Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XVII - The One to Watch

-Emily-

~~~~~~

I press my lips together, ensuring that the matte plum pigment of my lipstick is applied evenly and without irregularity, and step back from the mirror.

Everything is polished, from the newly-plucked arc of my eyebrows to the fiercely red underside of my Louboutins. It has been a very, very long time since I last wore something so tailored; the lapels of my blazer are aligned with sharp precision, the fabric is gathered at the waist and the straight-hemmed skirt brushes the tops of my knees, following the curves of my hipbone and minimising the unpleasant jut of my skeletal frame.

I am undoubtedly and unexpectedly starting to recover from my grim grapple with alcoholism. Withdrawal is still all-consuming; I am always parched, my skin has been made permanently sallow, I have aged five years in the space of one and I am sure the condition of my liver is a medical atrocity - but it is getting better. The hours spent pounding punching bags and training my body to respond to stimulus quickly and without mercy are beginning to pay off. I am slowly regaining weight in the form of muscle mass, my sinews are strengthening, and my stamina is, whether I want to admit it or not, improving radically.

I secure my hair in place with the snap of a band and look down, taking in the changes to my external mien. It is all about the details; the delicate silk stitching on the rounded collar of my shirt, the silver-capped pin fixed to the oxblood tie, the matching cuff links, the sheer tights, the exquisite material of my blazer and skirt - a navy satin the colour of deep, blue ink, lined with scarlet silk.

I twist left, then right, admiring the authority these unfamiliar clothes provide me with.

The most difficult aspect of surrendering my sense of morality was learning to walk steadily in these shoes.

However, I do not live without regret. A day does not go by where I am not plagued with doubt, and I have come very close to walking out of the building and away from this enticing death-trap with its absence of alcohol and lack of integrity.

But I am still here.

I reach for my glass bottle and unscrew the little garnet cap, spritzing a scent reminiscent of the remnants of lust that remained in my blood upon purchasing the perfume on that definitive morning. It's not so much vanity as it is a reminder of the person I have chosen to become and the woman I have left behind. 

It is all about intimidation, he said. I was told to exude control and remorseless ferocity.

I step out of the room feeling like I have, for the first time in months, succeeded in that effort.

I find Jim waiting by the lift, tapping his fingers against the glass screen of his phone. He must acknowledge the click of my heels on the marble, for he looks up, suddenly, and he smiles. It is a slow smile, a savouring smile, and one that is every bit as sadistic as it is appreciative.

"Impressive."

I do not give him the gratification of a reaction.

Instead, I walk past him - careful not to sway or trip or highlight the cracks in my composure - into the lift. He joins me and, after pressing the button that will take us to the second floor of the penthouse, the lift doors close, and we ascend in silence. In these particular shoes I stand at a good inch taller than him, and this serves only to fuel the deep-rooted, arguably unwholesome feeling of satisfaction I am deriving from something as simple as a change in attire.

The doors open and we exit the lift, continuing in silence as we approach the meeting room. There is a woman, presumably one of Jim's hired security members, standing outside with a scowl on her face, a laptop under her arm and a gun in her pocket.