Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXV - Rebellion

-Emily-

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"How did you do it?" asks John, somewhat incredulously. "She's never slept this well before."

I give him a nonchalant shrug and reach for my coffee. "Beginner's luck."

"You'll have to babysit more often."

I smile to myself and stir the drink, listening to the faint clink of metal against porcelain. It's a very clear morning; shafts of light filter through the window, reflecting on the green-glossed kitchen tiles, each a little crescent of iridescence.

John moves behind me, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders.

He's come back for the morning, but won't be staying long – he's visiting his sister and her partner tonight. Sherlock has remained at the Hillingdon manor following the discovery of some macabre new evidence; they found a door leading down to a cellar, heavily bolted, bearing padlocks and chains like jewellery. John described it as a workshop, featuring the beginnings of a steel bar drilled to the ceiling and a collection of hooks, stored in a burlap sack. Loose rope was found coiled in rough piles. Bottles of disinfectant lined the walls. There was a desk too, the drawers stuffed with fabrics and shears and a fine needle and thread.

When no solution was drawn as to the purpose of the cellar, John had voiced the possibility that the room may have existed prior to Ivan's purchase – but Sherlock had simply turned away and said he smelt the smoke, the lingering ash of Insignia cigarettes. He'd been down there very recently.

The bedroom door opens without warning.

I start, John spins around – and then he stops moving entirely.

"Irene?"

I see his jaw drop.

"She's naked. Again."

"Thought I'd brighten your morning."

Her voice cuts through the thin air, cold and clean; a vocalised scalpel. I focus very intently on the mug between my fingers – the milk has left an oily sheen on the surface, and I watch it alternate between blue and purple, glistening like a second skin as I tilt it in the light.

Two hands wrap around my waist.

I am pulled backwards without warning: teeth graze my earlobe and I jolt, violently, spilling the contents of my mug across the countertop. John makes a noise of choked disbelief.

"Look at that," says Irene, close to my ear. "We've made him blush."

In an attempt to regain my dignity, I roll my eyes and brush off her advances, my face burning. Irene leans against the counter; legs crossed, chest bared, gaze steely.

She addresses John. "It's been a while."

"Can you put some clothes on?"

"In this heat?"

"You're an exhibitionist."

"And proud."

I take a keen interest in mopping up the spilt coffee, tuning out the conversation. I steal glances at Irene as I work: her hair is damp, loose, combed through with her fingers. There's something so compelling about her frame; the slope of her neck, the bone-cut ridges of her shoulder blades, the way her waist curves sharply, pushed out by her hips. On an aesthetic level, she is captivating. I am seized by the urge to reach out and take a fistful of that damp hair in my hand, if only to pull her closer, to feel–

"Really?"

I snap out of my trance and realise I'm standing with the sopping tea towel suspended mid-air. John pulls a face, mocking repulsion.