The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Six

Stars glittered in the clear night sky, and dark waves lapped rhythmically against the side of the boat. A cool wind whipped at Sherlock's hair bringing with it damp, oil, and brine. Pleasant if not for the revelry around him. Whoever had decided to crowd six hundred guests onto a riverboat on the Thames should be tossed into a burlap sack and thrown overboard. Men and women way past their limit gyrated to raucous music on the lower deck. Their keening laughter and foolish antics grated on his nerves. He stood in the shadows, whisky in hand, and scowled. People were annoying.

He'd hoped the lingering chilly weather would have canceled the New Year's Eve event, but Scotland Yard had simply peppered the decks with heaters and then filled the empty spaces with people.

Sherlock wouldn't have set foot on the boat if Lestrade hadn't blackmailed him. His nostrils flared. This had to be Mycroft's fault. So what if Lestrade had only encountered his brother a handful of times? That was all it took for Mycroft to manipulate a malleable mind. While Lestrade might have followed through on the threat to revoke Sherlock's cold case access, it wouldn't have lasted long. A month at most. He could have survived, sanity intact until then. Possibly. That is, if all the murderers came back invigorated from their holiday and got back to murdering.

Naturally, John had jumped at the chance to spend time with Abigail and had left him to endure this agony alone. He glanced at his watch, but time refused to accommodate him by speeding up. His grip tightened on his glass. Thirty minutes until midnight. He only had to suffer through the fireworks, then the boat would return to the dock, and he could go home. He could manage that long. Movement caught his eye. Or not.

Sally Donovan swayed over to him, Anderson in tow.

Alcohol and idiots. Always a caustic combination.

"Hello, freak," Donovan sang out.

Anderson didn't bother to acknowledge him as he was far too busy staring at Donovan's cleavage, a flush staining his pasty face.

Sherlock remained silent. Perhaps if he ignored them, they'd shove off.

"No one will miss you if you slip Lestrade's leash and swim home," Donovan said, with an acid smile.

Anderson snickered.

Sherlock had briefly considered it, but he wasn't about to ruin a good suit. Tossing Donovan overboard was far more appealing.

She drained her wine glass. "God, you really are a freak, standing here in the dark, all alone. Are you even human?"

The breeze picked up again, and a hint of jasmine whispered through the salty air. Odd. Odder still was the hand that slid into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

He swung around, prepared to berate whoever dared-

Vivian smiled, all lipstick bright and white teeth. "Sorry I'm late."

The boat rocked beneath his feet, and his internal compass spun. What was she doing here? He hid his surprise with a frown. "Tardiness to parties is becoming a habit of yours."

One bare shoulder shrugged, and her silver cocktail dress shimmered. "I nearly missed the boat before it left the dock and then got distracted by the food. Can you blame me?"

"Yes." He blamed her right now for throwing him off balance.

She invaded his personal space and set one impossibly long leg between his feet. Her hand rose to touch his shoulder, then took a lingering path down his arm. A teasing glance through long lashes. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

Time froze and so did the breath in his lungs. A faint pulse of pain throbbed in his temples like a warning. Despite his stunned state, the neurons in his brain continued to fire. He noted that while her body was very much facing him, her eyes had made a subtle movement towards Donovan. A muscle in Vivian's jaw clenched, and her fingers dug into his arm. Anger. It simmered and seethed beneath her flirtatious smile. And for once, it wasn't actually aimed at him. Sudden comprehension gave him back his breath.