Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXIII - Red Roses

The limousine turns a corner; drinks spill, the music stutters and drunken cheers sound as men slide in their seats. The women keep their balance, keep their lipstick smiles in place, for this is a frequent occupational hazard and one they have come to predict. The dance doesn't stop: they move in spangles and leather, skin slicked with spilt champagne and hair lightly tousled, blinking their heavy lashes and performing for their lecherous audience – only, on closer inspection, they're not women at all. They're girls. Young girls, their soft faces aged with powder, thickened under cracked liquid, lips gashed scarlet and nails made talons; little, ovular chips of painted plastic glued in place. They dance with alarming synchronisation, arms up, legs hooked around the silver poles, spinning with the slow, sensual gravity only those who sell their bodies have perfected.

One man – a particularly greasy variation of pervert – reaches out with paper banknotes in his hand. The nearest girl accepts them with an empty smile on her face and tucks them under the wire of her lingerie. She sits on his lap, straddling him carefully so not to tear the sequins from her leotard. Her feet barely touch the ground, but her height proves no deterrent: his fingers find her waist and he kisses her deeply, with filthy intention. She can taste the liqueur on his tongue.

There is only one individual who does not contribute to the laughter and the shouts and the pulsing sound. He sits on the periphery of the elongated seat, resting one elbow on the speaker set. Unlike the others with their champagne flutes and their tumblers of liqueur, he keeps a silver hipflask on his lap. He doesn't smile.

He finds this company revolting, these rich perverts and paedophiles and wealthy businessmen with a penchant for the prepubescent. They're vile men, loveless men, set on selfish satisfaction, callously cruel towards the women they claim to adore – but they are one of the few criminal groups so low, so base in their moral standings, they do not recoil at the nature of his so-called crime. They couldn't care less, as long as their lives aren't threatened. As long as they get their fill.

He needs the distraction.

The cogs of his mind have been grinding against each other, wearing themselves down. His focus has disintegrated. She comes to him at night, in sleep, in the evening, in the afternoon, in the early, purple hours of the morning. He finds himself succumbing to violent fantasy mid-conversation, pushing past crowds to get a better glimpse of his white ghost. He sees her standing just beyond touching distance and, when reached for, feels her crumble like aged paper beneath his fingers. He speaks into silence, addresses her only to find she's not really there. He's given up trying to find work, given up trying to be careful. She won't let him be careful. This is his attempt at regaining some control over his thoughts: immersing himself in the gritty world of sex and alcohol and sweat.

It isn't working.

There's a high-pitched whine in his skull – it's worsened with each new day – and his head falls forwards, numb. She hasn't come back. Why hasn't she come back? At first, he thought his paper trail was too heavily disguised, too clever. As his desperation increased, he decided he'd put himself at risk; he signed Ivan Yakovich on sign-out sheets, over and over again, praying she'd see it before the police did. He sits up at night waiting, spends hours leaning against hotel windows and watching the miniature people move like beetles through the streets, paces soft compressions into carpets. Paranoia set in a few days ago; he sleeps with his knife – a newly imported piece of engraved ivory – under his pillow, and jerks upright every time footsteps sound in the hotel corridor. Still she does not come. Doubts are picking away at his unwavering assuredness bit by excruciating bit, plucking flesh from bone.