Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XLVI - Kiss-and-Tell

-Emily-

~~~~~~

When Jim returns again, it's well past midnight; following a vicious grapple between a bleeding sun and a rising moon, night has taken its star-flecked hold and all is relatively peaceful. After this afternoon's abnormal behaviour, I'm somewhat wary about approaching him to discuss my original question: I'd shown him to his office, and was more than unimpressed when he decided to dismiss me in that same, dangerously glacial tone. He even had the audacity to tell me to get dressed. Ten minutes later, and he'd gone again – taking his laptop with him.

I sigh, heavily. I need the work. Besides, I tell myself. I signed up for this. The violent mood swings and cold disparagement were always a part of the Moriarty package. Nothing's changed, in that respect.

I spot him standing by the piano; he hears my footsteps and stops, lifting his chin to watch me move down the stairs.

I don't like the expression on his face.

"Modest enough for you?" I ask, gesturing to my blazer.

Jim says nothing, and waits for me to come to a halt in front of him.

"I need to speak to you about my clients," I say. "I didn't get the chance to earlier, when you–"

"Let's talk about clients, shall we?" His smile is warped, his words forcefully emphasised.

I frown, perplexed. This is extreme even for him; from mortified embarrassment to cold indifference to this savage display of good-natured conversation. I'm struggling to keep track.

"That's what I said," I say, cautiously.

"You've been making house calls, Emily. Tell me," he says, pleasantly enough. "Does he pay well?"

The confusion fades, and is replaced by a swift, growing sickness that works its way from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat.

"Who says prostitution gets you nowhere in life?" he continues. "I'm sure your practice made for some glorious payment. Is it cash-in-hand? Or have you been sullying my bank cheques with his signature?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh," he says, dropping the forceful joviality and taking my jaw in his hand. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

I move to swat his hand away, but he catches my arm, his fingers digging deep into the network of veins at the crux of my wrist.

"Get your things."

I look at him, my breathing shallow. "What?"

"Get your things," he repeats, the smile too wide. "Don't make me wait."

I snatch my wrist away – in that moment of guilty discovery, I consider breaking his, consider pulling back his fingers and wrenching the inflexible bone to its cracking point, just to deflect the attention from the inevitable. However, before I have chance to act on this dark desperation, Jim's tugged his arm free from my grip and walked away, fuelled by a frenzied energy.

"Why?" I ask, a little hoarsely. "Where are we going?"

He stops and spins around, his arms held out in a gesture; an open, indeclinable invitation.

"We're going gambling."

~~~~~~

The casino is full, even at this ungodly hour; there are men standing outside the glass doors, illuminated from behind and by the orange stubs of their cigarettes, and people moving from poker tables to slot machines in surges of legs and jewellery and bright smiles. The noise is overwhelming, a consuming combination of laughter from the blue-lit bar, the rattle of cocktail shakers and the sound of plastic chips – little things, striped red and white like boiled sweets – being embraced straight from the table, swept into open arms. Money is handed over in fistfuls, the lights flash, music is poured like liquid from speakers; I see cards everywhere, a lost queen here, a stray king there, the sly face of the joker being dealt between hands.