Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XIX - Salted Wound

-Emily-

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I enter the lift with my bottle of expensive vodka – wrapped in a newspaper I purchased as means of concealment – with a smile on my face.

I wholeheartedly believed that withdrawal had loosened its grip around my throat, and hoped that a new vitality would soon flush the remnants of alcoholism from my system.

I thought incorrectly.

It became intolerable. I awoke to a tongue and throat rough with lack of moisture and a thirst that no quantity of water or coffee could quench. It was dehydration to an extreme; my head rung with it, my body burned with it, and I could not move from my state of self-induced paralysis for fear of heaving the contents from my stomach.

Upon quelling the worst of the nausea, I forced myself to undergo another round of fierce training as means of distraction. However, when my vision began to spot and the thirst became so excruciating I could scarcely remember my own name, what was left of my resolve disintegrated.

I left for the liquor shop immediately, still in my training gear, with my wrists and knuckles wrapped in tape and my skin brushed pink with exertion. I did not give myself time to think over my decision, nor did I look down at the purple lines of healing tissue etched into my skin. They are a reminder of what happened when I last succumbed to my outspoken inner alcoholic, and serve as a warning as to what will happen should I be caught today.

It is evening, and the sky has bruised from soft peach to dark grey. I watch the city in silence through the glass of the lift as I ascend, then exit quickly, moving quietly.

I have been alone in this penthouse for days. I should have nothing but my conscience to fear.

The desire to purchase my own accommodation has lessened somewhat. Perhaps it is laziness. I see no purpose in buying a squalid flat in some rough area of central London because my pride demands it so.

Besides, I like the spikes of adrenaline that accompany my current situation.

I tuck the bottle behind my pillow as a precautionary measure and leave it hidden whilst I shower. The water is soothing; gentle on the frayed, dried edges of my nerves, and I close my eyes, thinking back to the unpleasantries of that unfortunate business meeting.

He was livid.

The impulsive nature of my decision to exchange the confidential information on the hard drive for something as unimportant as a name did nothing to aid my cause. Jim did not speak after the room had been cleared. He simply stood up, gave me a look that told me I was nothing but a misjudgement on his part, and exited the premises, the tension in his shoulders the only indication of the wrath beneath the mask.

If truth be told, I was expecting a bullet to the back of the skull shortly afterwards.

I have not seen him since.

These events did not, however, stop me from doing some personal research into the elusive Mr Yakovich. The results were huge in their number but lacking in detail; I now know that he is a renowned con-artist and sponsor, made wealthy by endless gambling exploits and investments, and that he is, by criminal standards, easily contactable – but that is it. I could not find anything on his first name, or his current location. I have no images to go by, no photographs or uploaded content to reference. I don't know his age, his intention or his status, and although I can hazard a guess at his ethnicity, I cannot be sure.

It is rare to be so very cryptic in an age dominated by incriminating cyber evidence.

In regards to personal information, I found little to nothing. He frequents casinos – which is unsurprising given his occupation – and, from the few third-party comments I managed to uncover, his name is not one associated with fear or hatred. On the contrary, those who have passed remark on their interactions with him have been positively glowing in their praise.