Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XCV - Bluebird

-Emily-

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"Where's mine?"

Moran snorts, pouring his whiskey into a shallow glass. "Look at yourself. You're off your face."

"One glass."

"This isn't yours to drink."

"It's not yours either." When he remains silent, I stand up. "Fine. I'll get it myself–"

The whiskey bottle is placed in front of me with a little too much force to be considered an act of friendly generosity. I sit back down, slowly, and take hold of my prize before he can change his mind.

Moran tips back his head and clears the contents of his glass unflinchingly, in one grim mouthful. I study him through narrowed eyes. He's remarkably unchanged; still packed with unnecessary muscle, his shirt straining with it, shoulders broad and sloped and sleeves stretched taut around his forearms. He wears his tie loose, his top buttons undone. His gun lies on the table next to his glass, but I know he carries another in his belt and has several flat-edged knives at his disposal. Assassins don't get time off. It wouldn't surprise me if he slept with one between his teeth.

For all his brawn, however, he looks tired: his face has thinned considerably, his eyes dulled, his jaw dark with stubble and set in a perpetual grimace. I continue studying him as I take a poorly co-ordinated swig from the bottle. He is out of place here, like me. We sit as testaments to poverty – while this suite lacks the gold-coated, gold-carpeted luxury of the Yakovich penthouses, it is breathtakingly expensive, ludicrously so; all of it cut-glass, all of it black marble and white stone and corners so lethally sharp they could slit skin. In the dark, the glass glints like the lenses of nocturnal animals. It serves to unsettle.

"Where is he?"

"God knows." Moran takes the bottle from me and pours himself another double shot. "He was in the Philippines last month. Something about drug raids and massacres."

I wince at the potency of my priceless poison and, after another uncomfortable silence, address him directly.

"Why am I here?"

Moran's mouth twists in a dry, humourless smile. He finishes his second drink, returns the glass to the surface with a dull crack and then looks up at me.

"He ruined us." I open my mouth to speak, but am cut short as he continues, "Everyone. Jim's off the damn rails – he lost it when he took you, should have seen him, almost sent an airstrike over Moscow – and everyone knows it. He's losing influence. Look at me. No boss, no jobs, no cash. It's all gone to shit. You," he says, gesturing towards me with his glass, "you've lost the most. Yakovich ruined us, but he destroyed you."

"I didn't come here to be reminded."

"You came here to forget. I'm not thick." His voice loses its pointed edge. "I'm telling you that Jim isn't your answer, not anymore. He won't let you forget."

"Don't pretend you know my motives," I snap. "I don't need your pity."

Moran laughs. "I know you shag strangers in their cars for a quick hit – don't look at me like that,
I'm an assassin, it's my job to know what filth you white-collar types get up to. I recognise self-medication when I see it."

"Your point?"

"My point," says Moran, "is that I get it. Self-medication. Sex, alcohol, cocaine, whatever. I don't give a damn. I've done it all, and I'll do them again. Just don't look to Jim for relief. Not now. You won't find it."