Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXI - Cold Blood

-Emily-

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I pause by the entrance and look around: it is intimidating in its noise and impressive in its architecture, all faux marble pillars and gold embellishment. The interior is dark, the gleam of polished mahogany and flash of jewellery visible to the outsider. I've driven past this establishment on occasion and have always labelled it as unpleasant, unaccustomed to the gaudy grandeur, but, now that I am stood by the iconic glass doors, I'm finding myself somewhat captivated, enticed by the click of plastic chips and overwhelmingly familiar smell of smoke and alcohol.

However, it is with some hesitancy do I step inside the casino.

The noise intensifies upon entering. I find myself surrounded by shouts and laughs and clinks of glasses – the discomfort is worsened by the way in which I am standing, alone, in the centre of this dim room; a solitary figure amidst groups of drinking, gambling addicts.

The crowds are gathered in clusters around various pool tables and their attire induces an internal lurch, for their sharp suits and fitted dresses make my ensemble look comparably shabby. I swallow and look down, realising that – yet again – I have overlooked the importance of external appearance. It is a reoccurring sensation that continues to leave me cursing my inability to gauge the situation at hand.

"You're early."

Irene's voice is relief personified. I turn to face her, prepared to make a flawed excuse and take my leave, but am forced to stop mid-lie. She's unrecognisable, an entirely different woman to the sad, grey, unremarkable person I met in the café two weeks earlier. She stands at eye level, now, taking full advantage of the additional height her stilettos provide her with. Like all the women here, she's dressed to kill, sporting a green dress that slopes from shoulder to shoulder and meets at a delicate point at the centre of her chest, the satin tapered at the hips and cut off below the knee. There's an awful lot of pale skin on display, and she's attracting attention from all sides of the room – which is, I suspect, her intention.

Irene does not mince words. "Does James know you're here?"

"No. He hasn't been back in weeks."

"Been back?" Irene tilts her head to one side. "You live with him?"

"It's a temporary measure," I snap.

"Strange. I never received an invitation," she says, pressing a hand to her heart and feigning hurt. "You're getting the star treatment."

She looks me up and down.

"What?"

"Not one for dressing up, are you?"

"I don't see the point," I lie. "I'm here for a meeting."

"We're in a casino. You're not a criminal heiress anymore. You're a gambler."

"I'm on business."

Irene rolls her eyes. "Come here." She turns me around with ease, slips her hands beneath the silk of my blazer, tugs it off, spins me on the spot, and begins undoing the buttons of my shirt with practiced effortlessness.

"Do we have to do this here?"

"We can go somewhere more private if you'd like. There's a classy strip club round the back," she says, brushing my shoulders down.

I smile in spite of myself. "Don't tempt me."

"You're hunching. Relax. I'm a professional," she says, reaching up and unclasping her diamond necklace, fastening it around my neck. She holds me at arm's length. "There. Not quite Bond villainess, granted – but you'd make a very sexy secretory."