Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LI - Temptress

Emily moves, then. Jamie backs away automatically, I take a cautionary step to one side – but we are ignored as she approaches him, her expression thunderous. She comes to a short halt.

Jim regards her with lax amusement.

"Meet my brother."

The sound of her fist against his jawbone resonates with bone-cracking clarity – my hand goes up to my mouth, Jamie near drops his bottle in shock, and we watch as the smile is, quite literally, struck off James Moriarty's face.

"Bastard."

I keep quiet, fearful in the knowledge that sudden sound might re-direct her attention in our direction, and watch as she wrenches the door open – red-faced, eyes bright – then slams it shut, leaving the wood vibrating on its hinges. We listen to the harsh tap of her heels on the marble outside.

I swallow thickly. Jamie is noticeably shaken.

Moriarty traces the welt across his cheek, dabbing the blood with his finger and inspecting the smudge of red gloss on its tip. He smiles, then; a hollow smile, devoid of any real humour, all white teeth and no substance.

"Feisty, isn't she?"

~~~~~~

-Emily-

~~~~~~

I knock softly on the rosewood door, praying that I've located the correct hotel – twenty-four hours have elapsed since I left the penthouse, and I've spent my time in a cheap motel on the outskirts of Holborn, scouring digitalised hotel records and security footage to pinpoint his new location.

It certainly fits the trend. Ivan lives a life of intensive luxury, and there is no shortage of opulence here; it is everywhere, from the quartz flooring – white, veined with pink and flecks of silver – to the vast windows, draped in amber and heavy with beadwork. I wonder if it becomes tiring, this overindulgence, this gold-dusted world, this existence of alcohol and wealth and three-women-a-night.

If it is, he doesn't show it.

I'm restless as I wait, grappling with the anger that refuses to settle in my gut; that feeling, when I saw Millie and the brother locked in their awkward embrace, has not faded – it stings more than the smile on Jim's face when he walked into the room. He saw the violent manifestation of my disbelief, he saw the hurt. It is a decay, and one that has wormed its filthy way inside my skull and taken root, lashing the curved interior with rot – an emotion I can't afford to feel.

I loathe Jim for making me vulnerable.

Frustrated by the lack of response, I seize the door handle and force it down in temper. There's a click, a snap, and the sound of metal cogs scattering on quartz. I kick it open.

His blazer is hanging from a pearlised hook – the same simple, black piece with the satin lining – and I relax marginally, knowing I've found him and not some poor family on a celebratory holiday. I hear a noise from the adjacent room, something metallic, muted scraping, and I consider calling out, but I can't quite persuade my mouth to form words on command. There's food cooking, too – a distinctive, savoury smell I can't place.

Upon investigation, I find Ivan standing with his back to me in a deluxe kitchenette comprised of polished granite, preparing food, the hiss and spit of flame on metal a soft sibilance in the background. I watch him for a moment, as he reaches for the kitchen knife in its block, his shoulder blades sharp and muscle lean beneath the black fabric of his t-shirt.

I move softly, coming to a quiet halt behind him and inspecting the contents of the pan – something sautéed and decidedly vegan – before standing on the balls of my feet and lifting my mouth to his ear.