Fic for jenwryn: The Reverse Side of the Coin
Title: The Reverse Side of the Coin
Author: aimeebeff
Recipient: jenwryn
Characters/Pairings: Molly/Irene Adler
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex and violence (some at the same time)
Summary: Sherlock Holmes dismisses Molly and her request that he attend to a woman’s blackmail case. But there’s someone else, equally as unstable as Sherlock and nearly as clever, who just might be exactly what Molly is looking for.
The Reverse Side of the Coin
Even after Jim was long gone, even after Molly had gotten good and tired of Sherlock’s treatment of her, Sherlock and John still came by her morgue now and again. He no longer tried to wheedle her into letting him in for a look at the bodies; now he came with written permission from Lestrade himself. It was a more difficult way to go about it - Lestrade demanded payback, in the form of cases taken on, results gotten, in a way that Molly had never done. Some days, she wondered if it would have worked: her putting her foot down, demanding .. what? Flowers? A date? Sex? She thinks about the hollow victory that would have been - but still, a victory at all …
No. Silly thought. Molly was no deductive genius, but with the fog of hero-worship clearing from her brain, she understood that Sherlock Holmes would have been no prize for her, in the end. She might never know the extent of his relationship with John Watson, but as they talked around her, perusing the corpse she had yet to finish checking in, one thing became quite clear to her: John provided something to Sherlock that Molly could never have done. John was a solid support, a voice of reason - where Molly would have been an echo chamber, a house of cards.
Oh well, she thought, watching Sherlock prize something from under the corpse’s fingernail; every coin had its reverse, after all. She had learned that much, at least, by now.
She had paperwork and data entry to take care of; she busied herself with that until Sherlock finished muttering to the corpse’s mutilated face and headed abruptly toward the door. “Oh,” she said, a little too loudly, perhaps, as John trailed after him. “Before you go, I was wondering …”
“Yeah?” said John, hesitating in the doorway. “What’s up, Molly?”
“It’s just - I was reading some of the comments on Sherlock’s blog, the other day, and I saw that someone had left something about a blackmail case?”
“Think I saw that, too, yeah.” John frowned. “Wait - it wasn’t you who--?”
“Oh, no, not at all!” Molly turned pink. “Only I was wondering … Do you know if Sherlock is taking the case?”
“Take a blackmail case involving a few tasteless photographs?” Sherlock said acidly, nearly knocking John aside as he pushed back into the room. “When I’ve got a double murder on my hands instead - one that might involve the peerage, at that!”
“Sherlock!” said John, his face folding in on itself with ever-new dismay and worry, and Sherlock waved one hand in dismissal.
“Forget I said that, Molly. Come along, John. I need to visit a Laundrette if I’m going to form an opinion on his Lordship’s alibi.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Molly informed the suddenly-empty room. She waited a moment to be sure they had really gone, before she opened her desk drawer and took out her mobile. The number was saved in her address book under the name ‘A little welcome drama’.
Irene Adler answered on the second ring. “Hello, pretty Molly,” she said, her voice like melting butter. “If you’re calling about one of your recent guests of honor, I promise, none of them are my personal handiwork this time.”
“Hello, Irene. No, that’s not it at all. Listen, I - thank you for the flowers, by the way. Lilies are my favorite. How did you … ?”
“Lucky guess. And you’re welcome. Since I’ve got you here, how’s dinner after work on Friday for you? There’s this French place down by the-”
“No, I’m not calling to - well, yes, dinner sounds lovely, but - I have a job for you. I mean, if you want it.”
Irene’s honey-warm tones went suddenly steel-cold. “I’ve told you before, Molly, I’m purely self-employed. I didn’t think you were the sort of girl to kiss and sell-out. More the fool, me, I guess.”
“No, that’s not what I - it’s not for me. I just - do you read Sherlock’s blog, ever?”
“I skim it sometimes,” Irene replied dryly. “It’s not the most interesting reading, but if he ever catches on to anything I’m into, he’ll probably type it all up and post it there out of sheer arrogance.”
“It’s nothing he’s written about you - nothing he’s written at all, actually. There’s this woman who’s been leaving comments, she says her name is Blackwell. Eva Blackwell. There’s this man, Milverton, says he’s got blackmail video of her …”
Irene went silent for several painfully long ticks of Molly’s watch. “Fine,” she said at last, and Molly’s fingers unclenched from her necklace. “Can you take a lunch break in - half an hour? I’ll swing by and get you. Pizza?”
“Sure,” Molly said, and swallowed hard. “Yes. Great. See you soon, I guess?”
But the line had already gone dead.
…
This was dangerous, in every possible sense of the word: to Molly’s career, her reputation, possibly even her very person. But ever since Irene Adler had first strolled into Molly’s morgue with a pair of lattes and casually palmed all the evidence that could incriminate her in her ex-boyfriend’s murder, Molly had been hard-pressed to say no when Irene came calling.
This time, Irene took Molly to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place and drummed her fingers on the table until the waiter arrived with glasses of water and menus. “The pizza napoletana for me,” she said, shoving the menu directly back at him. “Molly?”
“Oh,” said Molly, and fumbled with the menu. “Um. Just - spaghetti? Do you have that?”
“Sorry, no,” said the waiter. “We don’t do pasta here, just pizza.”
“Oh. Er - breadsticks?”
The waiter bobbed his head in acknowledgement and scurried away to put in the order. Molly wilted slightly under Irene’s skeptical stare. “I’m lactose intolerant,” she explained, with a little shrug. “The cheese, you know …”
“You said pizza was all right,” Irene said. She took of her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Christ, Molly, why don’t you ever - no, never mind.” She pushed away from the table, sprawled backward in her chair. “So tell me. Blackmail. What’s the deal, there, exactly?”
Molly hesitated briefly, before opening her purse and pulling out a small envelope. She waited until a small group of diners walked past with their cardboard boxes of cold pizza before she opened the envelope and shook a small stack of printouts out onto the table in front of Irene. Eva Blackwell’s comments on Sherlock’s blog; a series of emails exchanged between Molly and Eva. Pleas for help, offers of recompense. A name: Charlie Milverton. And four or five photographs of a dead-eyed woman, sitting limply on a bed. Her skirt was around her ankles, and beside her lay a sleeping man whose face could not be seen. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but at some point off to her left, and her mouth hung ajar.
“She’s been drugged,” Irene said, her voice taut, and she twitched a different paper into place to cover the pile of pictures. Molly could see the muscles in her jaw, clenching and unclenching. “Bastard. How much does he want?”
“More than she’s got, I’m afraid.” Molly folded and unfolded her napkin on her lap. “Do you think … ?”
“Do I think? Trying to. Give me a minute.”
Molly sat in awkward silence as the waiter brought their food, while Irene frowned into the middle distance. She nibbled a little at the corner of her breadstick, letting the rest go cold, until finally Irene sat up straight and grabbed a slice of her food. “All right,” she said, around a mouthful of cheese and sardines. “I have an idea that may possibly be moderately stupid.”
“Okay,” said Molly, and stirred the breadstick around in the marinara sauce.
“Which means I’m going to need you as backup. Can you do that for me, Molly?”
“Yes,” Molly said, her own back straightening up too now in response, because while Molly had said yes to too many people too many times before, this time was different. This time, she thought, she might really have meant it.
“The problem with these rich guys,” Irene said, after they’d paid the bill and strolled out the restaurant, “is that they think they’re walled up so snug and secure. But really, they depend on about a dozen other people to keep them that way. Other, smaller people. People like us, Miss Molly.”
Molly wasn’t completely sure what Irene meant by that, until three days later, when she received a text: Milverton’s household cook suddenly decided to take an early retirement. Mysterious! Got an interview tomorrow at 3.
She was promptly hired, of course - fraudulent references, forged transcripts, and a bizarrely in-depth knowledge of haute cuisine. Friday, her next text to Molly read. After dinner-hour. Park my car around the corner. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t come in unless I tell you to!
“I’ll bet John Watson never has to wait with the car,” Molly muttered, and dropped her phone back into her pocket. Of course she would do as she was told. It was what she did best, wasn’t it?
…
“Another excellent meal, Mildred,” said Charles Milverton, and pushed back from the table. “My compliments. Um. Tuna steaks tomorrow night?”
“Yes, sir, of course.” Irene nodded, her hands folded neatly behind her back. “Will you be needing anything else yet tonight, Mr. Milverton?”
“Just leave the coffeepot ready to go, I think. I’ve got a late appointment tonight, but you needn’t stay for that.”
“Very good, sir. Good night.”
Milverton’s footsteps were heavy on the steps up to the second floor. Irene returned to the kitchen to see to the cleanup of dinner, until at last she heard the front door close behind the housekeeper. She checked her phone: 9:14 PM. You there? she tapped out to Molly. The response came back in less than a minute: Ready and waiting. Keep me posted? Irene half-smiled, half-sighed, and opened the kitchen window before stepping out into the hall.
She’d been able to palm Milverton’s key-ring earlier in the evening, when he’d arrived home from the club. Now it was child’s play to walk soundlessly through the darkened downstairs and slip the correct key into his office door.
In the office now. I’ll be online in <5 minutes or I owe you a beer.
The minimum password length for Charles’s security system was seven characters. Irene hazarded a few guesses: cam1964. 1964cam. charlie. cmilver. Finally she hit upon success with ‘chazz64’. “Moron,” she murmured, and typed to Molly as the system began to boot: I’m in!
Well done! Let me know when you find something!
Irene smiled and pushed her phone back into her jeans pocket. “Another five minutes, tops,” she told the screen, and began rifling through files. “Grandma’s birthday photos,” she murmured, when she found a folder that had been updated just the week before. “I’ll just bet …”
“Hello?” said Milverton’s muffled, distant voice. Irene froze. “Is someone there? You’re a bit early, I think, but I can have the coffee on shortly.”
…
It had been fifteen minutes since Irene’s last text and Molly was, to put it mildly, starting to panic. She tried to distract herself, reading the license plates of the cars that came and went, but nothing helped. Irene had directly told her not to come in unless called for. It could be dangerous; or, if not, it was almost certainly a crime scene of some sort by now - the sort of thing that could end Molly’s career if she was seen there.
Her fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel. Then she swore softly under her breath, opened the door, and stepped out of the car into the mild June night.
It was a short walk around the corner and down the street, although Molly flashed back to a few nightmarish PE classes as she struggled to climb the fence outside Milverton’s home. Finally she dropped to her knees in the grass on the other side, and scurried across the garden to the house. There was a window open into a darkened room; she grabbed the lintel and heaved herself up and inside.
It was pitch-black inside the house. She groped her way forward, and almost made it to the dim outline of the doorway before her elbow collided with something. Enough pots and pans to stock a Debenhams clattered to the floor. “Walk in here slowly!” barked a woman’s voice from the next room, and a lamp on the other side of the doorway flicked on. Molly cringed. “Hands up!”
She edged cautiously through the doorway, not meeting Irene’s eyes as the other woman cursed and put away her gun. “Fucking hell, Molly!” she barked, and fumbled a carton of cigarettes out of her pocket. “What the fuck does ‘stay in the car’ mean to you, exactly?”
“You weren’t answering my texts - I started to think something was wr-”
Irene’s eyes flicked for a fraction of a second, over to something off to Molly’s left. Molly’s eyes tracked to follow, even as she wished they hadn’t. She’d seen lots of bodies before, but normally, they were cold, rubbery-looking, not quite real. And then, usually they hadn’t been recently killed by her … by whatever Irene was. “Oh god,” she said, and the words came out in a whine. “Oh, Irene. What did you do?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe it,” said Irene, the lit cigarette dangling from her lips, “if I told you it wasn’t me who killed him.”
Molly turned to her face her directly. For a moment, she measured the too-distant look in Irene’s eyes, the restless motion of her hand toward her gun and then quickly away again. “I believe you,” she said finally, and Irene’s eyes darted to her face. “But … I also know you’d have done it yourself, given half the chance, if you thought you could get away with it.”
Irene laughed, not happily. “Fair enough, pretty Molly, fair enough.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth with a grimace, ground it out on an end table, and then dropped it into her jeans pocket. “All right. You shouldn’t be here. It’s a crime scene, and you’re … you’re Molly. Christ. But, you are here, and since you’re here, you have got to be Police Girl now. Anything that ties us, either of us, to this place, you get rid of it now. I’ve been wearing gloves when I’m in the kitchen, but you wipe down doorknobs, you clean up our footprints: you do your thing. I’ll be in the back office, doing mine. Got it?”
“I’ve got it,” Molly said, and Irene stormed off to the office.
…
Molly had been on crime scene work, once or twice before. She preferred the quietness of the morgue, the efficiency of her work there. Or, she thought she did - she was better at it, certainly, than field work; perhaps it was just that it was nice to have one’s work appreciated? Either way, she combed the floor inch by inch, wiped doorknobs, scraped the windowpane and lintel, and held down her lunch long enough to look over Milverton’s body for stray hairs. It was after midnight when she finished, and still no sign of Irene.
Hesitantly, Molly crept to the door of the study and knocked softly. “Irene? Are you - how’s it going?”
The office was dark, lit only by the glow of the computer screen, reflected brightly on Irene’s glasses.
“God damn it, Molly, I am working here - did you not notice?” Her keyboard-tapping scarcely slowed. “Milverton’s left back-ups on top of back-ups on top of back-ups. I know you’re not exactly a pro at this, but you probably could have figured that much out on your own.” Click. Click. Click. “Bad enough you’re here as it is - it would have been so fucking easy for you to get us both collared. I literally cannot imagine why you thought I’d need your help to crack Milverton’s files.”
“Right,” said Molly. “Brilliant. If I wanted to be verbally abused, you know, there’s Sherlock Holmes for that. I didn’t think you were such a-”
Whatever words were meant to come next, they died abruptly in her throat. Suddenly the pictures reflected in Irene’s glasses came into sharp focus: women. Girls. Children. Dressed up in costumes, or dressed not at all. Posed and arrayed, on men’s laps and at men’s feet and - Molly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw only the rigid set of Irene’s jaw, her tightly pressed lips. Before she realized quite what she was doing, Molly was across the room, folding her arms around Irene’s shoulders. The other woman jumped, once, at the contact, and the relentless typing didn’t pause for a moment. But for a moment, the knotted muscles under Molly’s arms softened. It was, Molly reflected, good enough.
“Done,” said Irene, after Molly didn’t know how long. She was confused for a moment, until the light of the monitor flared once and then died out. “Finally,” Irene said, her voice hoarse, and Molly started to withdraw.
“Don’t!” Irene snapped, her fingers closing around Molly’s arm like claws. Molly froze. “Don’t even,” she went on, “just - don’t.” Her grip was like iron. She pulled Molly back down toward her, and Molly gasped with more surprise than pain as Irene’s lips ground against hers. Her fingers closed around Molly’s breast, too hard, wringing a sad little whine from Molly. “Knock if off,” said Irene, and Molly shoved her back, hard, making the other woman’s teeth clack together when she hit the chair-back.
“No,” said Molly, “you knock it off. I’m here, aren’t I? Did you not notice that? I’m - don’t be like this. Okay? Please.”
“I am like this,” Irene said, thickly, miserably, but Molly was on her lap already, sliding one hand along Irene’s neck, smoothing back strands that have escaped from the dark braid wrapped around Irene’s crown. Irene’s hands searched restlessly, greedily, along Molly’s back even as Molly’s steadily worked the buttons of Irene’s blouse. Irene’s skin was dusky in the near-perfect dark, her belly small and round and soft. Molly admired it aloud, albeit nervously, and Irene said once more, breathlessly, “Molly - you don’t have to-” before she was cut off by the shy kisses Molly began laying - one, two, three - along her breastbone.
Irene’s shirt whispered off her shoulders, and her arms were warm as she slid them under the hem of Molly’s shirt. Molly rocked back and forth once, on Irene’s knee, as Irene’s fingers coasted over her breasts - gently, this time - and this time, when her mouth covered Irene’s, there was no shock of pain, only a little thrill, and the sound of Irene’s soft, desperate breaths.
Another moment, and Irene was sliding up and out of the chair, forcing Molly to stumble backwards. She caught herself on the edge of the computer desk. The monitor toppled backward and clattered against the wall as Irene leaned in over her, her hips straining rhythmically against Molly’s. She struggled briefly with the fly of Molly’s jeans, before it abruptly gave way, and Molly swallowed an insistent gasp as Irene’s fingers found what they were looking for.
Molly worked her hands in between them, fighting to find Irene’s zipper, in between the tightly-pressed bodies. There was a small sound, of ripping fabric, and she felt Irene’s belt-loop come away in her hand. “Sorry,” she said instinctively, through clenched teeth, and the sound Irene made in response indicated that she neither noticed nor cared.
She fumbled, for a moment, when at last she had worked Irene’s trousers open. She wasn’t experience - had never - would Irene even-? It didn’t matter. She matched Irene rhythm for rhythm, and for several long moments the room was silent but for the soft, wet sound of their hands and their tense, grudgingly-gasped breathing. When at last Irene’s body clenched against her, Molly wasn’t far behind. Irene drew one more ragged breath and said, “We need to get out of here.”
“Right,” said Molly, “right.” She stumbled to her feet, pulled her clothes back into something resembling a decent arrangement. “We’ll just - oh. We’ve, um. More forensic evidence. I’ll just-”
“Molly,” Irene said, and this time, her grin was genuine. “We’ll take care of it. I’ll get some paper towels. Okay?”
“Okay,” Molly agreed, and wrapped her hands in her sleeves to right the toppled monitor as Irene trotted away. She had begun, she thought, to understand the relationship between Sherlock and John a bit better now - or if not understand, then at least appreciate. Clever as he was, someone like Sherlock Holmes still needed someone to fill in the gaps in his personality, to prop him up. Sherlock was fragile and amoral, where John was solid and compassionate. Kick that prop out from underneath, and god only knew how hard Sherlock would fall.
Irene Adler had a flash-point temper and a driving anger. Molly was patient. Molly knew how to be kind. She smiled shyly at Irene as the other woman returned bearing a roll of paper towels like a trophy.
Well, Molly was no John Watson, to be sure. Whatever she was … well. She only hoped it would be good enough.
“You ready?” said Irene. “Let’s beat it.”
“Okay,” Molly said, and shook her head. “I mean - yes. I’m ready.”
Author: aimeebeff
Recipient: jenwryn
Characters/Pairings: Molly/Irene Adler
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex and violence (some at the same time)
Summary: Sherlock Holmes dismisses Molly and her request that he attend to a woman’s blackmail case. But there’s someone else, equally as unstable as Sherlock and nearly as clever, who just might be exactly what Molly is looking for.
The Reverse Side of the Coin
Even after Jim was long gone, even after Molly had gotten good and tired of Sherlock’s treatment of her, Sherlock and John still came by her morgue now and again. He no longer tried to wheedle her into letting him in for a look at the bodies; now he came with written permission from Lestrade himself. It was a more difficult way to go about it - Lestrade demanded payback, in the form of cases taken on, results gotten, in a way that Molly had never done. Some days, she wondered if it would have worked: her putting her foot down, demanding .. what? Flowers? A date? Sex? She thinks about the hollow victory that would have been - but still, a victory at all …
No. Silly thought. Molly was no deductive genius, but with the fog of hero-worship clearing from her brain, she understood that Sherlock Holmes would have been no prize for her, in the end. She might never know the extent of his relationship with John Watson, but as they talked around her, perusing the corpse she had yet to finish checking in, one thing became quite clear to her: John provided something to Sherlock that Molly could never have done. John was a solid support, a voice of reason - where Molly would have been an echo chamber, a house of cards.
Oh well, she thought, watching Sherlock prize something from under the corpse’s fingernail; every coin had its reverse, after all. She had learned that much, at least, by now.
She had paperwork and data entry to take care of; she busied herself with that until Sherlock finished muttering to the corpse’s mutilated face and headed abruptly toward the door. “Oh,” she said, a little too loudly, perhaps, as John trailed after him. “Before you go, I was wondering …”
“Yeah?” said John, hesitating in the doorway. “What’s up, Molly?”
“It’s just - I was reading some of the comments on Sherlock’s blog, the other day, and I saw that someone had left something about a blackmail case?”
“Think I saw that, too, yeah.” John frowned. “Wait - it wasn’t you who--?”
“Oh, no, not at all!” Molly turned pink. “Only I was wondering … Do you know if Sherlock is taking the case?”
“Take a blackmail case involving a few tasteless photographs?” Sherlock said acidly, nearly knocking John aside as he pushed back into the room. “When I’ve got a double murder on my hands instead - one that might involve the peerage, at that!”
“Sherlock!” said John, his face folding in on itself with ever-new dismay and worry, and Sherlock waved one hand in dismissal.
“Forget I said that, Molly. Come along, John. I need to visit a Laundrette if I’m going to form an opinion on his Lordship’s alibi.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Molly informed the suddenly-empty room. She waited a moment to be sure they had really gone, before she opened her desk drawer and took out her mobile. The number was saved in her address book under the name ‘A little welcome drama’.
Irene Adler answered on the second ring. “Hello, pretty Molly,” she said, her voice like melting butter. “If you’re calling about one of your recent guests of honor, I promise, none of them are my personal handiwork this time.”
“Hello, Irene. No, that’s not it at all. Listen, I - thank you for the flowers, by the way. Lilies are my favorite. How did you … ?”
“Lucky guess. And you’re welcome. Since I’ve got you here, how’s dinner after work on Friday for you? There’s this French place down by the-”
“No, I’m not calling to - well, yes, dinner sounds lovely, but - I have a job for you. I mean, if you want it.”
Irene’s honey-warm tones went suddenly steel-cold. “I’ve told you before, Molly, I’m purely self-employed. I didn’t think you were the sort of girl to kiss and sell-out. More the fool, me, I guess.”
“No, that’s not what I - it’s not for me. I just - do you read Sherlock’s blog, ever?”
“I skim it sometimes,” Irene replied dryly. “It’s not the most interesting reading, but if he ever catches on to anything I’m into, he’ll probably type it all up and post it there out of sheer arrogance.”
“It’s nothing he’s written about you - nothing he’s written at all, actually. There’s this woman who’s been leaving comments, she says her name is Blackwell. Eva Blackwell. There’s this man, Milverton, says he’s got blackmail video of her …”
Irene went silent for several painfully long ticks of Molly’s watch. “Fine,” she said at last, and Molly’s fingers unclenched from her necklace. “Can you take a lunch break in - half an hour? I’ll swing by and get you. Pizza?”
“Sure,” Molly said, and swallowed hard. “Yes. Great. See you soon, I guess?”
But the line had already gone dead.
…
This was dangerous, in every possible sense of the word: to Molly’s career, her reputation, possibly even her very person. But ever since Irene Adler had first strolled into Molly’s morgue with a pair of lattes and casually palmed all the evidence that could incriminate her in her ex-boyfriend’s murder, Molly had been hard-pressed to say no when Irene came calling.
This time, Irene took Molly to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place and drummed her fingers on the table until the waiter arrived with glasses of water and menus. “The pizza napoletana for me,” she said, shoving the menu directly back at him. “Molly?”
“Oh,” said Molly, and fumbled with the menu. “Um. Just - spaghetti? Do you have that?”
“Sorry, no,” said the waiter. “We don’t do pasta here, just pizza.”
“Oh. Er - breadsticks?”
The waiter bobbed his head in acknowledgement and scurried away to put in the order. Molly wilted slightly under Irene’s skeptical stare. “I’m lactose intolerant,” she explained, with a little shrug. “The cheese, you know …”
“You said pizza was all right,” Irene said. She took of her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Christ, Molly, why don’t you ever - no, never mind.” She pushed away from the table, sprawled backward in her chair. “So tell me. Blackmail. What’s the deal, there, exactly?”
Molly hesitated briefly, before opening her purse and pulling out a small envelope. She waited until a small group of diners walked past with their cardboard boxes of cold pizza before she opened the envelope and shook a small stack of printouts out onto the table in front of Irene. Eva Blackwell’s comments on Sherlock’s blog; a series of emails exchanged between Molly and Eva. Pleas for help, offers of recompense. A name: Charlie Milverton. And four or five photographs of a dead-eyed woman, sitting limply on a bed. Her skirt was around her ankles, and beside her lay a sleeping man whose face could not be seen. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but at some point off to her left, and her mouth hung ajar.
“She’s been drugged,” Irene said, her voice taut, and she twitched a different paper into place to cover the pile of pictures. Molly could see the muscles in her jaw, clenching and unclenching. “Bastard. How much does he want?”
“More than she’s got, I’m afraid.” Molly folded and unfolded her napkin on her lap. “Do you think … ?”
“Do I think? Trying to. Give me a minute.”
Molly sat in awkward silence as the waiter brought their food, while Irene frowned into the middle distance. She nibbled a little at the corner of her breadstick, letting the rest go cold, until finally Irene sat up straight and grabbed a slice of her food. “All right,” she said, around a mouthful of cheese and sardines. “I have an idea that may possibly be moderately stupid.”
“Okay,” said Molly, and stirred the breadstick around in the marinara sauce.
“Which means I’m going to need you as backup. Can you do that for me, Molly?”
“Yes,” Molly said, her own back straightening up too now in response, because while Molly had said yes to too many people too many times before, this time was different. This time, she thought, she might really have meant it.
“The problem with these rich guys,” Irene said, after they’d paid the bill and strolled out the restaurant, “is that they think they’re walled up so snug and secure. But really, they depend on about a dozen other people to keep them that way. Other, smaller people. People like us, Miss Molly.”
Molly wasn’t completely sure what Irene meant by that, until three days later, when she received a text: Milverton’s household cook suddenly decided to take an early retirement. Mysterious! Got an interview tomorrow at 3.
She was promptly hired, of course - fraudulent references, forged transcripts, and a bizarrely in-depth knowledge of haute cuisine. Friday, her next text to Molly read. After dinner-hour. Park my car around the corner. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t come in unless I tell you to!
“I’ll bet John Watson never has to wait with the car,” Molly muttered, and dropped her phone back into her pocket. Of course she would do as she was told. It was what she did best, wasn’t it?
…
“Another excellent meal, Mildred,” said Charles Milverton, and pushed back from the table. “My compliments. Um. Tuna steaks tomorrow night?”
“Yes, sir, of course.” Irene nodded, her hands folded neatly behind her back. “Will you be needing anything else yet tonight, Mr. Milverton?”
“Just leave the coffeepot ready to go, I think. I’ve got a late appointment tonight, but you needn’t stay for that.”
“Very good, sir. Good night.”
Milverton’s footsteps were heavy on the steps up to the second floor. Irene returned to the kitchen to see to the cleanup of dinner, until at last she heard the front door close behind the housekeeper. She checked her phone: 9:14 PM. You there? she tapped out to Molly. The response came back in less than a minute: Ready and waiting. Keep me posted? Irene half-smiled, half-sighed, and opened the kitchen window before stepping out into the hall.
She’d been able to palm Milverton’s key-ring earlier in the evening, when he’d arrived home from the club. Now it was child’s play to walk soundlessly through the darkened downstairs and slip the correct key into his office door.
In the office now. I’ll be online in <5 minutes or I owe you a beer.
The minimum password length for Charles’s security system was seven characters. Irene hazarded a few guesses: cam1964. 1964cam. charlie. cmilver. Finally she hit upon success with ‘chazz64’. “Moron,” she murmured, and typed to Molly as the system began to boot: I’m in!
Well done! Let me know when you find something!
Irene smiled and pushed her phone back into her jeans pocket. “Another five minutes, tops,” she told the screen, and began rifling through files. “Grandma’s birthday photos,” she murmured, when she found a folder that had been updated just the week before. “I’ll just bet …”
“Hello?” said Milverton’s muffled, distant voice. Irene froze. “Is someone there? You’re a bit early, I think, but I can have the coffee on shortly.”
…
It had been fifteen minutes since Irene’s last text and Molly was, to put it mildly, starting to panic. She tried to distract herself, reading the license plates of the cars that came and went, but nothing helped. Irene had directly told her not to come in unless called for. It could be dangerous; or, if not, it was almost certainly a crime scene of some sort by now - the sort of thing that could end Molly’s career if she was seen there.
Her fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel. Then she swore softly under her breath, opened the door, and stepped out of the car into the mild June night.
It was a short walk around the corner and down the street, although Molly flashed back to a few nightmarish PE classes as she struggled to climb the fence outside Milverton’s home. Finally she dropped to her knees in the grass on the other side, and scurried across the garden to the house. There was a window open into a darkened room; she grabbed the lintel and heaved herself up and inside.
It was pitch-black inside the house. She groped her way forward, and almost made it to the dim outline of the doorway before her elbow collided with something. Enough pots and pans to stock a Debenhams clattered to the floor. “Walk in here slowly!” barked a woman’s voice from the next room, and a lamp on the other side of the doorway flicked on. Molly cringed. “Hands up!”
She edged cautiously through the doorway, not meeting Irene’s eyes as the other woman cursed and put away her gun. “Fucking hell, Molly!” she barked, and fumbled a carton of cigarettes out of her pocket. “What the fuck does ‘stay in the car’ mean to you, exactly?”
“You weren’t answering my texts - I started to think something was wr-”
Irene’s eyes flicked for a fraction of a second, over to something off to Molly’s left. Molly’s eyes tracked to follow, even as she wished they hadn’t. She’d seen lots of bodies before, but normally, they were cold, rubbery-looking, not quite real. And then, usually they hadn’t been recently killed by her … by whatever Irene was. “Oh god,” she said, and the words came out in a whine. “Oh, Irene. What did you do?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe it,” said Irene, the lit cigarette dangling from her lips, “if I told you it wasn’t me who killed him.”
Molly turned to her face her directly. For a moment, she measured the too-distant look in Irene’s eyes, the restless motion of her hand toward her gun and then quickly away again. “I believe you,” she said finally, and Irene’s eyes darted to her face. “But … I also know you’d have done it yourself, given half the chance, if you thought you could get away with it.”
Irene laughed, not happily. “Fair enough, pretty Molly, fair enough.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth with a grimace, ground it out on an end table, and then dropped it into her jeans pocket. “All right. You shouldn’t be here. It’s a crime scene, and you’re … you’re Molly. Christ. But, you are here, and since you’re here, you have got to be Police Girl now. Anything that ties us, either of us, to this place, you get rid of it now. I’ve been wearing gloves when I’m in the kitchen, but you wipe down doorknobs, you clean up our footprints: you do your thing. I’ll be in the back office, doing mine. Got it?”
“I’ve got it,” Molly said, and Irene stormed off to the office.
…
Molly had been on crime scene work, once or twice before. She preferred the quietness of the morgue, the efficiency of her work there. Or, she thought she did - she was better at it, certainly, than field work; perhaps it was just that it was nice to have one’s work appreciated? Either way, she combed the floor inch by inch, wiped doorknobs, scraped the windowpane and lintel, and held down her lunch long enough to look over Milverton’s body for stray hairs. It was after midnight when she finished, and still no sign of Irene.
Hesitantly, Molly crept to the door of the study and knocked softly. “Irene? Are you - how’s it going?”
The office was dark, lit only by the glow of the computer screen, reflected brightly on Irene’s glasses.
“God damn it, Molly, I am working here - did you not notice?” Her keyboard-tapping scarcely slowed. “Milverton’s left back-ups on top of back-ups on top of back-ups. I know you’re not exactly a pro at this, but you probably could have figured that much out on your own.” Click. Click. Click. “Bad enough you’re here as it is - it would have been so fucking easy for you to get us both collared. I literally cannot imagine why you thought I’d need your help to crack Milverton’s files.”
“Right,” said Molly. “Brilliant. If I wanted to be verbally abused, you know, there’s Sherlock Holmes for that. I didn’t think you were such a-”
Whatever words were meant to come next, they died abruptly in her throat. Suddenly the pictures reflected in Irene’s glasses came into sharp focus: women. Girls. Children. Dressed up in costumes, or dressed not at all. Posed and arrayed, on men’s laps and at men’s feet and - Molly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw only the rigid set of Irene’s jaw, her tightly pressed lips. Before she realized quite what she was doing, Molly was across the room, folding her arms around Irene’s shoulders. The other woman jumped, once, at the contact, and the relentless typing didn’t pause for a moment. But for a moment, the knotted muscles under Molly’s arms softened. It was, Molly reflected, good enough.
“Done,” said Irene, after Molly didn’t know how long. She was confused for a moment, until the light of the monitor flared once and then died out. “Finally,” Irene said, her voice hoarse, and Molly started to withdraw.
“Don’t!” Irene snapped, her fingers closing around Molly’s arm like claws. Molly froze. “Don’t even,” she went on, “just - don’t.” Her grip was like iron. She pulled Molly back down toward her, and Molly gasped with more surprise than pain as Irene’s lips ground against hers. Her fingers closed around Molly’s breast, too hard, wringing a sad little whine from Molly. “Knock if off,” said Irene, and Molly shoved her back, hard, making the other woman’s teeth clack together when she hit the chair-back.
“No,” said Molly, “you knock it off. I’m here, aren’t I? Did you not notice that? I’m - don’t be like this. Okay? Please.”
“I am like this,” Irene said, thickly, miserably, but Molly was on her lap already, sliding one hand along Irene’s neck, smoothing back strands that have escaped from the dark braid wrapped around Irene’s crown. Irene’s hands searched restlessly, greedily, along Molly’s back even as Molly’s steadily worked the buttons of Irene’s blouse. Irene’s skin was dusky in the near-perfect dark, her belly small and round and soft. Molly admired it aloud, albeit nervously, and Irene said once more, breathlessly, “Molly - you don’t have to-” before she was cut off by the shy kisses Molly began laying - one, two, three - along her breastbone.
Irene’s shirt whispered off her shoulders, and her arms were warm as she slid them under the hem of Molly’s shirt. Molly rocked back and forth once, on Irene’s knee, as Irene’s fingers coasted over her breasts - gently, this time - and this time, when her mouth covered Irene’s, there was no shock of pain, only a little thrill, and the sound of Irene’s soft, desperate breaths.
Another moment, and Irene was sliding up and out of the chair, forcing Molly to stumble backwards. She caught herself on the edge of the computer desk. The monitor toppled backward and clattered against the wall as Irene leaned in over her, her hips straining rhythmically against Molly’s. She struggled briefly with the fly of Molly’s jeans, before it abruptly gave way, and Molly swallowed an insistent gasp as Irene’s fingers found what they were looking for.
Molly worked her hands in between them, fighting to find Irene’s zipper, in between the tightly-pressed bodies. There was a small sound, of ripping fabric, and she felt Irene’s belt-loop come away in her hand. “Sorry,” she said instinctively, through clenched teeth, and the sound Irene made in response indicated that she neither noticed nor cared.
She fumbled, for a moment, when at last she had worked Irene’s trousers open. She wasn’t experience - had never - would Irene even-? It didn’t matter. She matched Irene rhythm for rhythm, and for several long moments the room was silent but for the soft, wet sound of their hands and their tense, grudgingly-gasped breathing. When at last Irene’s body clenched against her, Molly wasn’t far behind. Irene drew one more ragged breath and said, “We need to get out of here.”
“Right,” said Molly, “right.” She stumbled to her feet, pulled her clothes back into something resembling a decent arrangement. “We’ll just - oh. We’ve, um. More forensic evidence. I’ll just-”
“Molly,” Irene said, and this time, her grin was genuine. “We’ll take care of it. I’ll get some paper towels. Okay?”
“Okay,” Molly agreed, and wrapped her hands in her sleeves to right the toppled monitor as Irene trotted away. She had begun, she thought, to understand the relationship between Sherlock and John a bit better now - or if not understand, then at least appreciate. Clever as he was, someone like Sherlock Holmes still needed someone to fill in the gaps in his personality, to prop him up. Sherlock was fragile and amoral, where John was solid and compassionate. Kick that prop out from underneath, and god only knew how hard Sherlock would fall.
Irene Adler had a flash-point temper and a driving anger. Molly was patient. Molly knew how to be kind. She smiled shyly at Irene as the other woman returned bearing a roll of paper towels like a trophy.
Well, Molly was no John Watson, to be sure. Whatever she was … well. She only hoped it would be good enough.
“You ready?” said Irene. “Let’s beat it.”
“Okay,” Molly said, and shook her head. “I mean - yes. I’m ready.”