Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LIV - Massacre

-Emily-

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I adjust the strap of my dress over my shoulder, letting the red fabric shift and settle. I see flashes of it as I walk past the marble pillars; a distorted figure, a woman dipped in blood. The room is full, too full, to the brink of discomfort, and I am edging around the centre, unwilling to become ensnared in conversation.

It cannot be argued that the venue itself is anything other than spectacular – the central table reserved for the gathering dominates the space; a round, oak construction, draped in white and laden with untouched plates and too many sets of cutlery, surrounded by a series of two-person tables, satellite seating, for those unlucky, unknowing souls dining with us tonight. The ceiling is vast, domed and painted with Renaissance imagery, angelic irony overseeing this hellish reunion. It's supported by marble pillars and it is not difficult to understand why such heavy-duty posts were selected; the chandelier hangs over the main table like a metal sun, a colossal ring of gold and suspended glass and white flowers. The grandeur does not awe. It contributes to my nerves.

I am surrounded by criminal royalty.

At an estimate, there are seventy individual lawbreakers in this room, moving and talking and drinking from complimentary flutes of champagne. It feels more like a butcher's display than a business opportunity, with carnivores sizing up carnivores for the freshest meat, the bloodiest cut.

The dinner itself hasn't started.

I know better than to approach Jim. We have not exchanged conversation since that fateful discovery two weeks ago – he's been abroad for the majority of the time elapsed, and when I did happen to pass him fleetingly in the penthouse, he walked past me with cold non-acknowledgment. My invitation to this gathering was forwarded via an accomplice. We sat in silence for the journey, and parted ways on arriving.

He's talking with a group now. It's savage here. If you don't make friends, you make enemies, and those enemies will catalyse your downfall.

I glance up at the balcony – a round, barred lip of marble darkened by the lack of lighting – running around the periphery of the room. There are people up there, shadows, moving silently, watching the crowd. I see the glint of a gun barrel occasionally, flashing silver like snake eyes in the dark. After some squinting, I make out Moran's profile, stiller than most, his gun propped on the balcony rest. Everyone in this room is a target, everyone in this room is a killer. It is a domino effect; if one gun is fired, another seventy will follow.

A massacre will ensue.

Raucous laughter behind me makes me start. It's followed by a very distinctive, very familiar voice; disjointed amongst the twangs of the Americans, the stilted formality of the British, the choppy staccato of the Chinese.

I look at Jim, who's still talking, then turn around.

Ivan is at the centre of the crowd, surrounded by a throng of black suits and stiff white collars. He wears his jacket – velvet, priceless, wine-tinted – with languid confidence, a black silk tie around his neck and one arm resting on the nearby window ledge, hair brushed back, a hint of shadow around his jaw. He doesn't see me – or rather, he's not looking, his blue-frosted eyes focused on the individual he's currently conversing with. He's smiling a conman's smile; beguiling, well-mannered, but entirely insincere.

I can sense the speculation from here. Ivan Yakovich is a name many people hear but those outside his casino rarely see brought to life. Interest is piqued, and he captivates.

He's also receiving a fair amount of female attention, present in the form of the two waitresses unknowingly serving the largest criminal gathering of the year. They're discussing him now. I can see it, see the way they lean together to talk in hushed voices. They must be his age. Younger than me. I clench my jaw as the prettiest waitress starts working her way towards him, and start forcing my own way through the crowd. She isn't ruthless enough; I reach Ivan before her, and block her path in a display of possessiveness that would make my mother proud. Upon spotting me, his eyes light up. I am beckoned closer. People part, I hear muttering – I'm recognised, all right. I wonder if Jim is watching. I hope he is.