Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LX - King of Hearts

-Emily-

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I examine the cards between my fingers; the unsmiling mouth of the queen, lips painted red, her crown shaded blue, her robes printed in miniature hearts. The king regards me through pinprick eyes, staff raised as if to ward off my gaze, accompanied by a pair of sharp aces and soft, lobed clubs. I don't need to look up to know that people are watching me, waiting for my reaction – I refrain from looking at Ivan entirely, for fear of cracking under this new pressure.

Slowly, I place my stack of roubles in front of me. I push the poker chips forwards. I take a deep breath.

I spread my cards out on the table.

There is a moment of silence, as people observe the impossible.

And then there is uproar.

I am at the centre of chaos; everyone is on their feet, shouting, cheering, and I am slapped across the back multiple times, one of which is so brutally celebratory I almost chip a tooth against the edge of the pool table. Ivan shouts something in triumph then takes my head in his hands, kissing my cheek twice; rapturously gleeful.

Betting money is exchanged. Those who snorted at the prospect of the English woman with the unkempt hair – Ivan Yakovich's shocking substitute – beating Pyotor Kakenov hand over their lost money, bitter-faced and unsmiling. Vodka is poured into little, crystal shot glasses, I have three pre-paid drinks passed to me, someone hammers a countdown on the table, the alcohol is swallowed. I am lifted to my feet. Strangers shake my hand. I have others kiss my cheek, although not quite as ecstatically as Ivan. I'm spun around, clapped, shouted at. Roubles are pressed into my palm.

"Спасибо," I say, as I am congratulated again and again. "Спасибо."

Ivan forces his way through the crowd, coming to a halt at my side.

"You see," he says, taking my arm. "You are every bit a gambler."

"I'll let you have some of the credit. You're not a bad teacher."

He laughs, and, after disentangling us from the clutches of our company, says we make quite the team. As we move to walk away I find myself in a state of numb speculation: I can't comprehend that two months have passed since my arrival in Russia. English existence seems almost intangible, the penthouse a distant recollection, Jim a name at the very back of my mind. I rarely dwell on the events of that fateful evening – and when I do find myself drawn back to those darker memories, toeing the line between sanity and doubt, I seek out Ivan, who returns my mind to current affairs painlessly and without guilt.

It is a very effective system.

After we left the street dance in Red Square some eight weeks ago, I threw myself into hacking with an energy I thought I'd lost. From Ivan's suite I picked apart governments; I leaked information, sold people's secrecy, transferred the non-transferable into the hands of those with deeply questionable intentions. Ivan told me not to worry about government interference. He said in Russia, law enforcement was hardly a priority.

In hindsight, I think he'd been pulling some strings in order to keep me under the radar. I was far from subtle in my destruction – and yet no legal action was taken against my unscrupulous activity. Safiya told me Ivan was notorious for his connections with prominent Russian politicians, so I expect a certain degree of bribery came into it.

The marvellous thing about Russia is the sheer outspokenness of its criminals. It took a couple of weeks of dedicated cybercrime before I was contacted by a group of exclusively female hackers interested in my work. Ivan translated their message for me and invited them to his suite. He said he knew them well, and that he thought they were very much my kind of people.