Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter VI - Scarlet and Gold

-Emily-

~~~~~~

It is bitterly cold, tonight; I press the door to room 209 shut with the palm of my hand, hugging the low-cut fabric across my chest in some poor attempt at heat conservation. My fingers are raw, my cheeks are stinging, and my skin is pricked and mottled with purple undertones, numb from excessive exposure to the elements.

Satisfied that the room is empty, I sit down on my mattress, working loose my battered shoes and setting them down beside the crate that serves as a hold-all for my limited belongings. The thin, worn scrap of material I have been using as a sheet will not provide me with adequate insulation; it is barely suitable for mid-summer, let alone the perpetual chill of February.

Fortunately, I have my own means of keeping warm tonight.

I work quickly, cracking the sealed tin cap off my bottle and tossing it aside, pausing to inhale the sharp fumes of oxidised ethanol. Trisha shouldn't be back for another hour yet. It's been three weeks since the commence of our secret saving and we have both been trying as best we can to abstain from our usual indulgences – only, this isn't the first time I've broken my promise to cease the vodka consumption. Nor is it the second.

Or the third.

I don't savour it; I do not have the time. Instead, I swallow it back in stinging mouthfuls, aiming to get as drunk as I can in as short a period of time as possible in order to be presentably sober upon Trisha's return.

Vodka has proved very effective at numbing guilt in the past.

That being said, even with my occasional relapse, we have managed to collect a fair sum of money between us. Unbeknown to Carver, Trisha has started work as a cheap waitress in a greasy café on the outskirts of London, and I have been making private visits to regular clients during the day for half my normal price; we hand over the money to Carver each week, but keep our extra to the side, storing little wads of rolled notes in holes torn into our mattresses.

"So much for going cold turkey."

I choke mid-gulp, startled by Trisha's voice, and begin coughing so violently I start to see black pinpricks, my diaphragm flexing to force the unexpected influx of alcohol from my lungs. Trisha rolls her eyes and kicks off her shoes, thumping my back with her fist. After a few moments of saturated gasping, I regain my breath, panting for air that is cold against the inflamed lining of my throat.

"Idiot."

I wipe my mouth irritably. "Why are you back?"

"Does it matter?"

I mutter explicit contradictions under my breath, too sober to be antagonistic, too drunk to keep quiet. Determined to continue in the face of shame, I raise the bottle to my lips and tip my head back –only to have it snatched roughly from my grip.

"You've been wasting our savings on this," she says, shaking the bottle in front of me. "Don't flaunt it."

It is not what I want to hear.

I stand up and take an advancing step towards Trisha. My drink is my lifeline, my sin, my salvation, and there is nothing I wouldn't do – nobody I would not harm – to get it back.

Trisha notes the shift in my intention and sighs, softly.

"I'd be lying if I said I'd been entirely clean myself."

She hands me back the bottle and turns away, rubbing the lines on her forehead with her finger.

"How much have you-"