Emily's POV
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I'm staring blankly into a dress shop; I have no idea how to even start this process. The prices are ridiculous, and I'm the kind of person who lives in jeans and t-shirts so I don't actually know what I'm looking for. This just adds to the obscure nature of the evening ahead of me; I'm going to a Hotel credited by the government for it's security, to meet a consulting criminal, wearing a dress. However, I can understand why I have to be so elaborately attired. In a place where three quarters of the inhabitants are familiar with the UK's most wanted, if I turn up looking like me, I'll be arrested on site.
I sigh heavily, and give in. I walk into the dress shop, shoulders squared, nose wrinkled in distaste.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes. I'm looking for a dress..."
She looks at me like I am utterly imbecilic.
"Right. What's the event?"
"Er.." my mind goes blank. I can't exactly tell her I'm going to a hotel to illegally extract information.
I remember the women at the Waterbrook hotel.
"Ballroom..?"
"Lovely, well, let's see.. do you have a colour in mind?"
"Not particularly. Nothing too bright."
She sighs at my vague answer, and asks for my size. Ten minutes later, she resurfaces, clutching a stack of boxes.
I don't have time for this.
"I'll take.. that one," I say, pointing at a random box, praying that it isn't pink and lacy.
"But, you don't-"
"How much?"
She regards me uncertainly-
"£450"
Great.
"I'll take it," I say, brandishing my card. One advantage to being a criminal hacker; money isn't really a problem.
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It's 10:00PM. I inspect myself in my bathroom mirror.
The dress turned out to be black, very form-fitting and adorned with tiny black crystals. I'm not so sure about the split down one leg, or the strapless nature, but hey, it's not pink.
I've haphazardly piled my curls into what might be considered an updo, and decided to embrace the gothic splendour and opted for my black earrings complete with tiny skulls etched into the mock-diamond. I think I got them for a Halloween party years ago. I certainly don't look like Emily Schott, but I suppose that's rather the point.
I step into the intimidating black heels I bought with the dress, wobbling precariously around the room. How do people do this?! This is the first and last time I will ever wear stilettos. I step-shuffle out of my apartment, feeling ridiculous as I grip the banister, descending the grubby staircase to my awaiting taxi. Some men loitering in the lobby look at me, surprised, but they know me better than to wolf-whistle or make suggestive remarks. I would break their necks.
I collapse into the taxi, relieved at the prospect of sitting down. How am I going to survive this evening? I'm genuinely concerned that I'll be arrested as soon as I get within a ten metre proximity of the place- it's crawling with police. How did Moriarty get past them? He's even more infamous than me, especially after all the post-reichenbach news hit the papers.
I suppose I'll find out.
As we draw up to Rusbridge, my mouth drops. It makes Westbrook Hotel look like a shanty house. I pay my fare, and hesitantly get out of the vehicle. This is a bad idea. The floodlit entrance is teeming with people; people in suits and dresses not dissimilar to my own. I can now see why I was instructed to dress up. There are too many people here. It's a gathering. As I slowly and teeteringly make my way over to them, my stomach clenches.
YOU ARE READING
Side of the Angels ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book II} *UNDER EDITING*
Fanfic"That is not danger," said he. "It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organisation, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realise. You must stand clear...
