"Keep Your Eyes On Her Horizon {1/?}", Sherlock Holmes, Irene/Mary {Holmes/Watson}
Title: Keep Your Eyes On Her Horizon {1/?}
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Irene/Mary, backdrop Holmes/Watson {slightly Holmes/Irene, Watson/Mary}
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6600
Genre: Femslash {slash/het}
Copyright: Title from Carbon by Tori Amos.
Summary: Irene sets out to reclaim her diamond. Only nothing’s ever that simple, is it?
Author’s Notes: Set post-movie. I have no idea who actually wants to read this, but I wanted to write it, which is the important bit. I have no idea how many parts there will be, but I’m going to post it in pieces on here anyway. And really, the idea of Holmes and Irene teaming up to prevent The Marriage was irresistible. I was terrified, but it turns out I really like Irene’s inner voice a lot :D
Steal the jewel, watch it break
It cuts with an eye, I can’t escape.
- Tori Amos
Irene can talk her way in or out of any given situation and so prison does not hold her up for long; soon enough she's walking free, with Inspector Lestrade himself tipping his hat to her. The man isn't nearly clever enough to outsmart her or even loosely keep up with her, but he has been the perfect means to an end and Irene smiles back at him in a way that makes him cough uncomfortably and adjust his collar. Irene despises people that she can read easily, but, nonetheless, she has a trace of affection for Inspector Lestrade; she wonders if she is endeared by his sheer ineptitude. After all, he has been rather instrumental in the process of getting her out of here.
Sherlock Holmes will learn of her release soon enough and will probably come looking for her soon after that, probably to try and find another way of handing her over to the authorities. Irene contemplates leaving England altogether, as it is really far too full of men psychologically incapable of saying what they truly mean - discretion, permanent social awkwardness and stiff upper lip learned at their nanny’s knee - psychotic devil-worshippers, criminal professors with half of the country scooped into their pockets, and of course far too much cricket. However, there are too many things keeping her here - at least, that is what she tells herself, because to admit that there is largely just one thing preventing her from leaving and it resides on Baker Street would really not be advisable - and so she decides to remain. Just a little longer.
The first decision Irene must make is whether to go into hiding or not; in the end she decides that the two people she most needs to hide from will find her either way, whatever she does, so she might as well make it easy for them. That way she can concentrate on staying one step ahead of Holmes and three ahead of Moriarty, rather than worrying about covering her tracks. There is a distinct possibility that Moriarty will actually kill her in the next few months, but Irene is trying not to think about that because being murdered by a madman with just a little too much blackmail material on her really does not fit in with her plans for this summer at all. Being dead will really be terribly inconvenient, and Irene cannot stand things that are inconvenient. Professor Moriarty is much too clever for his own good (or anybody else’s, for that matter), is rather frighteningly devious, and is really very dangerous indeed; he reminds her a lot of Sherlock, actually, although unfortunately without the bouts of drugged lethargy. Bouts of drugged lethargy would really be very helpful.
The Grand are initially not particularly keen to have her back - something about that little joke with Sherlock and the handcuffs and the nudity that really got blown out of all proportion, and which was really no worse than what he did to her when she was trying to escape Venice with a small fortune in pearls and a fiancé left in danger of being disinherited behind her - but after what feels like hours of sweet-talking later, Irene manages to secure herself a room. After all, she did pay her full bill last time, admittedly not with her own money, and most people would have found naked and tied-up Sherlock Holmes a rather enjoyable gift; it is in no way her fault that the chamber maid was horrified by whatever Holmes thought would be an appropriate response to being found in such a state. The man really does need to work on having more charm, but then Irene is unfortunately uncomfortably aware of the effect Sherlock can have on people - not herself at all, you understand, but people; such as poor Doctor Watson, for example - without having a shred of said charm, so perhaps it would not be a good thing for him to be capable of holding a conversation without insulting someone at least once during it.
Her last divorce left her finances in a reasonably healthy state, so she can afford to stay here until she works out what she wants to do next, but the loss of the Maharajah’s diamond is really rather inconvenient; Irene likes having a contingency plan, a reasonable amount of money put by to protect her in case she is prosecuted or made otherwise uncomfortably destitute, and needs a safety net to begin all over again at a later date. She put a lot of time, effort and, yes, money in getting that diamond and is really not very happy about Holmes taking it. Sherlock has no great love for exquisitely beautiful things - and no, really, Irene is not bitter at all, whatever gave you that impression? - and while Irene did view the diamond mostly as a means to an end and a way to prevent starvation or, God forbid, having to try and earn an honest living, she did at least appreciate its flawless aesthetics, the way it felt, heavy and warm around her neck.
Irene really only contemplates breaking into Baker Street for about thirty seconds, because while she is all for taking risks, there is a certain level of recklessness that is dangerous and stupid and Irene is many things, but stupid is certainly not one of them. She does not even know if Holmes is still in possession of the diamond, but she knows it has not been returned to its original owner because the story would have reached the papers by now. Which means it must be somewhere, and therefore must be retrievable. Irene is not entirely sure where to start, not yet, but having a plan, however sketchy and inadvisable said plan may be, is a relief. Working for herself is always much easier than working for anyone else, and she vows never to let herself be caught by someone like Holmes or Moriarty ever again. She must be more careful.
While she may not be running, keeping a low profile is probably advisable, and most her wardrobe does not allow for going unnoticed around London. After all, until now, Irene was perfectly capable of protecting herself and extracting herself from any sticky situations she may have found herself in. With Sherlock apparently deciding he would like her to be in prison, presumably so he can keep a slightly patronising eye on her, and Moriarty undoubtedly wanting to acquaint her with that little gun of his, Irene really should not be swishing around in layers of brightly-coloured silk. It is with this aim in mind that she cleans herself up and takes herself out dress shopping.
Fate is a funny thing, Irene has always thought, despite claiming not to believe in it, and it can really only be fate that when she is trying to choose a new hat - because what is a new dress without a new range of accessories? - she meets a very unusual young woman. Oh, there is nothing particularly unique about said woman - she has laughter that glitters in her eyes, and an admittedly sweet smile that lights up a pretty but not stunning face, and compliments Irene’s new choice of hat most charmingly - but when she removes her gloves to try on a new pair, she has a particularly striking engagement ring. A diamond engagement ring. A large, flawless diamond engagement ring. Irene is willing to bet that there are rather a few large, shiny diamonds floating around in the world, but the likelihood of there being two diamonds of that size and quality in this country is very low indeed.
For some reason, this woman is wearing Irene’s diamond on her finger.
Irene, of course, will be needing it back.
“Oh, that’s a beautiful ring,” she says, catching the woman’s hand to bring it closer and examine it.
Yes, it is definitely the diamond she spent months and months of her life battling malaria, boredom and oh dear God horrendous sexual intercourse to acquire from the Maharajah. Lord knows what this woman did to get it, but it cannot have been as horrific or gruelling as what Irene did. She cannot have earned it.
“Oh, yes, my fiancé gave it to me,” the woman says, flushing prettily.
Irene lets her hand go because if she does not, she knows she will try and grab the ring right here in the shop and oh, wouldn’t that lack subtlety.
“Then you’re a very lucky woman,” she says, putting together a smile. “Miss...”
“Mary Morstan,” the woman supplies.
The name makes something click rather loudly in Irene’s head, and behind her grin, her teeth grit. She would almost feel sorry for Sherlock’s blatant masochism if she were not currently hating him with every breath in her body for making her life so damned complicated.
“Nice to meet you, Mary,” she says, “I’m Iris Atkins.”
And that diamond, she adds, in the privacy of her own head, is going to be mine.
-
This requires careful planning.
Irene flings the pillows of her bed onto the floor and makes some annoyed noises; a childish temper tantrum that she can only allow to last a few moments. Holmes took her diamond and then, instead of returning it to its original owner, had it made into a ring and then gave it to John Watson to propose with. The whole thing is completely ridiculous. That ring is far too large and it is bound to attract suspicion at some point; Irene wonders if Watson is even aware of the diamond’s origins. She doubts it. Despite living with Holmes for so many years, he is depressingly straight and narrow and she cannot picture him willingly handing over a stolen gem to his beloved fiancée. Then again, Irene could never have pictured him actually leaving Holmes at all; he has always tagged around after him like some kind of deeply devoted guard dog. It is part of the reason Watson really seems to dislike her. Irene does not mind being disliked - approval is really overrated and never earned her anything beneficial in her life - but it is going to make getting the diamond back rather more complex. After all, Watson is hardly going to invite her over for afternoon tea and give her the opportunity to rifle through his fiancée’s jewellery box.
One final frustrated scream trailing away between her teeth, Irene tilts her head to one side, the first trickles of a plan erupting in her mind. John Watson will never invite her into his life, and she cannot exactly blame him for this, much as she would like to. She has, after all, done nothing but run rings around him and Sherlock Holmes since the moment they first met, generally with a terribly smug attitude and a whole arsenal of thinly-veiled insults (always wittily done, and with impeccable taste). It will have done nothing to endear her to him. He will not let her in on any number of ruses, and after living with Sherlock for so long, a disguise is probably out of the question; he would see through it immediately. Breaking into his new home is also inadvisable; Watson did used to be a soldier, after all, and always has that sword cane within reach. He probably would not kill her - he is a gentleman - but it is much too risky.
But Mary Morstan might let her in, might give her all the opportunities she needs to reclaim the gem.
Irene does not have friends - she does not need friends, just acquaintances that she has something on or who owe her favours - but she knows the motions of acquiring them. She knows all about befriending people; she just does not know how to retain said friendships. And that is really fine, because she does not need to retain this friendship either; she just needs Mary Morstan to let her get close enough to get that diamond back. After that, she’ll flee the country and maybe get married again; she has spent enough time not getting married and it is, after all, what she does best. Well, that and the downright beautiful divorce settlement afterwards. Discreetly done, of course, but always a decent amount of money that keeps her in hats and shoes and smiles until the next victim - sorry, that should be gentleman - comes along. But she cannot do it without that jewel; the net to catch her in case she falls.
Engineering coincidences is another skill of Irene’s; one of the easiest things to do but she does have a certain flair for it, even if she does say so herself. Modesty is so tiresome, though feigning it can open a surprisingly large number of doors. The next day she wears her new dress and puts on her new hat - still the very pinnacle of fashion, but in a way that is not too showy because she really would like to remain alive long enough to see it go out of fashion - and takes herself to Cavendish Place, thanking Watson all the while for the semi-civil conversation they managed while waiting for Holmes to jump out of a window of the Houses of Parliament. On the whole, Irene is grateful Lord Blackwood is dead; she does not want a dull life, by all means, but there is such a thing as too much excitement, loathe as she is to admit it. And really, enough people want to kill her as it is without the Devil himself getting involved.
It will be both time-consuming and suspicious for Irene to stand around in Cavendish Place all day, on the off-chance Miss Morstan will venture out alone, and increase the likelihood of Irene being found by Sherlock far earlier than she wants to be. She is inevitably going to have to face him at some point but she would like that to be when she has had time to compose herself and to think of a number of stinging remarks that can lodge in his brain and torment him at some point in the wild reaches of the night when he is up plucking at the strings of his violin and under the influence of any number of his vices. Irene also needs to be considerably closer to that diamond when Sherlock finds her, or she will be undone before she even begins and really, she cannot have that. However, she will not need to wait about in Cavendish Place; enough hours in and around Baker Street have taught her Doctor Watson’s office hours and she can therefore plan accordingly as to when Mary will appear. It is not foolproof, of course, but people are creatures of habit and far more predictable than they realise.
Doctor Watson’s office hours finish at one in the afternoon; at ten minutes to, Mary appears at one corner of the square. A semi-triumphant smile momentarily flashes across Irene’s face and she moves quickly but discreetly, getting into Mary’s path just in time for the two to meet gazes and for there to be mutual recognition; real (and gratifying) on Mary’s side, and perfectly feigned on Irene’s.
“Miss Morstan, wasn’t it?” she says, all bright teeth and charm.
Irene is extremely good at charm; it was the first thing she ever learned and she has been refining it ever since. More and more pieces of her natural charm have been knocked off through the years, but her talent at feigning it has only increased. She is a knife wrapped in the most exquisite silken scarf, teeth and claws concealed wonderfully, unless you know to look for them. Holmes and Watson certainly do; Mary definitely does not.
They are both practiced at small talk; society has prepared them for this much. Irene weaves a perfectly plausible story of being widowed and moving to England from America for a fresh start. She has chosen to be a widow because women on the verge of being married do not like to hear the word ‘divorce’. They especially do not like to hear ‘divorced three times’ - or is it four? They all start to blur into one after a while - and in any case Irene is very careful never to reveal her somewhat chequered past when making new acquaintances. It tends to lead to judgement and disgust and while Irene sees judgement as par for the course she has not yet learned to inoculate herself against disgust and until she does then she can do without it.
She learns that Mary is a governess, that her charge is with his mother this afternoon which is why she is coming to have lunch with her fiancé - who is finally named as John Watson, so Irene can stop keeping herself in check lest she accidentally say his name, though that would be an amateur mistake and she has not been an amateur in a long time - and she also learns that Mary Morstan is far too sharp. She is observant and clever and has nerves of steel; Irene is not sure why she is surprised by this because she can hardly see Watson leaving Sherlock for a woman he was incapable of having a conversation with. Still, this is going to make her life a little more complicated, and she makes a mental note to brush up a little on her sincerity. She has not been genuinely sincere about anything in such a long time that it makes it quite difficult to feign it at times, but if she wants to gain something resembling friendship with Mary, at least until she is in a position to reclaim the diamond, then she will need to appear to be earnest.
All the while they talk, Irene can see the large, solid shape of the ring beneath Mary’s warm winter glove. She is careful not to look at it too many times, and instead keeps her gaze on Mary herself, eyes locked with Mary’s warm, bright ones.
“You’d better go,” Irene says, “you don’t want to keep that fiancé of yours waiting.”
“Right,” Mary agrees, smile soft. She turns to go, but then turns back. “I don’t know if you’ll think this too presumptuous, but would you like to have tea with me? On Thursday?”
“I’d love to,” Irene replies, “I’m staying at The Grand - you can contact me there.”
She departs Cavendish Place with a growing sense of triumph. She can already feel the solid weight of that diamond back around her neck.
-
The newspaper reports of another man found with a small calibre bullet in his skull and powder burns on his skin. The press love it, revelling in these greatly unusual murders with no sign of the killer at all and such a deliciously unique signature, but each one turns Irene’s stomach. She can already see herself laid out on the floor, dark hair haloing her head, silk dressing gown open and removing even the scant veneer of modesty she has gathered to herself, eyes open and mouth open too, skull split open from Moriarty’s bullet. It is really just as well she would be too dead to ever require a hotel again; no doubt the sight of her would traumatise yet another chambermaid, and she’d ruin the carpet, and The Grand would never let her stay here again.
Irene does not spend a single moment worrying about whether Sherlock would be called or whether he would be sad when faced with the sight of her corpse; it is not a thought to linger on.
In any case, she has tea with Mary today, and being morbid will not help her to be bright and charming and ingratiating. Shaking herself, Irene closes the paper and tosses it aside, trying to disregard the story. Moriarty has many more people to kill before he gets to her, and by that point the authorities or Sherlock or someone will have found him and stopped him, surely. In any case, Irene is resilient; she was pushed off Tower Bridge, after all, and survived to tell the tale, which is rather more than Lord Blackwood managed and he was supposedly in league with the Devil himself. Irene sold her soul for money a long time ago, but it was better than many of the alternatives and in any case, if there is something she wants to think about less than her impending gruesome murder by Moriarty then it is her past. No, none of this will do. She is Iris Atkins - a paper-thin pseudonym that she must pray John Watson does not see through, but she was distracted and so did not cover her tracks adequately enough - and she is going to have afternoon tea with Mary Morstan and she is going to begin a most beneficial friendship. After all, with that jewel, she can flee the country and get away from Moriarty altogether. It much more important to pull the strings of this plan together than to sit around worrying about something that may not even happen. The best way to protect herself is with money.
They are having tea in The Grand’s tearooms, with Irene insisting that Mary let it be her treat. After all, she has spent enough time in Baker Street to learn that Mary may be marrying a doctor but she is by no means marrying into money (that little gambling addiction is only going to resurface and end terribly badly) and being a governess does not guarantee a large amount of income (which is part of the reason Irene chose crime for her career: it does pay considerably better). The least she can do is pretend her poor dead husband left her some money to live on.
Mary is dressed in sky blue silk; perfectly acceptable, if a little out of date, hair pinned neatly back and a smile so genuine that Irene would think about feeling bad except that her life is at stake and for that Miss Morstan can suffer the loss of a shining gem she should never have had in the first place. Watson could have managed a perfectly adequate engagement ring himself, Irene is sure, which means the only reason Holmes passed on the Maharajah’s jewel was to annoy her. And if that was indeed the plan; well, it is certainly working. Irene will give Sherlock that much credit.
They drink tea and eat cake and Irene feeds Mary a long string of lies, each one based just a little in fact because those always make the best forms of untruths; it is easier to keep track of them, in any case. Mary is excited because Watson is in the newspaper today; he is the attending physician at an execution later this week. Maybe he’ll do a slightly better job of pronouncing the man dead this time, Irene thinks, but elects not to say it aloud. There is genuine pride in Mary’s voice when she speaks, which does make Irene feel slightly uncomfortable, but the feeling soon passes.
“John often works with the police,” Mary tells her. “I find it all rather thrilling.”
“You aren’t worried for him?” Irene asks, although she has no interest whatsoever in hearing details of previous cases that Sherlock and Watson have solved. He may be keeping a file on her and all the little things she may or may not have done - Irene is not confessing to anything, of course - but she has been keeping an eye on Sherlock.
“John used to be a soldier,” Mary explains, “he’s very capable.” She smiles slightly. “I have always loved detective stories.”
“So have I,” Irene replies. It is close enough to the truth, anyway; she reads them from time to time for advice, if nothing else.
There is no smugness at all, just plain delight, when Mary says: “John used to work with Sherlock Holmes, you know.”
Lord, does she. Irene simply smiles and says: “Really? The Sherlock Holmes?” and does a rather good impression of stunned admiration, even if she does say so herself.
“Oh, yes,” Mary says. “He doesn’t like to talk about it much, though.” The slightest hint of a shadow passes across her previously sunny face and Irene is interested in this.
“Maybe he is just modest?” she suggests, and manages to keep a perfectly straight face as she says it, leaning to pour them both more tea.
“Perhaps,” Mary replies, her lower lip catching between her teeth for a moment. “He does not like to talk about Mr Holmes much.”
Irene watches Mary carefully as she says this, looking for traces of delusion, looking for how much she has worked out for herself, and is pleasantly surprised. Watson has found a smart one here, and no mistake about that. On the other hand, he would probably have been better off marrying someone a little less perceptive.
“They say he’s a genius,” Irene remarks, careful, feeding the conversation just a little.
“Oh, he is,” Mary says, with far less bitterness and resentment than Irene would have expected. After all, Irene herself frequently finds Sherlock obnoxious, irritating and frustrating, and while she most certainly is not in love with him - though she worried that she was for a while and was realistic enough about it to convince both herself and Moriarty - she still finds herself drawn back to him a little more than is really healthy. If she were Mary, struggling to fit Sherlock Holmes and John Watson into her life, Irene is fairly sure she would hate the man. “He is quite brilliant. Quite abrasive too, of course.”
“Genius so often is,” Irene says, with a carefully calculated almost-conspirital smile.
“I suppose so,” Mary agrees, gaze dropping to the table cloth.
Irene likes pushing things, and has in fact made her fortune and an entire career out of pushing things. Nonetheless, something tells her not to push it now, and her gut instinct has not led her wrong so far. It is all those pesky little external circumstances that have driven her here.
“In any case, it must be exciting,” she offers lightly, taking a delicate bite of cake.
Mary’s smile is sweetly grateful, and Irene reminds herself that the only reason she altered the subject was because she does not want to crack Mary too early. That is all. Looking over Mary’s shoulder, as she busies herself with butter and scones, Irene catches sight of someone. They are gone in the time it takes her to blink, a dark head of hair and a face she was sure was watching her, and unease slips down her spine. She will hope it was Sherlock, because if it wasn’t... her hands tremble just a little, and she curls her fingers into her palms, hoping that if Mary does notice, she will at least have the good manners not to mention it. Irene is really rather bored of her life being actively in danger; it is not nearly as much fun as when she has organised the danger herself.
“It can be,” Mary agrees. “John has written all the cases he has participated in down, but he will not let me look at them.” Irene is very well-behaved and does not choke with amusement on her cake, though it is a near-miss. After all, Watson’s stories will really only contain the flat, honest truth; mysteries, Holmes’ arrogant brilliance, and perhaps the occasional trip to the opera. Nothing else has ever occurred and Watson would never record the possibilities. “I think he wants to keep me separate from that world,” Mary adds, almost to herself.
Mary is Watson’s escape from it all, love of detective novels or not, and Irene can see what he is trying to do, even if she knows it will not work.
“Perhaps he wants to keep you safe?” Irene suggests, resisting the urge to point any of this out to Mary.
“Perhaps I don’t want to be completely safe,” Mary suggests, bright eyes dancing, and Irene feels herself smiling almost unconsciously. Watson’s marrying quite the handful in this one, and she wonders if he even knows. Mary clears her throat, turning her attention to the scattered remains of tea. “I should be going, I’m afraid.” She clearly thinks she has said a little too much, which she has, but Irene does not mind in the slightest.
“This was lovely,” Irene tells her, “I would like to do it again at some point.”
It is not until Mary has agreed and finally left with a shimmering smile and a promise to see each other soon that Irene realises that she was not even lying.
Well, this is an interesting new development.
-
Irene sleeps with a gun under her pillow, of course. It would be foolish not to, and really, she cannot understand why everyone does not to it. Of course, if things continue as they have done, she may have to carry a gun everywhere she goes, which could be a little problematic but it would not be the first time. She is probably being watched, and as long as it stays at being watched, she does not mind. Moriarty will not tip his hand so fast, and in any case she is a very small cog in a very large machine, so she should have some time before she is... eliminated. By which time she will be abroad, with the diamond and considerably better chances.
It is not a good plan, not a foolproof plan, but it is the only one Irene has and she will cling to it until it is pried from her fingers.
When the scratching starts at her door - so soft it is almost unnoticeable, but Irene has been waiting for it - she sighs and goes to fetch her gun before walking across to open it. She hopes it is Sherlock, hopes that Moriarty’s men would either be less discreet or more competent at lock-picking, but it is best to err on the side of caution. A finger curls over the trigger and she tries to ignore how hard her heart is hammering in her chest before she turns the handle and swiftly pulls the door open.
Sherlock blinks up at her, a vague little smile on his face, before his gaze slides to the barrel of the gun. Irene momentarily considers shooting him anyway, just for old time’s sake, but her finger slides almost unconsciously from the trigger and she moves the weapon away.
“Really, you’d think you would be better at this by now,” she says, and offers Holmes a hand to his feet. He ignores her, pushing himself upright, tucking his lockpicks into his pocket.
“You’re nervous, Irene,” he observes as he walks inside.
“Well, Sherlock, it is nearly eleven o’clock at night and someone was breaking into my room,” she points out. “Any girl would be worried for her virtue.”
The slightest smirk crosses Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t think virtue is something you have had to worry about for quite some time, Irene.”
“True, but unnecessary,” Irene agrees. She takes in Sherlock’s appearance; slightly more dishevelled than usual, with a hollowness to his eyes that shows he has not been sleeping. “Well, aren’t you the picture of health.”
He ignores her. “What are you doing, staying here?”
“Hiding in plain sight?” Irene suggests. “You and Moriarty are both perfectly capable of finding me whatever I do.”
She does not miss the flicker of an expression that momentarily graces Sherlock’s features at the name “Moriarty”, though it vanishes soon enough and is not there long enough for her to adequately read it.
“You shouldn’t still be in London,” Holmes tells her, and then takes a step closer to her, brow furrowed, eyes penetrating her very being in a way that makes her shiver just a little more than she would like. “Why are you still here, Irene?”
“The Royal Opera House is putting on some really splendid productions of late,” she offers, not even bothering to make it look like she’s telling the truth, “I thought I would stay until the end of the season.”
“Well, that’s a charming little lie,” Sherlock tells her. He adds: “I saw you this afternoon.”
“I saw you too,” Irene replies, leaving out the fact that she was not entirely sure it was him until this exact moment. “Where did you find enough decent clothing to dine here? I was under the impression most of the clothes you wore belonged to Doctor Watson.”
She keeps her tone very light, as though she does not know the effect the name will have on him. There is an almost indiscernible tightening of Sherlock’s jaw, noticeable only because Irene was looking for it, and something small breaks in his eyes, altering his entire visage though his expression does not move a muscle. If Irene were anyone other than herself, she would think about feeling bad. As she is not, she does not.
“And what were you doing here for afternoon tea, anyway?” she continues smoothly, as though she never expected an answer to the question; a small concession for Sherlock, who is taking this even more badly than she expected. She really hopes he was not following Mary around, because that cannot end well for anybody.
“I was meeting a client,” Holmes tells her, expression clearly showing what he thinks of being brought to afternoon tea for a consultation. Still, Irene muses, at least it got him out of the house and made him eat something, which is probably more than he has done recently. “And what exactly were you doing?”
Irene contemplates lying, but Sherlock already knows the truth; he just wants it from her lips. This is the motions of a conversation that does not need to happen, but will anyway.
“I have been making the acquaintance of a Miss Mary Morstan,” she explains, tone airy, with all the ignorance she can layer in it. “She’s a most charming lady; have you met her?”
Sherlock’s teeth clench. “Let us be straight with one another here,” he says. “You don’t like anyone, as we both know, and you are only befriending Miss Morstan because she is in possession of the Maharajah’s diamond.”
She flutters her eyelashes as much as she dares. “Oh, is that engagement ring real? It was so big, I had no idea.”
“Irene,” Sherlock sighs, “ignorance does not suit you at all.”
“It does if you accessorise it properly,” Irene suggests.
“You are being facetious,” Holmes informs her tightly. “And we are both fully aware that you can tell a real jewel from a false one from the other side of a crowded ball room.”
“I would say it’s endearing how well you know me,” Irene says, “but actually, it’s really quite irritating.”
Sherlock’s smile is just a little smug. “We may as well be honest with one another,” he says.
Honesty is really so very boring - why tell the dull truth when a lie makes everything much more interesting? - but Irene decides she may as well give Holmes what he wants. After all, it will be the first time anyone has given Sherlock that in a while. She crosses over to the table, dropping into one of the elegant and deeply uncomfortable chairs drawn up to it, and gestures for Sherlock to take the other one. He sits down, steepling his fingers and surveying her with that penetrating gaze of his. It makes her feel naked, more naked than the times Sherlock actually has seen her unclothed, and she swallows just a little too hard.
“That diamond is mine,” Irene says, quiet but fervent, voice carefully steady. “I did not go to all that hard work just to watch it languish on the finger of a bored housewife.”
“That diamond was not yours in the first place,” Sherlock tells her, “you cannot claim ownership of it.” A scowl tightens, just a little, as though registering what else Irene has said. “And Miss Morstan will not be bored!”
Irene was not intentionally insulting Watson, but it is interesting that Holmes thought she was. Well, it would be interesting, if it were not for the fact Irene already has all the facts in this case and she is already bored of it.
“You stole my contingency plan to help Doctor Watson set up house without you,” she tells him, voice just a little sharper than she meant it to be, “and really, Sherlock, that’s just sick.”
“I gave the diamond a good, safe home,” Sherlock responds, voice just shy of a snap. “Where it would be appreciated.”
Irene laughs derisively, riled up by his need to lie to them both. And to lie badly. “You don’t even want Watson to get married!” she exclaims. “You want him to stay at home with you so he can clear up your messes and listen to your monologues on every subject under the sun and be there so you can watch him out of the corner of your eye when you think he isn’t looking and pine in that terribly self-indulgent way of yours. Which, yes, Sherlock, I have noticed, oddly enough.”
Finally, for once in her life, Irene has startled Sherlock. It is every bit as satisfying as she always thought it would be.
“Well,” he says at last, “I was not exactly being discreet.”
“No,” Irene agrees, “although Watson apparently has not noticed, or if he has he is choosing to pretend he has not, though I suppose you don’t really want to discuss that.”
“Not particularly,” Sherlock agrees, “I am far more interested in what you are doing with Miss Morstan.”
“I am gaining her confidence so I can steal her diamond,” Irene tells him, the edge of an idea unfolding in her mind. She will have to play this exactly right, but she has made manipulating Sherlock Holmes into an art over the last few years, so it is perfectly achievable.
“You realise I cannot allow you do that,” Holmes tells her.
“Of course you can,” Irene replies. “I worm my way into Miss Morstan’s life, scattering the seeds of damage and doubt. In the end, the engagement is in tatters and I walk away with the ring. Doctor Watson will be rather upset of course,” she adds, tone light but significant nonetheless.
She sees the exact moment that Sherlock understands, sees realisation ripple across his face. “What exactly do you want, Irene?” he asks sharply.
“I want you to help me,” she responds simply. “Cover my tracks, keep Doctor Watson busy when I need you to, that sort of thing. In return, I’ll bring a swift end to the engagement and leave poor, poor Watson in need of a great deal of... comforting.”
Holmes is definitely fighting not to smile now. “And you think I would agree to ruin my best friend’s relationship?”
“Well,” Irene begins, “you did hire a fortune teller to cast evil omens over the proposal; I think you’re perfectly willing.”
“Watson told you about that?” Sherlock looks just a little sheepish, just a little defiant.
“Twice,” Irene replies. “And really, Sherlock, that was amateurish at best. Threatening a man with doilies is really not how you end an engagement.”
“No?”
“No.” Irene leans forward over the table, just a little. “I’ll show you how you bring an end to an engagement. Do we have a deal?” She offers Sherlock her hand; he does not hesitate before taking it, grip warm and firm.
“We have a deal.”
Irene feels a grin spread across her face. “Perfect.”
TBC
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Irene/Mary, backdrop Holmes/Watson {slightly Holmes/Irene, Watson/Mary}
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6600
Genre: Femslash {slash/het}
Copyright: Title from Carbon by Tori Amos.
Summary: Irene sets out to reclaim her diamond. Only nothing’s ever that simple, is it?
Author’s Notes: Set post-movie. I have no idea who actually wants to read this, but I wanted to write it, which is the important bit. I have no idea how many parts there will be, but I’m going to post it in pieces on here anyway. And really, the idea of Holmes and Irene teaming up to prevent The Marriage was irresistible. I was terrified, but it turns out I really like Irene’s inner voice a lot :D
Steal the jewel, watch it break
It cuts with an eye, I can’t escape.
- Tori Amos
Irene can talk her way in or out of any given situation and so prison does not hold her up for long; soon enough she's walking free, with Inspector Lestrade himself tipping his hat to her. The man isn't nearly clever enough to outsmart her or even loosely keep up with her, but he has been the perfect means to an end and Irene smiles back at him in a way that makes him cough uncomfortably and adjust his collar. Irene despises people that she can read easily, but, nonetheless, she has a trace of affection for Inspector Lestrade; she wonders if she is endeared by his sheer ineptitude. After all, he has been rather instrumental in the process of getting her out of here.
Sherlock Holmes will learn of her release soon enough and will probably come looking for her soon after that, probably to try and find another way of handing her over to the authorities. Irene contemplates leaving England altogether, as it is really far too full of men psychologically incapable of saying what they truly mean - discretion, permanent social awkwardness and stiff upper lip learned at their nanny’s knee - psychotic devil-worshippers, criminal professors with half of the country scooped into their pockets, and of course far too much cricket. However, there are too many things keeping her here - at least, that is what she tells herself, because to admit that there is largely just one thing preventing her from leaving and it resides on Baker Street would really not be advisable - and so she decides to remain. Just a little longer.
The first decision Irene must make is whether to go into hiding or not; in the end she decides that the two people she most needs to hide from will find her either way, whatever she does, so she might as well make it easy for them. That way she can concentrate on staying one step ahead of Holmes and three ahead of Moriarty, rather than worrying about covering her tracks. There is a distinct possibility that Moriarty will actually kill her in the next few months, but Irene is trying not to think about that because being murdered by a madman with just a little too much blackmail material on her really does not fit in with her plans for this summer at all. Being dead will really be terribly inconvenient, and Irene cannot stand things that are inconvenient. Professor Moriarty is much too clever for his own good (or anybody else’s, for that matter), is rather frighteningly devious, and is really very dangerous indeed; he reminds her a lot of Sherlock, actually, although unfortunately without the bouts of drugged lethargy. Bouts of drugged lethargy would really be very helpful.
The Grand are initially not particularly keen to have her back - something about that little joke with Sherlock and the handcuffs and the nudity that really got blown out of all proportion, and which was really no worse than what he did to her when she was trying to escape Venice with a small fortune in pearls and a fiancé left in danger of being disinherited behind her - but after what feels like hours of sweet-talking later, Irene manages to secure herself a room. After all, she did pay her full bill last time, admittedly not with her own money, and most people would have found naked and tied-up Sherlock Holmes a rather enjoyable gift; it is in no way her fault that the chamber maid was horrified by whatever Holmes thought would be an appropriate response to being found in such a state. The man really does need to work on having more charm, but then Irene is unfortunately uncomfortably aware of the effect Sherlock can have on people - not herself at all, you understand, but people; such as poor Doctor Watson, for example - without having a shred of said charm, so perhaps it would not be a good thing for him to be capable of holding a conversation without insulting someone at least once during it.
Her last divorce left her finances in a reasonably healthy state, so she can afford to stay here until she works out what she wants to do next, but the loss of the Maharajah’s diamond is really rather inconvenient; Irene likes having a contingency plan, a reasonable amount of money put by to protect her in case she is prosecuted or made otherwise uncomfortably destitute, and needs a safety net to begin all over again at a later date. She put a lot of time, effort and, yes, money in getting that diamond and is really not very happy about Holmes taking it. Sherlock has no great love for exquisitely beautiful things - and no, really, Irene is not bitter at all, whatever gave you that impression? - and while Irene did view the diamond mostly as a means to an end and a way to prevent starvation or, God forbid, having to try and earn an honest living, she did at least appreciate its flawless aesthetics, the way it felt, heavy and warm around her neck.
Irene really only contemplates breaking into Baker Street for about thirty seconds, because while she is all for taking risks, there is a certain level of recklessness that is dangerous and stupid and Irene is many things, but stupid is certainly not one of them. She does not even know if Holmes is still in possession of the diamond, but she knows it has not been returned to its original owner because the story would have reached the papers by now. Which means it must be somewhere, and therefore must be retrievable. Irene is not entirely sure where to start, not yet, but having a plan, however sketchy and inadvisable said plan may be, is a relief. Working for herself is always much easier than working for anyone else, and she vows never to let herself be caught by someone like Holmes or Moriarty ever again. She must be more careful.
While she may not be running, keeping a low profile is probably advisable, and most her wardrobe does not allow for going unnoticed around London. After all, until now, Irene was perfectly capable of protecting herself and extracting herself from any sticky situations she may have found herself in. With Sherlock apparently deciding he would like her to be in prison, presumably so he can keep a slightly patronising eye on her, and Moriarty undoubtedly wanting to acquaint her with that little gun of his, Irene really should not be swishing around in layers of brightly-coloured silk. It is with this aim in mind that she cleans herself up and takes herself out dress shopping.
Fate is a funny thing, Irene has always thought, despite claiming not to believe in it, and it can really only be fate that when she is trying to choose a new hat - because what is a new dress without a new range of accessories? - she meets a very unusual young woman. Oh, there is nothing particularly unique about said woman - she has laughter that glitters in her eyes, and an admittedly sweet smile that lights up a pretty but not stunning face, and compliments Irene’s new choice of hat most charmingly - but when she removes her gloves to try on a new pair, she has a particularly striking engagement ring. A diamond engagement ring. A large, flawless diamond engagement ring. Irene is willing to bet that there are rather a few large, shiny diamonds floating around in the world, but the likelihood of there being two diamonds of that size and quality in this country is very low indeed.
For some reason, this woman is wearing Irene’s diamond on her finger.
Irene, of course, will be needing it back.
“Oh, that’s a beautiful ring,” she says, catching the woman’s hand to bring it closer and examine it.
Yes, it is definitely the diamond she spent months and months of her life battling malaria, boredom and oh dear God horrendous sexual intercourse to acquire from the Maharajah. Lord knows what this woman did to get it, but it cannot have been as horrific or gruelling as what Irene did. She cannot have earned it.
“Oh, yes, my fiancé gave it to me,” the woman says, flushing prettily.
Irene lets her hand go because if she does not, she knows she will try and grab the ring right here in the shop and oh, wouldn’t that lack subtlety.
“Then you’re a very lucky woman,” she says, putting together a smile. “Miss...”
“Mary Morstan,” the woman supplies.
The name makes something click rather loudly in Irene’s head, and behind her grin, her teeth grit. She would almost feel sorry for Sherlock’s blatant masochism if she were not currently hating him with every breath in her body for making her life so damned complicated.
“Nice to meet you, Mary,” she says, “I’m Iris Atkins.”
And that diamond, she adds, in the privacy of her own head, is going to be mine.
-
This requires careful planning.
Irene flings the pillows of her bed onto the floor and makes some annoyed noises; a childish temper tantrum that she can only allow to last a few moments. Holmes took her diamond and then, instead of returning it to its original owner, had it made into a ring and then gave it to John Watson to propose with. The whole thing is completely ridiculous. That ring is far too large and it is bound to attract suspicion at some point; Irene wonders if Watson is even aware of the diamond’s origins. She doubts it. Despite living with Holmes for so many years, he is depressingly straight and narrow and she cannot picture him willingly handing over a stolen gem to his beloved fiancée. Then again, Irene could never have pictured him actually leaving Holmes at all; he has always tagged around after him like some kind of deeply devoted guard dog. It is part of the reason Watson really seems to dislike her. Irene does not mind being disliked - approval is really overrated and never earned her anything beneficial in her life - but it is going to make getting the diamond back rather more complex. After all, Watson is hardly going to invite her over for afternoon tea and give her the opportunity to rifle through his fiancée’s jewellery box.
One final frustrated scream trailing away between her teeth, Irene tilts her head to one side, the first trickles of a plan erupting in her mind. John Watson will never invite her into his life, and she cannot exactly blame him for this, much as she would like to. She has, after all, done nothing but run rings around him and Sherlock Holmes since the moment they first met, generally with a terribly smug attitude and a whole arsenal of thinly-veiled insults (always wittily done, and with impeccable taste). It will have done nothing to endear her to him. He will not let her in on any number of ruses, and after living with Sherlock for so long, a disguise is probably out of the question; he would see through it immediately. Breaking into his new home is also inadvisable; Watson did used to be a soldier, after all, and always has that sword cane within reach. He probably would not kill her - he is a gentleman - but it is much too risky.
But Mary Morstan might let her in, might give her all the opportunities she needs to reclaim the gem.
Irene does not have friends - she does not need friends, just acquaintances that she has something on or who owe her favours - but she knows the motions of acquiring them. She knows all about befriending people; she just does not know how to retain said friendships. And that is really fine, because she does not need to retain this friendship either; she just needs Mary Morstan to let her get close enough to get that diamond back. After that, she’ll flee the country and maybe get married again; she has spent enough time not getting married and it is, after all, what she does best. Well, that and the downright beautiful divorce settlement afterwards. Discreetly done, of course, but always a decent amount of money that keeps her in hats and shoes and smiles until the next victim - sorry, that should be gentleman - comes along. But she cannot do it without that jewel; the net to catch her in case she falls.
Engineering coincidences is another skill of Irene’s; one of the easiest things to do but she does have a certain flair for it, even if she does say so herself. Modesty is so tiresome, though feigning it can open a surprisingly large number of doors. The next day she wears her new dress and puts on her new hat - still the very pinnacle of fashion, but in a way that is not too showy because she really would like to remain alive long enough to see it go out of fashion - and takes herself to Cavendish Place, thanking Watson all the while for the semi-civil conversation they managed while waiting for Holmes to jump out of a window of the Houses of Parliament. On the whole, Irene is grateful Lord Blackwood is dead; she does not want a dull life, by all means, but there is such a thing as too much excitement, loathe as she is to admit it. And really, enough people want to kill her as it is without the Devil himself getting involved.
It will be both time-consuming and suspicious for Irene to stand around in Cavendish Place all day, on the off-chance Miss Morstan will venture out alone, and increase the likelihood of Irene being found by Sherlock far earlier than she wants to be. She is inevitably going to have to face him at some point but she would like that to be when she has had time to compose herself and to think of a number of stinging remarks that can lodge in his brain and torment him at some point in the wild reaches of the night when he is up plucking at the strings of his violin and under the influence of any number of his vices. Irene also needs to be considerably closer to that diamond when Sherlock finds her, or she will be undone before she even begins and really, she cannot have that. However, she will not need to wait about in Cavendish Place; enough hours in and around Baker Street have taught her Doctor Watson’s office hours and she can therefore plan accordingly as to when Mary will appear. It is not foolproof, of course, but people are creatures of habit and far more predictable than they realise.
Doctor Watson’s office hours finish at one in the afternoon; at ten minutes to, Mary appears at one corner of the square. A semi-triumphant smile momentarily flashes across Irene’s face and she moves quickly but discreetly, getting into Mary’s path just in time for the two to meet gazes and for there to be mutual recognition; real (and gratifying) on Mary’s side, and perfectly feigned on Irene’s.
“Miss Morstan, wasn’t it?” she says, all bright teeth and charm.
Irene is extremely good at charm; it was the first thing she ever learned and she has been refining it ever since. More and more pieces of her natural charm have been knocked off through the years, but her talent at feigning it has only increased. She is a knife wrapped in the most exquisite silken scarf, teeth and claws concealed wonderfully, unless you know to look for them. Holmes and Watson certainly do; Mary definitely does not.
They are both practiced at small talk; society has prepared them for this much. Irene weaves a perfectly plausible story of being widowed and moving to England from America for a fresh start. She has chosen to be a widow because women on the verge of being married do not like to hear the word ‘divorce’. They especially do not like to hear ‘divorced three times’ - or is it four? They all start to blur into one after a while - and in any case Irene is very careful never to reveal her somewhat chequered past when making new acquaintances. It tends to lead to judgement and disgust and while Irene sees judgement as par for the course she has not yet learned to inoculate herself against disgust and until she does then she can do without it.
She learns that Mary is a governess, that her charge is with his mother this afternoon which is why she is coming to have lunch with her fiancé - who is finally named as John Watson, so Irene can stop keeping herself in check lest she accidentally say his name, though that would be an amateur mistake and she has not been an amateur in a long time - and she also learns that Mary Morstan is far too sharp. She is observant and clever and has nerves of steel; Irene is not sure why she is surprised by this because she can hardly see Watson leaving Sherlock for a woman he was incapable of having a conversation with. Still, this is going to make her life a little more complicated, and she makes a mental note to brush up a little on her sincerity. She has not been genuinely sincere about anything in such a long time that it makes it quite difficult to feign it at times, but if she wants to gain something resembling friendship with Mary, at least until she is in a position to reclaim the diamond, then she will need to appear to be earnest.
All the while they talk, Irene can see the large, solid shape of the ring beneath Mary’s warm winter glove. She is careful not to look at it too many times, and instead keeps her gaze on Mary herself, eyes locked with Mary’s warm, bright ones.
“You’d better go,” Irene says, “you don’t want to keep that fiancé of yours waiting.”
“Right,” Mary agrees, smile soft. She turns to go, but then turns back. “I don’t know if you’ll think this too presumptuous, but would you like to have tea with me? On Thursday?”
“I’d love to,” Irene replies, “I’m staying at The Grand - you can contact me there.”
She departs Cavendish Place with a growing sense of triumph. She can already feel the solid weight of that diamond back around her neck.
-
The newspaper reports of another man found with a small calibre bullet in his skull and powder burns on his skin. The press love it, revelling in these greatly unusual murders with no sign of the killer at all and such a deliciously unique signature, but each one turns Irene’s stomach. She can already see herself laid out on the floor, dark hair haloing her head, silk dressing gown open and removing even the scant veneer of modesty she has gathered to herself, eyes open and mouth open too, skull split open from Moriarty’s bullet. It is really just as well she would be too dead to ever require a hotel again; no doubt the sight of her would traumatise yet another chambermaid, and she’d ruin the carpet, and The Grand would never let her stay here again.
Irene does not spend a single moment worrying about whether Sherlock would be called or whether he would be sad when faced with the sight of her corpse; it is not a thought to linger on.
In any case, she has tea with Mary today, and being morbid will not help her to be bright and charming and ingratiating. Shaking herself, Irene closes the paper and tosses it aside, trying to disregard the story. Moriarty has many more people to kill before he gets to her, and by that point the authorities or Sherlock or someone will have found him and stopped him, surely. In any case, Irene is resilient; she was pushed off Tower Bridge, after all, and survived to tell the tale, which is rather more than Lord Blackwood managed and he was supposedly in league with the Devil himself. Irene sold her soul for money a long time ago, but it was better than many of the alternatives and in any case, if there is something she wants to think about less than her impending gruesome murder by Moriarty then it is her past. No, none of this will do. She is Iris Atkins - a paper-thin pseudonym that she must pray John Watson does not see through, but she was distracted and so did not cover her tracks adequately enough - and she is going to have afternoon tea with Mary Morstan and she is going to begin a most beneficial friendship. After all, with that jewel, she can flee the country and get away from Moriarty altogether. It much more important to pull the strings of this plan together than to sit around worrying about something that may not even happen. The best way to protect herself is with money.
They are having tea in The Grand’s tearooms, with Irene insisting that Mary let it be her treat. After all, she has spent enough time in Baker Street to learn that Mary may be marrying a doctor but she is by no means marrying into money (that little gambling addiction is only going to resurface and end terribly badly) and being a governess does not guarantee a large amount of income (which is part of the reason Irene chose crime for her career: it does pay considerably better). The least she can do is pretend her poor dead husband left her some money to live on.
Mary is dressed in sky blue silk; perfectly acceptable, if a little out of date, hair pinned neatly back and a smile so genuine that Irene would think about feeling bad except that her life is at stake and for that Miss Morstan can suffer the loss of a shining gem she should never have had in the first place. Watson could have managed a perfectly adequate engagement ring himself, Irene is sure, which means the only reason Holmes passed on the Maharajah’s jewel was to annoy her. And if that was indeed the plan; well, it is certainly working. Irene will give Sherlock that much credit.
They drink tea and eat cake and Irene feeds Mary a long string of lies, each one based just a little in fact because those always make the best forms of untruths; it is easier to keep track of them, in any case. Mary is excited because Watson is in the newspaper today; he is the attending physician at an execution later this week. Maybe he’ll do a slightly better job of pronouncing the man dead this time, Irene thinks, but elects not to say it aloud. There is genuine pride in Mary’s voice when she speaks, which does make Irene feel slightly uncomfortable, but the feeling soon passes.
“John often works with the police,” Mary tells her. “I find it all rather thrilling.”
“You aren’t worried for him?” Irene asks, although she has no interest whatsoever in hearing details of previous cases that Sherlock and Watson have solved. He may be keeping a file on her and all the little things she may or may not have done - Irene is not confessing to anything, of course - but she has been keeping an eye on Sherlock.
“John used to be a soldier,” Mary explains, “he’s very capable.” She smiles slightly. “I have always loved detective stories.”
“So have I,” Irene replies. It is close enough to the truth, anyway; she reads them from time to time for advice, if nothing else.
There is no smugness at all, just plain delight, when Mary says: “John used to work with Sherlock Holmes, you know.”
Lord, does she. Irene simply smiles and says: “Really? The Sherlock Holmes?” and does a rather good impression of stunned admiration, even if she does say so herself.
“Oh, yes,” Mary says. “He doesn’t like to talk about it much, though.” The slightest hint of a shadow passes across her previously sunny face and Irene is interested in this.
“Maybe he is just modest?” she suggests, and manages to keep a perfectly straight face as she says it, leaning to pour them both more tea.
“Perhaps,” Mary replies, her lower lip catching between her teeth for a moment. “He does not like to talk about Mr Holmes much.”
Irene watches Mary carefully as she says this, looking for traces of delusion, looking for how much she has worked out for herself, and is pleasantly surprised. Watson has found a smart one here, and no mistake about that. On the other hand, he would probably have been better off marrying someone a little less perceptive.
“They say he’s a genius,” Irene remarks, careful, feeding the conversation just a little.
“Oh, he is,” Mary says, with far less bitterness and resentment than Irene would have expected. After all, Irene herself frequently finds Sherlock obnoxious, irritating and frustrating, and while she most certainly is not in love with him - though she worried that she was for a while and was realistic enough about it to convince both herself and Moriarty - she still finds herself drawn back to him a little more than is really healthy. If she were Mary, struggling to fit Sherlock Holmes and John Watson into her life, Irene is fairly sure she would hate the man. “He is quite brilliant. Quite abrasive too, of course.”
“Genius so often is,” Irene says, with a carefully calculated almost-conspirital smile.
“I suppose so,” Mary agrees, gaze dropping to the table cloth.
Irene likes pushing things, and has in fact made her fortune and an entire career out of pushing things. Nonetheless, something tells her not to push it now, and her gut instinct has not led her wrong so far. It is all those pesky little external circumstances that have driven her here.
“In any case, it must be exciting,” she offers lightly, taking a delicate bite of cake.
Mary’s smile is sweetly grateful, and Irene reminds herself that the only reason she altered the subject was because she does not want to crack Mary too early. That is all. Looking over Mary’s shoulder, as she busies herself with butter and scones, Irene catches sight of someone. They are gone in the time it takes her to blink, a dark head of hair and a face she was sure was watching her, and unease slips down her spine. She will hope it was Sherlock, because if it wasn’t... her hands tremble just a little, and she curls her fingers into her palms, hoping that if Mary does notice, she will at least have the good manners not to mention it. Irene is really rather bored of her life being actively in danger; it is not nearly as much fun as when she has organised the danger herself.
“It can be,” Mary agrees. “John has written all the cases he has participated in down, but he will not let me look at them.” Irene is very well-behaved and does not choke with amusement on her cake, though it is a near-miss. After all, Watson’s stories will really only contain the flat, honest truth; mysteries, Holmes’ arrogant brilliance, and perhaps the occasional trip to the opera. Nothing else has ever occurred and Watson would never record the possibilities. “I think he wants to keep me separate from that world,” Mary adds, almost to herself.
Mary is Watson’s escape from it all, love of detective novels or not, and Irene can see what he is trying to do, even if she knows it will not work.
“Perhaps he wants to keep you safe?” Irene suggests, resisting the urge to point any of this out to Mary.
“Perhaps I don’t want to be completely safe,” Mary suggests, bright eyes dancing, and Irene feels herself smiling almost unconsciously. Watson’s marrying quite the handful in this one, and she wonders if he even knows. Mary clears her throat, turning her attention to the scattered remains of tea. “I should be going, I’m afraid.” She clearly thinks she has said a little too much, which she has, but Irene does not mind in the slightest.
“This was lovely,” Irene tells her, “I would like to do it again at some point.”
It is not until Mary has agreed and finally left with a shimmering smile and a promise to see each other soon that Irene realises that she was not even lying.
Well, this is an interesting new development.
-
Irene sleeps with a gun under her pillow, of course. It would be foolish not to, and really, she cannot understand why everyone does not to it. Of course, if things continue as they have done, she may have to carry a gun everywhere she goes, which could be a little problematic but it would not be the first time. She is probably being watched, and as long as it stays at being watched, she does not mind. Moriarty will not tip his hand so fast, and in any case she is a very small cog in a very large machine, so she should have some time before she is... eliminated. By which time she will be abroad, with the diamond and considerably better chances.
It is not a good plan, not a foolproof plan, but it is the only one Irene has and she will cling to it until it is pried from her fingers.
When the scratching starts at her door - so soft it is almost unnoticeable, but Irene has been waiting for it - she sighs and goes to fetch her gun before walking across to open it. She hopes it is Sherlock, hopes that Moriarty’s men would either be less discreet or more competent at lock-picking, but it is best to err on the side of caution. A finger curls over the trigger and she tries to ignore how hard her heart is hammering in her chest before she turns the handle and swiftly pulls the door open.
Sherlock blinks up at her, a vague little smile on his face, before his gaze slides to the barrel of the gun. Irene momentarily considers shooting him anyway, just for old time’s sake, but her finger slides almost unconsciously from the trigger and she moves the weapon away.
“Really, you’d think you would be better at this by now,” she says, and offers Holmes a hand to his feet. He ignores her, pushing himself upright, tucking his lockpicks into his pocket.
“You’re nervous, Irene,” he observes as he walks inside.
“Well, Sherlock, it is nearly eleven o’clock at night and someone was breaking into my room,” she points out. “Any girl would be worried for her virtue.”
The slightest smirk crosses Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t think virtue is something you have had to worry about for quite some time, Irene.”
“True, but unnecessary,” Irene agrees. She takes in Sherlock’s appearance; slightly more dishevelled than usual, with a hollowness to his eyes that shows he has not been sleeping. “Well, aren’t you the picture of health.”
He ignores her. “What are you doing, staying here?”
“Hiding in plain sight?” Irene suggests. “You and Moriarty are both perfectly capable of finding me whatever I do.”
She does not miss the flicker of an expression that momentarily graces Sherlock’s features at the name “Moriarty”, though it vanishes soon enough and is not there long enough for her to adequately read it.
“You shouldn’t still be in London,” Holmes tells her, and then takes a step closer to her, brow furrowed, eyes penetrating her very being in a way that makes her shiver just a little more than she would like. “Why are you still here, Irene?”
“The Royal Opera House is putting on some really splendid productions of late,” she offers, not even bothering to make it look like she’s telling the truth, “I thought I would stay until the end of the season.”
“Well, that’s a charming little lie,” Sherlock tells her. He adds: “I saw you this afternoon.”
“I saw you too,” Irene replies, leaving out the fact that she was not entirely sure it was him until this exact moment. “Where did you find enough decent clothing to dine here? I was under the impression most of the clothes you wore belonged to Doctor Watson.”
She keeps her tone very light, as though she does not know the effect the name will have on him. There is an almost indiscernible tightening of Sherlock’s jaw, noticeable only because Irene was looking for it, and something small breaks in his eyes, altering his entire visage though his expression does not move a muscle. If Irene were anyone other than herself, she would think about feeling bad. As she is not, she does not.
“And what were you doing here for afternoon tea, anyway?” she continues smoothly, as though she never expected an answer to the question; a small concession for Sherlock, who is taking this even more badly than she expected. She really hopes he was not following Mary around, because that cannot end well for anybody.
“I was meeting a client,” Holmes tells her, expression clearly showing what he thinks of being brought to afternoon tea for a consultation. Still, Irene muses, at least it got him out of the house and made him eat something, which is probably more than he has done recently. “And what exactly were you doing?”
Irene contemplates lying, but Sherlock already knows the truth; he just wants it from her lips. This is the motions of a conversation that does not need to happen, but will anyway.
“I have been making the acquaintance of a Miss Mary Morstan,” she explains, tone airy, with all the ignorance she can layer in it. “She’s a most charming lady; have you met her?”
Sherlock’s teeth clench. “Let us be straight with one another here,” he says. “You don’t like anyone, as we both know, and you are only befriending Miss Morstan because she is in possession of the Maharajah’s diamond.”
She flutters her eyelashes as much as she dares. “Oh, is that engagement ring real? It was so big, I had no idea.”
“Irene,” Sherlock sighs, “ignorance does not suit you at all.”
“It does if you accessorise it properly,” Irene suggests.
“You are being facetious,” Holmes informs her tightly. “And we are both fully aware that you can tell a real jewel from a false one from the other side of a crowded ball room.”
“I would say it’s endearing how well you know me,” Irene says, “but actually, it’s really quite irritating.”
Sherlock’s smile is just a little smug. “We may as well be honest with one another,” he says.
Honesty is really so very boring - why tell the dull truth when a lie makes everything much more interesting? - but Irene decides she may as well give Holmes what he wants. After all, it will be the first time anyone has given Sherlock that in a while. She crosses over to the table, dropping into one of the elegant and deeply uncomfortable chairs drawn up to it, and gestures for Sherlock to take the other one. He sits down, steepling his fingers and surveying her with that penetrating gaze of his. It makes her feel naked, more naked than the times Sherlock actually has seen her unclothed, and she swallows just a little too hard.
“That diamond is mine,” Irene says, quiet but fervent, voice carefully steady. “I did not go to all that hard work just to watch it languish on the finger of a bored housewife.”
“That diamond was not yours in the first place,” Sherlock tells her, “you cannot claim ownership of it.” A scowl tightens, just a little, as though registering what else Irene has said. “And Miss Morstan will not be bored!”
Irene was not intentionally insulting Watson, but it is interesting that Holmes thought she was. Well, it would be interesting, if it were not for the fact Irene already has all the facts in this case and she is already bored of it.
“You stole my contingency plan to help Doctor Watson set up house without you,” she tells him, voice just a little sharper than she meant it to be, “and really, Sherlock, that’s just sick.”
“I gave the diamond a good, safe home,” Sherlock responds, voice just shy of a snap. “Where it would be appreciated.”
Irene laughs derisively, riled up by his need to lie to them both. And to lie badly. “You don’t even want Watson to get married!” she exclaims. “You want him to stay at home with you so he can clear up your messes and listen to your monologues on every subject under the sun and be there so you can watch him out of the corner of your eye when you think he isn’t looking and pine in that terribly self-indulgent way of yours. Which, yes, Sherlock, I have noticed, oddly enough.”
Finally, for once in her life, Irene has startled Sherlock. It is every bit as satisfying as she always thought it would be.
“Well,” he says at last, “I was not exactly being discreet.”
“No,” Irene agrees, “although Watson apparently has not noticed, or if he has he is choosing to pretend he has not, though I suppose you don’t really want to discuss that.”
“Not particularly,” Sherlock agrees, “I am far more interested in what you are doing with Miss Morstan.”
“I am gaining her confidence so I can steal her diamond,” Irene tells him, the edge of an idea unfolding in her mind. She will have to play this exactly right, but she has made manipulating Sherlock Holmes into an art over the last few years, so it is perfectly achievable.
“You realise I cannot allow you do that,” Holmes tells her.
“Of course you can,” Irene replies. “I worm my way into Miss Morstan’s life, scattering the seeds of damage and doubt. In the end, the engagement is in tatters and I walk away with the ring. Doctor Watson will be rather upset of course,” she adds, tone light but significant nonetheless.
She sees the exact moment that Sherlock understands, sees realisation ripple across his face. “What exactly do you want, Irene?” he asks sharply.
“I want you to help me,” she responds simply. “Cover my tracks, keep Doctor Watson busy when I need you to, that sort of thing. In return, I’ll bring a swift end to the engagement and leave poor, poor Watson in need of a great deal of... comforting.”
Holmes is definitely fighting not to smile now. “And you think I would agree to ruin my best friend’s relationship?”
“Well,” Irene begins, “you did hire a fortune teller to cast evil omens over the proposal; I think you’re perfectly willing.”
“Watson told you about that?” Sherlock looks just a little sheepish, just a little defiant.
“Twice,” Irene replies. “And really, Sherlock, that was amateurish at best. Threatening a man with doilies is really not how you end an engagement.”
“No?”
“No.” Irene leans forward over the table, just a little. “I’ll show you how you bring an end to an engagement. Do we have a deal?” She offers Sherlock her hand; he does not hesitate before taking it, grip warm and firm.
“We have a deal.”
Irene feels a grin spread across her face. “Perfect.”
TBC