Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LVII - Bloodsport

-Emily-

~~~~~~

The air is colder here. It's not chilled, or mildly numbing. It's brutal. It has a way of finding the gaps in my clothing, the thinner patches of fabric, and tracing the warm skin underneath with sharp fingers.

I look around, senseless and shivering.

The signs mean nothing to me. The sound of suitcase wheels on plastic merges with voices I can't understand, the click of heels, tapping tiles; together they form an unpleasant wash of background noise. It sets my frayed nerves on edge. The women here are hard-faced, dressed in heavy furs and spiked stilettos, while the men walk past with steely disregard for courtesy, both of them unafraid to make their irritation felt. Some of them snap at you, some use their shoulders to knock you off balance. Some roll their painted eyes.

Moscow airport is not an inviting place.

I swallow, hard. I'm hopelessly unprepared; I came here with a forged passport, a new phone – bought with the remainder of my savings – and a takeaway coffee. The flight was excruciating. The turbulence left me nauseated. I haven't slept in a staggering forty-eight hours. I feel foolish for underestimating the temperature.

Outside, snow starts pawing at the window; soft pats, blunt nails on glass. I'm very aware I'm running out of daylight hours and, with no spendable money and no contact, I don't particularly want to regress to life on the streets. At least it was mild in England. Here, if I don't get my throat slit in my sleep, I'll freeze to death.

Russia isn't a merciful country.

I exit the airport, hoping the unsmiling security men with their guns and their grey coats don't pick up on my nerves and haul me back for an interrogation. In front of the glass doors, I spot a line of taxis, each bearing strange symbols on their frosted roofs. I've got a handful of exchanged roubles in my pocket. I pray this will be enough.

The desire to escape this unforgiving cold prevails. I knock on the window of the nearest vehicle: the man inside is smoking, and he doesn't bother rolling down the glass – he simply makes a harsh gesture to the back seat. I climb in and sit down, trying not to cough. When no conversation is initiated, I clear my throat, holding out my phone and tapping the screen with the casino address.

The driver grunts in affirmation, flicks the ash from his cigarette and pulls away from the kerb.

My first impression of Moscow is not a pleasant one. It is consistently bleak, first grey, then white, all dark trees and tar and banks of dirty snow. Industrial cranes heave oil from wells, metal framework provides the scenery, and the copious concrete matches the sky; a deep, leaden grey, complete with snow flecks and uninspiring fog. The few people I see working on these grim construction sites look thoroughly miserable.

I can't imagine a man like Ivan living in a place like this.

As we drive into the heart of Moscow, however, things begin to look a little more promising. There is still an air of backwards degradation about the place, a disorder, the outdated hum of a city built on hardship; neon lights on shopfronts flicker, brutal Soviet constructions form the skyline, and, as we slow to a halt in the converging traffic, I see a vast sculpture – a silver woman bearing a sickle, a silver man wielding an oversized hammer. Communist mementos.

That being said, there is something raw about this place, this industrial powerhouse. It's palpable. Impressive. We're not in old Moscow, with its fairytale infrastructure and Tsarist tradition. This is something altogether more intimidating. We make a sharp turn down a smaller road – still three lanes wide, with a tram line running parallel to the road itself – and onto a central street. At night, with these fluorescent colours and shadowed building outlines, it is a fiercer New York City; the lights, the nocturnal buzz, minus the safety of a country built on stable foundations.