Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXVIX - Inhuman

I meet her gaze. "I beg to differ."

"Do you remember our last conversation? Our last situation?"

"Switzerland. Mycroft changed your protection programme."

She nods. "And you remember my predicament?"

"Ji-" I stop, and correct myself hastily. "Moriarty had you on his radar."

"Exactly. When James Moriarty wants you dead, you know you'll be six feet under in a matter of weeks."

I choose to stay silent.

"I had days," she continues. "It got to the stage where I couldn't function. It had driven me to near insanity. The waiting. The anticipation. I decided to create my own closure. It was a Tuesday – I had it all planned out. Cyanide capsules. Glass of wine. Nice music." She looks away. "I got a phone call, then. Unknown number."

I reach for the Baileys as she talks, pouring some into my coffee.

"He said he'd heard of me, of my circumstances. He offered me a pragmatic solution. I didn't believe him at first. Partially because I couldn't get past the accent. He's difficult to understand over the phone."

"Who's he?"

"I'm getting to that." She retrieves her hipflask. "He told me very simply that my safety couldn't be guaranteed. It was a risk. You don't try to deceive someone like Jim Moriarty without one. It was awfully complicated. He had to get someone to collect my dress, told me to cut off my hair, package it up. It was all taken. They dressed up a body. It wasn't identical, but it didn't have to be. He knows how humans work, see. He anticipated that the people James would send to finish me off wouldn't care for the details. They had the woman laid out under my bed sheets, had the pills and the wine left on the dressing table. Made it look like I'd gone through with my suicide." She takes another drink. "Every night, I'd have to check on her. Make sure her makeup was perfect, that her dress was fixed in place. Every night I'd hide. Every night I'd wait. It was ridiculous. A game. I'd lost faith in him by the end of the week – but then they came. It worked like a charm. They were taken by surprise. They didn't expect to see her – me – dead in the sheets. Like he said, they were too frightened to tell Jim the news. They mutilated the body – hacked it to pieces in the bed, and said they'd string it up like he'd asked and he'd be none the wiser."

"And then?"

"You know the rest. It was publicised on national television. The dominatrix was dead. Jim was deceived with the rest of the world." She laughs, bitterly. "I was moved out of London. I met my benefactor for the first time – and what a pleasant surprise that was. I worked for him, for a bit. Honeytrap. My skill-set is very useful in his industry. He paid me well, set me up in a place of my own. No strings attached. It's ironic, really. The deceiver is one of the few people in this world I can trust. He's not a bad man. Not like Jim."

I take a long, drawn-out sip from my newly alcoholic beverage.

"I'm not thick," she says, kindly enough. "I can see you've done a bit of allegiance swapping yourself." She raises her eyebrows at my attire. "Westwood?"

"Yes."

"Not your wisest decision, granted, but I can't blame you." She looks up, a glint of her former wickedness present in her smile. "Is he still vicious in bed?"

I swallow my coffee with a grimace, and opt for a change in subject. "How did you-"

"My benefactor. Give him a big name criminal and he'll have information on them, somewhere."

I seize the opportunity. "Does he have anything on the man after her? The one who killed Trisha Stewards?"

"Her?"

The word stings. "Millie."

Irene frowns. "After Millie?"

I explain the situation briefly, placing the emphasis on Trisha and the brutality of her murder. Irene shakes her head. "I can't help you there. He doesn't deal with low-level scum like that, but he does know a fair bit about the Baker Street lot. Something about a Mary Morstan?"

I try to keep the fragile balance between control and internal chaos. "That's right."

"I'm out of touch with it all, I'm afraid. From what I've heard, I side with you wholeheartedly. I am a woman of many vices," she says, pocketing her hipflask, "but I cannot stand betrayal."

I make an inarticulate noise of gratitude. She gives me a thin-lipped smile and glances down at her watch; I notice that her nails – previously manicured and painted meticulously – are chipped, cut close to the nail bed.

"Why me?" I ask, when the silence becomes uncomfortable. "Why show yourself to me? You knew about-"

"You and Jim? Yes, I did. I'm taking another risk, and hoping my benefactor was right when he told me you'd keep this quiet. Please."

I drain the contents of my mug, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"Why take that risk?"

"Because," she says, lifting her hood, "this conversation has two purposes. Information and, should you be as curious as you look, an invitation. My benefactor would like to meet you." She stands up. "I can't stay. Not here. I'll make sure you receive the details."

"Your benefactor," I say, slowly, beginning to anticipate the answer as I ask the question, "what's his name?"

The coffee machine hisses. The till draw clicks.

Irene pauses by the beaded doorway, and looks over her shoulder.

"Yakovich. Mr Yakovich."

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