Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter IV - Sin

-Emily-

~~~~~~

The resultant vibrations of something heavy being dragged across the laminate flooring forces my mind to shake itself free of sleep's welcomed embrace; I turn over, grit my teeth, and – steeling myself for the flash of pain at the base of my skull – open my eyes.

As expected, the yellow light is excruciating.

I shift on the grubby polyester of my mattress and groan, lifting up weighted hands and holding my head, which, as a result of last night's habitually excessive drinking, is currently caving in on itself.

"Welcome to the world of the living."

I make another wordless exclamation of discomfort and press my knuckles to my eyes, grimacing as nausea takes hold. Trisha laughs, a noise that rings with muted mirth at my expense.

"Your shift starts in ten minutes. Carver won't be happy if he finds you here."

I swallow the metallic taste on my swollen tongue and squint at Trisha's outline. "He's never happy."

"Well, he’ll be furious if you don't get a move on."

I mutter a sparkling variety of profanities under my breath, and, with unwilling strain, push myself up to a sitting position. I am surrounded by chaos; two empty bottles lie discarded at the foot of my mattress, the crate beside me has been overturned, its contents – consisting namely of a splayed toothbrush, my wretched stilettos and a handful of cheap make-up products – scattered across the floor.

I look up at Trisha, who is busy transforming herself from a failed law student to a high street hooker with the aid of an alarmingly pink lipstick.

"What happened?"

"We shared a wild night of heated passion.”

I settle back against the wall, eyebrow raised. "Was I any good?"

"I've had better."

"I doubt it."

"We need to work on your flexibility. Not bad for a beginner, though," she quips, turning her head to the left, then the right, observing her newly-cheapened appearance in her little compact mirror.

"I'm flattered," I say, watching the tendons in my unfamiliar wrists tense as I stretch. My skin tone has changed from olive to a sallow, ashy yellow over these last few months. "Are you going to tell me what actually happened?"

She laughs, her drug-worn teeth black at the edges. "You shut down after you'd finished your drink. Flat-out unconscious. I turned you over and knocked the crate in the process. Nothing says real friendship like preventing your fellow prostitute from choking on her own vomit."

"Delightful." I reach for my shoes. "Thank you, I suppose."

"Any time."

I pick up my dress and hold it up to the dimming light, trying to determine whether I can get away with wearing it for the third night in a row. The red fabric is faded in places and more than a little torn, but somehow I don't think the people I am associated with will care much for the details. I get changed as best I can – my joints have stiffened with the leaden weight of alcohol-soaked blood – and, using the curve of the vodka bottle as a mirror, comb my fingers through the knots in my hair.

"One question, Emily."

I hum in acknowledgement as I pull the cap off my lipstick, painting waxy streaks across the back of my hand.

"Who's Jim?"

I freeze.

The lipstick hovers millimetres away from the cracked skin of my lips. I can feel the blood drain from the vessels in my face, down through the arteries of my neck, pooling in my chest; a rush of warmth followed swiftly by fragmented ice.