Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXI - Queen of Hearts

-Emily-

~~~~~~

Two weeks later and I am, to all intents and purposes, a married woman.

There was no ceremony, no sickening white cake, no uncomfortable speeches, and certainly no dress. It's one of the benefits of having a conman for a fiancé. The documents were forged and printed within a matter of days, and the signing was a twenty minute procedure; quick, efficient, and perfectly painless, Ivan's looped italics next to my scrawled signature, over and over again, in Russian and in English, so that the law would recognise us as a duo rather than two, separate individuals.

This was my doing. I'm sure Ivan, had he had his way, would have wanted the white wedding of the century. The missed opportunity for opulence must have near killed him, but I downright refused to endorse such romantics. He did, however, insist on the exchanging of rings – he said he was a traditionalist at heart, and could I humour him on this one occasion? I did, somewhat begrudgingly. He'd evidently chosen the wedding rings carefully – a gold so white it appears silver, nothing flashy, carved with the two names and the date – so I couldn't complain.

It's late, now. The last document was signed hours ago. It's very strange, having two bands of metal on one finger, very surreal. I'm waiting for Ivan to return – he had a client to con straight after the signing, and said he'd be back later this evening. I busied myself with some spontaneous hacking, but restlessness soon prevailed: I took to lighting every candle in the room and, when completed, began flicking the lighter, aimlessly apathetic, watching the flame lap the oxygen from my air.

Some time later, the door clicks, and I look up, snapping the lighter lid shut and snuffing the flame. Ivan steps into the room, ruffled, hair damp from melted snow, his blazer over one arm. He's got a bottle in his hand.

I twist in my seat, crossing my arms over the sofa armrest.

"You're late," I say. "On our wedding night. Unacceptable."

"Mr Sofyokov was not a friendly client," says Ivan. He shuts the door behind him. "So sorry."

"I might forgive you," I say, letting one arm hang; brushing the floor with my fingertips. "If you beg."

He laughs as he lays his blazer across the counter, combing back the stray strands of hair from his forehead and crossing the room. I watch him set the bottle down on the little side table.

"We shall see. And you?" he says, lifting my legs and sitting down beside me. "You were successful in your coding?"

I swivel onto my back. "I sold the CIA's file on nuclear development to Putin's friends. Not bad, for an hour's work."

Ivan smiles, his fingers tapping out a beat on my shin. "I am impressed."

He reaches for the vodka and holds it up to the light: I see gold flakes shift and settle, fragments of paper-thin glitter. He pours it and I watch, fixated, as they float, suspended flecks of tarnished metal, rose-tinted liquid.

I am handed a champagne flute.

It tastes sweet; notes of fruit, the gold intangible. We talk in low voices, softly, and drink until those voices muffle and the room sways gently on its axis. Once I've drained the contents of my glass, I stretch, the candlelight catching the yellow undertones of my skin; gold blood in clear veins. I look up. Ivan is watching me, his head to one side, enquiringly.

"What?"

His teeth reflect little crescents of light as he smiles.

"You are a very beautiful woman, Ms Schott."