Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXIX - Carnage

-Emily-

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The lift jolts beneath my feet; I steady myself with a hand to the wall, then stop, startled by the velvet texture. This hotel does not miss an opportunity to endorse its love of luxury. I look down at my phone. It is late evening, but Ivan never sets a time – I think he is aware that my visits must be unplanned, sporadic, in order to prevent a perceivable pattern.

Jim is yet to recognise my weekly excursions as suspicious, and I have every intention of keeping it that way.

I step out of the lift, back into the opulent corridor with its gold-piped skirting boards and high, arched windows. From my position at the opposite end of this palatial walkway I can hear the sound of the piano, soft and swelling – it stops abruptly, however, and is followed by a clashing couple of keys and a sonorous scream. Then there's laughter. Women's laughter.

I consider turning around and making my exit, but stop myself mid-debate: I need to tell Ivan about last night's encounter and see if he has made any progressions himself – I don't know when, in my underhand schedule, I am going to see him again. I can't risk it.

And so I approach the room at the end of the corridor and I grit my teeth, drawing on my determination to identify Trisha's killer in order to knock; the door creaks on its hinges and swings open beneath my palm, providing me with a panorama of the penthouse.

The hotel room is utterly deserted.

There are drinks everywhere, present in the form of half-drunk glasses and opened bottles, some overturned and others stacked haphazardly on the surface of the piano. I almost stumble as I make my way into the hallway; there are shoes, stiletto shoes, two pink pairs, two black pairs, left abandoned on the carpet. The smell of perfume is overpowering, and there are numerous purses and bags lying discarded on the bar counter; a feminine carnage.

I hear a noise from one of the adjacent rooms – a muted thud, something weighted – but opt against calling out. Instead, I move hesitantly, careful to keep silent, and listen against the door.

All is unnervingly quiet.

Sincerely hoping my one lead has not been brutally murdered by this stiletto-wearing stampede, I push open the door–

And regret it instantly.

He's here, all right, although it's hard to determine where he starts and the various women end: there are an awful lot of limbs, moving limbs, bare and bronzed in the soft candle light, and clothes scattered around the bed. I can just about make out his head, his hair, dark amongst the blonde and scarlet waves of his company, and the occasional hand. The noises issuing from the room – now full volume – could give the brothel soundtrack a run for its money.

I've spent seven excruciating months in the sex industry, but the sheer indulgence of this heated gathering is enough to turn my cheeks an embarrassing shade of red. I make some inhuman noise of exclamation, back away, and turn to make my very prompt exit.

"Wait-"

The noises subside. I hear the women shift, restlessly. I turn around for a second time.

An uncomfortable silence ensues.

The redhead stops what she is doing, and looks me up and down. "Is she joining?"

I do not like the effort I have to put into shaking my head.

Ivan struggles against the women currently fighting for a position on his lap, and blinks – but while his hair is thoroughly mussed and his lips are flushed scarlet, he does not look out of his depth. How he manages to maintain his gravitational allure in a situation like this, I do not know, and I decide to ignore the impact this unprecedented visual has on my pulse.