Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXVIX - Inhuman

In terms of scale, the place is borderline claustrophobic; my table is pressed right up against the peeling wallpaper and I am touching distance from the family sitting beside me, trying very hard to block out the grating screams of the red-faced baby in its pushchair. I turn my attention to the matter at hand: I have all but eliminated the possibility of last night's shadow being the man described by Carver's associate – from what I have been told, I don't think he's the note-delivering type.  

I look down at my coffee, the distaste in my expression reflected in the oily film on the liquid surface. I stir it as a distractive measure: it is at times like these I begin to question the changes in my mentality, because four months ago I was living in an environment that would have made this place a veritable palace by comparison – and yet I'm currently battling an ingrained sense of superiority.

High-class criminality alters a person.

The strings of beads hanging from the doorframe rattle as another customer makes their entrance. I don't look up as the footsteps approach my table.

The chair opposite me is pulled out. I keep my eyes fixed on my drink as they place their sunglasses on the table.

"That coffee looks awful."

My head snaps up at the sound of her voice.

The shock I feel in that moment is so excruciatingly acute, I forget how to work the muscles in my throat; I choke mid-gulp, force the chair back from the table and stumble as I stand, backing away. The baby screams at the sudden movement, but I do not hear it: there is a downward rush of blood and heat from my face and my head is left ringing, the internal volume of my unspoken disbelief surpassing the furious howls of the newborn next to me.

She smiles at my reaction – a sad smile, the confident curve of red-lacquered lips replaced by a thin line, the skin cracked and colour pale – and lifts a frail hand to her hood, pushing back the fabric to reveal waves of chopped, chin-length hair under a knit hat. The flesh of her face has been chiselled out; the bones of her jaw and cheek and temple are too prominent, her eyes too sunken. There's no gleam in her irises. No depth.

Death has not been kind to Irene Adler.

"You're dead."

She looks me up and down, her voice retaining its bell-like clarity. "And you're rich."

"No," I say, forcefully, drawing disapproving looks from the family to my right. "No. I saw you. We all saw you. You're dead-"

"Not so loudly," she says, and there is genuine concern in her expression.

I can only gape at her; the picture of dumb, mute shock.

"You want an explanation, and I'll give you one, as soon as I've had a drink." She retrieves a hipflask from her sweatshirt pocket, unscrews the cap and offers me some. "Baileys?"

It is a good thing I cannot speak.

"Too early for you? More for me."

I sit down, uncharacteristically shaken. "How?"

She takes a small sip from her hipflask. "Forward planning. Criminal investment."

"Drop the ambiguity." She flinches at the volume of my voice. I swallow, take a steadying breath, and try to soften my tone. "How are you here?"

Irene loops her hair behind her ears and sighs, rubbing the fine crease at the bridge of her nose.

"I don't think you understand, Emily, what it feels like to wait for death."