Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter C - A New Reign

-Emily-

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I'm not entirely sure how I found myself sat here, in this ostentatious restaurant, in my wine-spattered shirt and damp jeans, opposite Irene Adler. The room buzzes with restrained energy. I'm still somewhat intoxicated, which doesn't help the clarification process: I dimly remember being hauled to my feet and sat on the sofa, given a tea towel to daub the blood from my hands, left to calm down like a disgraced child. Sure enough, the spike of anger began to dissipate, and, after my little time-out, I began to come to my senses.

The first thing my stilled mind prompted was an investigation of the damage done. I'd stood up – and fallen back down again, felled by a wine-induced swell in my skull – then stood again, and made my unsteady way around the coffee table and into the kitchen. Just half an hour before, I'd been the eye of this proverbial storm – and yet, in that moment, I was an observer, and I took it all in with the growing dread of an unsuspecting witness. Chaos is a dramatic understatement. Devastation comes closer in describing the destruction laid out in front of me: in my flare-up, I'd succeeded not only in snapping the kitchen tap in two, but also flooding the room. Someone – Irene presumably – had tied another tea towel around the wrenched metal to staunch the water; a gingham tourniquet, and yet the pipes continued to expel their clear blood with suicidal determination.

Such was the extent of the kitchen dousing, the overflow had moved from tile to carpet. I could feel it under my feet as I walked. My weapon of choice, the kitchen chair, floated on the water surface in little chips and bars and metal brackets. I remember reaching down and retrieving a dismembered chair leg, holding it like a dripping baton and taking in the warped gas rings, the broken freezer door, the cracked microwave screen and patchwork of chipped tiles.

I saw it all, and I felt sick.

Irene chose that moment to make her reappearance, shimmering in a satin dress I'd never seen and adorned with coordinating emeralds; one at each earlobe, two wide green bracelets and a single, glittering gem resting at the hollow of her collarbone. Each step was accompanied with the crystal clink of heel tips on broken glass.

"Are you bringing that with you?" she asked, setting her clutch on the counter. I looked down at my wooden accessory. "I'm not sure they'll let you. It's rather select. I don't think kitchen furniture makes the dress code."

"Bring it where?"

"Out." Irene inspected her teeth for lipstick in her compact mirror. "I wasn't joking, darling. I've got a reservation for seven."

"I can't go."

"Of course you can."

I gestured at the devastation. "I've got to leave."

"And abandon me? I need a dining partner."

I'd opened my mouth to tell her that I couldn't possibly come with her, not when I'd just lashed out in such spectacular fashion, not after I'd shown her those awful vulnerabilities that I'd previously restrained in some padded cell of my consciousness. I prepared to decline her invitation and pack my limited belongings for imminent departure, but all that came out of my poor, alcohol-muted mouth was a hoarse sound that could be interpreted as protest. I was manoeuvred from kitchen battlefield to stairs to taxi backseat.

Irene leans forward. I can smell her perfume; if it were a colour, it'd be coral, lightly floral, musk, vanilla, feminine allure. She emits it like heat. I breathe it in, unsure whether it is the temperature of this restaurant, the remaining wine in my blood or the woman in front of me that is making it so very difficult to focus. Her ankle brushes mine beneath the table as she talks, and she crosses her wrists, lacing her fingers together.