Title: Dinner For Two
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Pairing: Sherlock/Irene
Warning: Spoilers for the entire season 2.
Author's Note: Cookies for anyone who recognizes Peter =p
She never believed for one moment that the news was true.
“Carla?”
‘Carla’ looked up from the newspaper she was reading to see her boss at the door. “Yes?”
“It’s almost ten, we have a meeting on the fourth floor. You’re coming right?”
She laughed easily. “Be right there, can you bring up that folder over there with you?”
“Sure.” A smile, a shrug and she was left alone again.
Truly.
Reaching into a desk drawer, she withdrew a phone that had been switched off. It had been off for months, silent. The phone was a door; the door to her past. Locked.
Sherlocked.
Her heart gave a lurch and she looked at the small article again. Just a brief mention about a fake genius in the American newspapers. A fake genius who jumped to his death.
“Copycat,” She said softly and returned the phone to its hiding place. She’ll have time to look it over in a while, for now ‘Carla’ must attend the weekly editorial meeting for the fashion magazine she now works for.
The text came in mid-afternoon, right when she was looking over the articles to be compiled in the next issue.
Let’s have dinner.
Her heart pounded unnaturally. No name, an unknown number. She had some admirers here as ‘Carla’, but there was something…. familiar about the sentence. Deftly she keyed in her response.
I’m not hungry.
A moment later a reply arrived.
Good.
She could sing, oh she could! Instead she smiled broadly and returned to her work. If the CIA were watching her (she doubted it, but one cannot be too careful so long as Mycroft Holmes is still around) they’d disregard the text as harmless.
The next text was from a different number, the night she was at a party with her colleagues.
342435
She almost laughed out loud - almost. The cad! He’s implying she’s getting fat! But she felt a tingle of warmth, knowing that if he’s sending her that, it means he’s within visual range of her. She was wondering if she should reply, when she caught sight of a man standing near the balcony overlooking the pool. With a knowing smile she sauntered over but did not walk up to him. Instead she leaned against a nearby wall and stared at nothing in particular as she sipped her wine. “Never did think you could pull off being a blonde,” She said at last.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. His voice, warm and velvety carried on the breeze to her. “I could say the same to you.”
She smirked. ‘Carla’ was a petite blonde, with makeup completely different from her previous identity. ‘Carla’ spoke with a perfectly American accent, tanned from the California sun. It would take a great leap of imagination to connect Carla to Irene Adler…
But she had no doubt that this man could do it. Heck, she bet he could recognize her even if she was covered in a gunny sack.
He had turned now, and she took a moment to appraise his appearance. Straight bleached blonde hair in an early Bieber-sweep style and tanned skin marked the appearance of a typical Californian male who spends a lot of time in the sun. He wore spectacles, stylish rectangular wire-rimmed ones that served no other purpose but to convey the impression of success. If the spectacles didn’t get you, the suit would; a beige Armani paired with a sky-blue tie. Complete the look with the cool ice-blue gaze that she so loved and those cheekbones framing a hint of a smile, she all but threw her arms around him in joy. “I’m Clara Redford,” She held out her hand, eyes twinkling.
He didn’t miss a beat and shook her hand. To the world looking on they were just two people who found each other at a party… by coincidence. “Peter Guillam.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Have I heard of you?”
“I should think so. I’ve been here longer than you,” He was laughing at her, she knew. “And what do you do, Mr. Guillam?”
“Security,” Was the simple reply. “I’m a consultant.”
Ah, some things never change. “Are you in charge of security for tonight’s party then?”
“Brilliant deduction, Miss Redford.”
“Did you deduce the ‘Miss’ as well?” They were playing now, words circling but never touching. His gaze never leaving hers. Their wineglasses forgotten in the exhilaration of battle once again.
“Clara!” A call shattered their game and both turned to see the incumbent who had dispelled the magic. An older woman with painful signs of attempts at masking her wrinkles was approaching them. “Sheffie?”
“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Sheffie kissed ‘Clara’ on both cheeks. “Jamie said you’d be here and instead look-what-we-have-here…” The last was spoken admiringly as the older woman gave ‘Peter’ the same appraising look. He responded with a smile. “Peter Guillam. Miss Redford was saving me from boredom.”
“The worst place to be!” Sheffie exclaimed dramatically. “But of course you’d be bored, all the fun is over there,” She waved to the other end of the room and ‘Peter glanced at ‘Clara’. “Actually I need to be going. Nice meeting you, Miss Redford.” He took out a business card from an inside pocket and gave it to her.
Sheffie gazed admiringly at his retreating form. “Suave. Almost like James Bond.”
“I hope he wasn’t packin’,” ‘Clara’ quipped as she discreetly slipped the card into her bodice with a smile and endured another hour of conversation before she could extract herself from the party.
The card against her skin burned.
It was one week after the party that she decided to dial the number on the card. A sing-song receptionist answered it. “Guillam Securities.”
“Peter Guillam please,” She said smoothly. “Tell him it’s Clara.”
She wondered if it was too bold - and decided she didn’t care. She certainly didn’t care when his warm baritone came to the line. “Peter Guillam.”
“Hello Peter,” She leaned back in her chair. “Don’t forget dinner tonight at The Lakeside.”
There was a pause, and then he carefully returned; “I’m not hungry.”
“Nor I,” she whispered and hung up.
Compared to the amount of time she took when first meeting him, she reflected that Clara’s simple style dictated nothing flashy. A stylish Anna Morgan dress in creamy apricot that left her shoulders bare was paired with a simple strand of pearls around her neck - something that she had never worn in her previous life. Her luxurious blonde tresses were wound up in a chignon, and her makeup was barely there. Looking in the mirror she saw Clara Redford. Only Clara Redford. All traces of Irene Adler had gone.
She wondered if that was good or bad.
He had arrived first, dressed casually in a shirt, jacket and jeans. She took note that he was blending into the American life well - just as she was dressing in clothes she never wore as Irene, Sherlock looked like he was imitating men’s high street fashion… although she couldn’t help but feel that he carried it off really well. A shame that the man had to be prettier than her.
The table he chose was close to the sea, and the first thing he remarked upon her arrival was; “Why is the place named The Lakeside when it’s on the beach?”
She laughed, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hands. “I chose it because it’s misleading. Makes you think of something when it’s actually something else altogether.”
He smiled, appreciating her subtle poke.
He studied her carefully. “The table is clean,” He said at last; “Irene.”
She drew back slowly, the smile fading from her lips but not from her eyes. “So,” She smoothed her dress down; “What does this meeting of two undead signify?”
His lips quirked at her words. “So you do keep up with the news.”
“How is John?”
“Miserable, but alive. He’ll weather on.” He stopped when a waiter approached them with the menu. They both ordered; a medium-rare steak for him and a braised duck for her. Neither opted for any wine; both needed to stay perfectly sober in each other’s company.
“You defeated Jim,” Irene said quietly. It was not a question - it was a conclusion. She had read the newspaper reports on the break in at the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pemberton Prison and the subsequent scandal that ensued. Sherlock had faked his death - for someone who had died twice, she could understand why.
“He killed himself with a bullet to the head,” Sherlock stared at the ocean. “He is me. He dies, so should I.”
“But you’re not dead.” Irene felt a nagging worry tugging at the edge of her mind. “What’s to say he lives too?”
“None. His autopsy was done at Bartz, and Molly reported everything. Mycroft kept his corpse under surveillance until it was cremated.”
“Ah,” Irene smiled at the waiter who arrived with their meals and continued when he left. “So Mycroft engineered your disappearance.”
“He engineered ‘Peter Guillam’.”
“Did he wonder why California?”
Sherlock paused and stared at her. “Took him a few months, but eventually he figured out that Clara Redford is Irene Adler.”
“And he let me be?”
“He owes me,” That was spoken with a little petulance. “Seems like small compensation for covering for his mistakes.”
She couldn’t help a chuckle and the conversation turned to other, mundane things. Peter’s business. Clare’s work. How he adjusted to American life so quickly.
Irene was amused to see him driving an Audi A6. “Part of my image,” He said dryly as Irene got in. They did not speak, not even when he drove up to her apartment without her telling him where it was. She invited him in with a glance, and the silent exchange continued even as she pulled him in for a scorching kiss. The spectacles were the first to go, clattering to a distant corner of the room. Next were the pins in her hair, then his jacket. Her dress. His shirt. One by one Peter and Clara were shed at the door, one article at a time - the night now belonged to Sherlock and Irene.
Afterwards lying in her bed, limbs sensuously entwined under well-rumpled bedsheets Sherlock told everything - how Moriarty tore his reputation to tatters, how he got Molly to help fake his death, how he forced John to accept his death.
“But you didn’t have to say those things to John,” Irene said quietly, her fingers locked with his. “You know he will never believe a word you said. He loves you that much.”
“I don’t want him to defend me unnecessarily to the public after my death,” Sherlock closed his eyes. “If I didn’t do that, he would try to avenge me somehow, I’m sure of it.”
“He will,” Irene acknowledged with an amused smile. “He was willing to go after my hide just because I made you sulk.”
They fell into comfortable silence again and Irene gently lifted their locked hands and kissed them lightly. “Don’t wake me up when you leave in the morning,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hear goodbyes.”
He didn't respond and she fell into a comfortable slumber. The next morning as she expected, he was gone. But it didn't bother her - not really. They never were meant to meet in the first place - the sheer effort he went to just for that one night was Herculean and the lie they lived could never gel together. Just as 'Irene' and 'Sherlock' could not come to terms, neither could 'Peter' and 'Clara'.
In the end, she mused as she stared out of the window to behold the beautiful morning; it was just dinner.