Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXV - Lisichka

-Emily-

~~~~~~

The nerves currently balling in my chest reach their peak upon entering the hotel.

It is the grandeur that terrifies me.

Coming from a penthouse that is slick and modern to the utmost degree, this is positively overpowering; it is opulent in its beauty, archaically romantic, all muted golds and creams and rich, rich purples. It's cloying, unreal, and doing nothing to alleviate the unpleasant cocktail of regret and doubt curdling in the pit of my stomach.

You don't see him.

This morning's acrimony is still painful in its potency; Jim did not leave his office, or give me any indication that his work offer still stood. It strikes me as an overreaction. I am perfectly entitled to meet with clients – and if Yakovich is prepared to pay the price for my services, then he is just that. A client. This irritation fuels my determination. I approach the reception, the tips of my heels sinking into the carpet at irregular intervals and taking the edge off my professionalism, and press a finger to the silver bell at the desk. The seated man looks up. I clear my throat, try hard to come across as official, and give him an entirely false name – complete with the "borrowed" documentation sourced from a government file.

I am given the go-ahead to continue past security.

Directly to my left is a staircase; a vast, marble staircase sporting a central red carpet and gold-brushed banisters, illuminated from above by a suspended chandelier. The people descending it are, much like the hotel itself, self-inflated, grand in their wealth and poise, royalty in their own right and very, very unlike me.

I swallow, and opt for the lift.

As I begin the ascension, I realise that I am sweating; the phrase 'sick with nerves' comes to mind. It seems appropriate. Sick. I feel nauseous, light-headed. Too hot. He doesn't know I'm coming – I didn't know I was coming until this morning – and there is a strong chance he'll be occupied elsewhere. He won't be in, I tell myself. I'm also very aware that, if I am caught here, if I'm recognised, Jim will know within the day. It is rebellion to an extreme.

I look down at the crumpled business card. The only instruction given is: The Terrace. I presume it's the top floor. My deliberation is proved correct; the lift doors open and I am faced with a corridor – a palatial corridor, the walls laden with thickly-layered oil paintings – that leads to a single door with a small, gold plaque reading the words on the business card.

As I walk, I find myself drawing an unintentional parallel between this and my walking of Jim's corridor on that unprecedented night. I was drunk, then, and bold with alcohol. I'm stone sober now – and fervently wishing otherwise.

The door comprises polished oak. I steel myself for a consequence, close my eyes, and knock twice.

There is no response.

I almost sag with relief: I knock again, purely to confirm the evident, then turn away, already planning how best to depart avoiding further notice–

I hear the lock turn.

I keep on walking.

The door is opened and, in my peripheral vision, I see his outline, casual against the doorframe.

"You are leaving so soon?"

I coerce myself to stop, and turn around. Ivan stands at the open door, smiling with half-genuine disapproval. He's almost identical to the man I met in the casino; still dressed in his black t-shirt, jacket and trousers, still ice-eyed, still obstinately Russian, still tall, still feverishly attractive.