Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCIX - Demons

-Emily-

~~~~~~

"You've got a problem, you know."

I look up from the blue-light of my laptop, startled. Irene's voice catches me by surprise – until this moment, she'd been lying in silence, reclining against the stained leather like some misplaced Venus in Sherlock's dressing gown.

"What?"

"You heard me." She addresses me without turning her head. "You have a problem."

I snort, bemused. "Don't we all?"

Irene smiles, but there is no good humour behind it. I twist in my seat to look at her properly: she's lying with one slim arm at her side, the other half-raised, languidly, her wrist low under the weight of a thickly-crystallised diamond bangle. She inspects her nails and then tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. She's become somewhat of a temporary guest here, 'laying low', after a recent client turned nasty following a particularly graphic scandal in Somerset. With Sherlock discussing matters of international importance at Vauxhall Cross and John visiting his sister, she is my only company. It seems fitting. Baker Street has a habit of losing one inhabitant and taking in another. With the woman who once lived here becoming a fading memory with each new day, Irene is my step-in replacement; the resident guest, the unwanted stayover. I sleep in what used to be Millie's room.

"No one's noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"Well," she says, "they have. But they're too afraid to say it. John hasn't, because he tells himself it's your business. Sherlock won't, because he doesn't care. It's not his forte." She lowers her arm. "It's rather my area of expertise."

I kick back, resting my feet on the desk surface and folding my arms. "You're going to have to specify. Are we talking about selling state secrets or spanking misbehaving politicians?"

Irene turns to face me, propping herself up on one elbow. The bangle flashes on her wrist; she studies me in silence for some time, her lips parted, eyelashes still clumped from her shower and wet hair stuck to her temples.

"You're addicted to it."

"Spanking politicians? You're right. I can't stop. I had David Cameron in here last night, tied up with a pig's head–"

"Sex. You're addicted to sex." She pauses, and then continues, "Straight after your release, you started stopping cars at street corners for no-cash no-strings exchanges. You had your one night stand with our favourite virgin. We had our little fling two months in. Last week, you met with Sebastian Moran – don't speak, word gets around – and last night you came back at half past four with your shirt on inside out. I can see what's happening. We all can."

I say nothing for a treacherous minute, and then I force a smile and an artificial laugh and say, "So what? I'm no saint. Neither are you."

"I do what I do for a purpose. I gain information, protection, blackmail resources, call it what you want. You do what you do because you can't stop. There's a difference."

"I could stop if I wanted to."

"No you couldn't."

"I choose to do it. I'm in control."

"How did you arrange your rendezvous with Moran, I wonder? You hate each other. I can't imagine there being any pre-coital planning."

"We crossed paths," I say, shortly.

"Yes. In the lobby of James Moriarty's penthouse."

The room hums with a red-metal tension. Irene sits up, slowly. There's a dark patch left on the sofa armrest, where her head was; an oval sheen to the leather.