Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXVII - Hunting Trophy

-Emily-

~~~~~~

I pick up the lipstick and I run it across my bottom lip, smoothing the waxy pigment into the skin and outlining it in an alarming shade of rouge. My fingers remember what my mind does not; I dust bronzer across both cheeks, snap the plastic lid of my compact shut, line my eyes thickly with kohl and layer pink powder onto the caked surface of my face. There is a moment's pause, and then I press the false lashes to my eyelid – very nearly ripping off a layer of skin whilst trying to detach my finger from the glue – and adjust the sheer scraps of lace around my chest and hips. Finally, I tug the band from my hair, letting it fall around my face; a veritable halo of frizz-furled ringlets varying in sheen and size.

Then I reach for the dress.

I swallow, and hold it up. What was once scarlet has faded to a defeated, dirtied pink, worn in places and torn in others. It is stained with a number of substances I don't particularly want to dwell on and, as I struggle with material that clings to my thighs and strains at my arms, I realise just how thin I used to be – or, more accurately, how much muscle mass I have built up since.

I avoid the mirror entirely, choosing to fasten the straps of my scuffed stilettos and exit promptly; I do not want to see the rebirth of a dead, red woman.

As I cross the hallway and descend the crystal staircase, I'm thinking. My mind is wired, buzzing with a new and ferocious energy; do I return to my old haunt, where Wren Kowalski was picked up from the brothel, or do I target the roads surrounding Baker Street? Ivan's white-collar criminal status and anti-fear policy has been invaluable in collecting information on the invisible – I received the message this afternoon and have not been able to rest since: he sent me a simple: "Try tonight. IY", which, in itself, is more progressive than any information I have been able to retrieve so far–

"Going out?"

I freeze, my fingertips millimetres from the doorknob. I withdraw my hand. Jim's voice is close, so I turn around; he's leaning against the bar counter, in the dark, holding a glass – which is currently filled with wine so expensively potent, it is more black than red in its colouring.

I meet inquisition with aggression. "What's it to you?"

"Can't a man be curious?"

I frown at his tone. It is light-hearted, teasing in its joviality. He's either forgotten the details of our last conversation, or, more likely, his warped mind – contorted further by the alcohol – has twisted his irritation into dark humour.

"Yes," I say, cautiously. "I'm going out."

He raises an eyebrow at my attire. "Interesting dress choice."

"It's necessary."

"Back to streetwalking already?" Jim lifts the glass to his lips, pausing before he drinks. "Am I truly that unfulfilling in bed?"

I feel my jaw clench. "Call it undercover work."

"Oh," says Jim, eyes wide with mocking realisation. "I see. We're going Iris hunting, are we? Trying to kill the killer?"

"Something like that," I say, through gritted teeth.

"You care so much." He downs the contents of his glass, head back, and finishes it in one. "It's excruciating."

I laugh, disbelievingly. "Are you drunk?"

"I prefer the term 'pleasantly intoxicated'."

"On wine? You're a beginner. And a hypocrite. Try something stronger next time."