Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXX - Aphrodisiac

It is out of his control.

He puts his hipflask down and, after waiting for the road to stop swaying, pulls out of the lay-by.

The distant cry of a siren forces him to increase his speed. He revs the engine – an instinctive, precautionary measure that helps lower the thrum of his heartbeat. Driving controls his nerves; he presses the clutch down, moves into a higher gear and feels the car hum in appreciation. It's a priceless vehicle imported directly from Moscow – a low-roofed, black-glossed piece of craftsmanship with the ability to tear through streets and stir litter in gutters. The dial above his wheel shows sixty-five miles per hour, then seventy: a speed camera flashes as he turns down a smaller road, but he ignores it. He changes his number plate more frequently than he changes his name.

The corner approaches without warning.

He misjudges it entirely, his mind blurred by alcohol and vehicle losing traction on the rain-slicked tarmac–

He turns too quickly, sees her too late.

He slams both feet down, his head snapping forwards with the force of collision; the woman hits the bonnet, her body spinning like a hurled ragdoll, mouth open and glasses shattering in a burst of crystal fragment.

She hits the ground, heavily.

He forces the car to a halt, curses in Russian and opens the door, the engine steaming beneath the crumpled bonnet. He looks around frantically. No witnesses. There is blood on his forehead. He can't hear any sirens.

The woman is lying face-down, her hair fanned over the back of her dented skull and arms beneath her body. He turns her over, asks her if she can hear him, feels for a pulse with fumbling fingers. He knows he won't find one.

He's experienced enough of the lifeless to know death when he sees it.

The certainty of her state calms him. There will be no rush, this way, no last-minute grapple for life. She's been spared the anguish of failing survival. He feels the panic begin to ebb, lets her soft fingers fall limp from his own, and begins studying her in earnest.

She has a truly pretty face.

It is the white-black contrast he craves; her skin is porcelain in its paleness, her hair dark and beginning to break free of its straightened artificiality in the humidity. Her eyes are a little green for his liking, but she is of the right physique, the correct balance between ethereal fantasy and reality. Her lip has been cut open from top to bottom and her spine snapped clean in two, judging by the unnatural curve of her back, and yet she retains her poise. On her left breast pocket she has a badge – the plastic cracked and ink smudged – reading a name and franchise. A fast-food employee. She still smells of oil, although she's tried to disguise it with perfume, but her warmth and grace and red mouth captivate him with each passing second.

He forces himself to stop, and attempts to chase the feeling out of his head. He's avoided touch for so long. He must stay faithful to her, while he's waiting – but Бог, this one tempts him, draws him closer with her wanton expression.

The rain beats down on her open face. He lifts her, sighing at the dense weight, the loll of her head, the internal crack of shattered bone shifting.

She is an aphrodisiac.

He chides her for seducing him, speaking softly under his breath as he holds her against the metal in order to open the car door. He lays her down across the back seat, careful not to crease her clothing, and then steps out into the rain, scanning the surroundings once more. Her broken glasses glint dully against the kerb. There is no-one around.