Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXI - A Different Woman

-Millie-

~~~~~~

John's words have an immediate and unprecedented effect on my pulse.

It slows to a sickening, emphasised beat, drumming at the underside of my wrists and tapping against the skin of my neck; a deep, internal thump that accompanies this dark sense of precognition.

I force my wooden joints to move and, with some difficulty, I join John by the window.

The surrounding parkland is empty. I look around, taking in the lightless shadows between the trees and the scrubby transition from grass to concrete. There is nothing here.

And then I see her.

Time grates to a wholly unpleasant halt.

The thin lips set in a determined line. The round eyes, the straight nose, the slim ankles and wrists that contribute to an uncharacteristic femininity. Her stature has changed, her gait has been altered and she's wearing a suit, but it is absolutely and undeniably the woman I knew as Emily Schott.

The air in my lungs is forced from my system in one short, sharp exhalation.

She pauses and presses two fingers to her ear—I see an earpiece clipped into place; a small, delicate piece of equipment that makes her stop, turn around, and wait for two suited men to meet her on the concrete. They exchange conversation briefly. She nods. They load their pistols.

She begins to make her way towards us.

"Jesus..." John's voice is hoarse. "It's her. Why is it her?"

Shock stings. It is a laceration. A cold slice to the stomach.

My mind has been kick-started into overdrive.

Emily does not look at us as she walks. She keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the entrance to the gallery, head held high, stiletto shoes clicking in accordance with each very steady, very deliberate step. The conclusions I am drawing are grim, bleak in their similarity. I can't quite bring myself to believe the optical phenomenon in front of me. It's Emily, the broken alcoholic in our apartment—only now unrecognisably expensive; a clean-cut stranger.

We turn away from the window as the staccato footsteps pause at the entrance.

They enter as a trio; Emily stands at the front, her hands swinging loosely at her sides, the two armed men behind her, unsmiling and hard-set.

She is a different woman.

The weight has been stripped off her in layers; her face is hollow, her bone structure is a little too prominent to be considered fashionably angular and her hair—formerly tightly coiled and glossy—is considerably thinner. The rich olive undertone to her skin has yellowed, and alcoholism has painted her cheeks a permanent pink. That being said, she's clearly been building muscle mass rapidly. I can see it in her sinews, in the tautness of her calves and the way in which the sleeves of her suit fit snugly.  

She's wearing lipstick, too, a deep blue-red. It contrasts oddly with the shadows beneath her eyes. The row of silver studs that pierced her right ear from lobe to cartilage are gone. Her worn leather jacket and jeans have been replaced by this pricelessly tailored ensemble. Everything, from the tie around her neck to the manicured ovals of her nails, has undergone the same improbable overhaul.

She claps her hands together, the watch on her wrist flashing gold in the dimming light. It takes me a moment to connect the faint murmur with the voice talking to her via earpiece—a male voice, low and muted.

"Sorry I'm late." She gestures at the security cameras, dead on their hinges. "Technical difficulties."

I flinch at the sound of her intonation.