation at the disturbance to a piqued interest, and from interest to an absolute, adoring infatuation.

"How much?"

Money, he'd told me, can be more powerful than death itself.

She doesn't give Jim – or myself – a second glance once the phone is put down. I watch from my horizontal position, my arm hanging loosely and fingertips brushing the marble floor, as she collects her things, my lipstick, Jim's whiskey bottle, her oversized mink coat.