Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXI - Execution

-Emily-

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He takes a step forwards, out of the shadowed alcove: the door swings on its hinges, settles, then stops. All is silent, save for Millie's ragged breathing.

His proximity is devastating.

Ivan doesn't react, doesn't move, doesn't take his eyes off the ghost woman in the corner of the room. He's taller than I remember, more svelte; lean muscle. His chest rises and falls beneath the black fabric of his t-shirt, and I imagine I can see the trembling beat of his heart under the skin – I felt it when I first arrived in Moscow, when he put his testing fingers on the side of my waist and guided me away from a potential brawl. I felt it when we waltzed our intoxicated waltz around the coffee table, when I was clutching the material at the small of his back for balance. I felt it when we lay in the snow-flecked shadow cast by night's blue haze, when my cheek was pressed against his chest, while his hand rested on the curve of my hip beneath the sheets.

He does not blink.

He's flushed-faced, breathless, clearly having fought his way free from the waiters in the restaurant. There's evidence of a struggle; his shirt is twisted, slightly creased where a hand once held purchase, and his blazer sits crookedly on his shoulder. I sense Millie shift to my right. He moves to reach out. I mirror him instinctively; defensive in my yearning.

He registers my presence for the first time.

His expression doesn't change. There's no murderous glower, no perceptible sadism – only a faint glimmer of acknowledgement, as if he's finally put a name to my face.

He wets his lips, then nods in the direction of the restaurant.

"You are not alone?"

His voice is agonisingly familiar. He keeps his tone smooth, untouched by the externalised agitation – it's jolting in its normality; I associate it with an ingrained happiness, a stability of self, a desire that laps the edges of my consciousness. It hasn't changed. I wish he'd changed. If he looked like the man capable of sexual assault, if he sounded like the monster who left women on pavements with gaping throats and flowered adornments, perhaps I could bring myself to loathe him.

When I don't reply, he gets to the crux of his question.

"The detective. Is he with you?"

My silence is my answer. Millie makes a noise that could be interpreted as Sherlock's name.

"You are trying to take her away?"

I nod, mutely captivated.

"It cannot happen," he says. He steps forwards again. "You know that."

He moves slowly, unthreateningly, and places his palm on my arm to lower it–

It is a trigger.

In that moment, I am granted access to the place in my mind that has remained under lockdown since my arrest: I see the door I paused in front of, feel fear, then reassurance, then the prick of a knife at my throat. I re-live the fall from corridor to room, the fall from my sweet surrealism to reality. I see the room with its flowers and its Polaroid photographs and its paintings. The betrayal burns: Jim's betrayal, his betrayal, the betrayal of self. He never loved me. It's the first time I've admitted it, and I see the four words seared into my vision as if branded. The pain peaks. My control disintegrates.

I strike him across the face with resonating vehemence.

Millie covers her eyes with her hands. Ivan is knocked off balance: I watch him stagger, catch himself on the towel rail and straighten up, regaining his equilibrium.