Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter II - Broken Bodies

-Emily-

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I bring the cigarette to my lips and inhale; a deep, swelling expansion of my rib cage, the combination of tobacco, fine grey ash and air — made thick and heavy with mist — forced through narrowed vessels, into my lungs.

I close my eyes.

There is something quite beautiful in self-destruction. It is an art form, a skill, and one that I am beginning to master.

I breathe out and open my eyes, watching unnamable smoke shapes curl and twist and fade, the acrid smell of burning chemicals soothing, not scaring.

A car drives past.

I almost curse. I wasn't paying attention. Carver — the man responsible for both the maintenance of his brothel and the bruising on my face — told me there was a method to attracting clients; a stance, a look, an open flirtatiousness that I simply cannot replicate.

I'm already at a disadvantage. At thirty-three I am considered used, well past my prostitute prime. There are younger girls, fresh out of school, with full lips and smooth foreheads; an innocence that appeals to all ages. They're the ones who get picked for brothel duty. It is the people like me who are told to stay on the streets. Smoking certainly doesn't help my image. It's unattractive, he says. No car means no client, and no client means no money.

That's what I see people as now. Money. Money with dark, lusty intentions and sick disregard for human probity.

I lift the cigarette back to my lips. It takes me a moment to find my mouth, for my fingers are shaking involuntarily; it is bitterly cold, and withdrawal set in this morning. If I'm lucky I'll make a few hundred pounds tonight, and be able to purchase the vodka before tomorrow brings its dead cycle of sleep and sex.

The stuttering growl of a motorcycle engine shatters my dark reverie, and I shake my head to clear it – a bike is slowing down as it approaches my corner, its driver unidentifiable behind the reflective curve of his helmet.

I drop the cigarette, grinding it into the concrete with the chipped tip of my heel, and stand up a little straighter. Remember, I remind myself: chest pushed out, eyes cast down, coy, not inflammatory.

It is easier said than done.

I loathe this person standing on her street corner; I hate her indecent clothing, I despise her alcohol addiction, the decisions she's made, the friends she loved, the man who offered her immunity. I want nothing more than to wipe her off the face of this miserable Earth entirely.

"You expensive, darling?"

His voice is muffled, indistinct and unfamiliar. I suppress a sigh and smile; a false flash of teeth, flat-eyed and hollow.

"That depends." I brush imaginary dust from the jut of my chest. "Are you interested?"

The words are scripted, printed on cerebral paper, with each movement a painful performance. Truthfully, I want to beat this predatory payer until the pavement is dark and slick with scarlet –but then I won't get my money.

And so I talk and I tease and I laugh, earning precious seconds to set my resolve and certify my services. I almost cry with relief when he tells me he'll give me a ride to the nearest back street; the rest is relatively simple, as far as my involvement is concerned.

All I have to do is shut down my mind and pretend.

I straddle the back seat of the motorcycle with some difficulty, hoping against hope that my shoes last the journey. I cannot afford another pair and I don't think I can manage my shifts without them, standing on asphalt with bare feet.