Worth It
Title: Worth It
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Irene/Kate, mentions of Sherlock, John (Sherlock/John?), Mycroft
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings: None.
Summary: A conversation over breakfast. Post-Reichenbach. Mostly a brief character study.
Beta: analineblue But then I changed, oh, so many things. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: I was playing around with the idea of Kate, and this happened. And now I have ~*ideas*~ about post-Reichenbach Kate. Of course I do.
(Also on AO3)
Worth It
It is morning, only just. On the covered table rest two white plates, silver utensils, and crystal goblets. There’s an egg cup, too, and a smaller plate, each relegated to a separate place setting.
Kate steps quickly to the sideboard to plate breakfast. Soft-boiled egg and fresh fruit with a rasher of bacon for herself, fruit and a scone for Irene. Juice for them both, and coffee from the sterling samovar poured into porcelain cups.
Everything set in its proper place, Kate draws the curtains and smoothes out her cream blouse and dark pencil skirt.
When Irene enters the room, she does it with pretty grace despite her plain grey cotton robe and her sloppy bun. There are dark smudges under her makeup-less eyes. She smiles brightly.
“Good morning,” Kate says. “There’s been a message from -”
“You aren’t my assistant today.” Irene sits and places a napkin on her lap. “You’re my Kate. Sit.”
Kate does, moving the morning paper from her seat. She places it on the table so that the headline faces up, bold and incriminating. Irene, as Kate had suspected, can’t help but glance at it.
“Oh, please don’t start,” she says, frowning. “He isn’t actually dead.”
There is silence as Irene butters her scone and sips her coffee. Kate simply stares. It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, because it does. Really, it’s the fact that it makes perfect sense that completely throws her. Once, feigned death was a foreign concept, something done by famous musicians and spoken of by conspiracy theorists. Now, it was a strange part of her very strange life.
“Mycroft Holmes was the one who phoned you last night, was he not?”
Kate nods, picks up a strawberry and puts it down again. “Yes, he was.”
“We’re going to have a very busy day, Kate. A very busy day indeed.”
“Shall I prepare the car?”
Irene frowns. “Not today. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. Today is for us. Now be a dear and eat your breakfast.”
She does. She’s good at following orders, even likes following them, but her eyes keep flicking from the cracked shell of her egg to the black-and-white paper on the table. The photograph is stock, an image from months ago of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in peculiar, out-of-date hats. She folds it up and tucks it away underneath her plate.
Irene is particularly lovely this morning. She is soft, relaxed and happy, and her eyes are bright. Kate can’t help but smile at her even as her heart does dangerous things in her chest.
--
“He’s not an easy man to seduce,” Irene says, biting her bottom lip.
Kate smiles, running a brush through her long hair.
“If I may make a suggestion?”
She waits until Irene gives an impatient nod and then she sets the brush on the vanity.
“You weren’t wearing any clothes when you met; you were wearing your armor. Go naked next time.”
“Oh, you brilliant girl!” Irene turns to look at her, beaming. “You bright thing. Yes, of course.”
Kate is kissed on the side of her temple, her cheek, the side of her mouth. Her head still throbs something awful from that afternoon. Oh, but it’s all worth it.
--
“I suppose you’ll want the full story,” Irene says as she rests her cup in its saucer.
Kate swallows a spoonful of egg and waits for the words to come. When she was younger, when she was just starting out as a secretary, she had been full of questions. That was when the world was there for immediate gratification. Irene has since taught her a great deal of patience.
“Moriarty is dead, which I suppose is the most important thing.”
That sends a thrill through her, one that shoots down her spine and makes her fingers tingle. She’s never much liked the man, to be honest. He was full of cruelty, and he put on horrid airs. Where men like Sherlock (not that there were many) were organic, Jim was manufactured, processed.
“Mycroft Holmes, of course, is in on the great deception. In fact, he helped to orchestrate it. It’s all very clever, though I’m afraid the logistics might bore you. In any case, no one else knows.”
“Not even Dr. Watson?”
“Why Kate, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a bit of a crush!” Irene exclaims, grinning. “No, he doesn’t have the slightest clue. He’s a bit like you, actually.”
Oh, that would’ve cut like knives once, but Kate smiles now. It’s affectionate jesting, is all. She could be brilliant like the Holmeses and Moriartys and Adlers of the world, but she’s much more content being average and helpful. Genius would be useless without someone to ground it, without a lightning rod in the storm of the mind.
Besides, Kate is clever in her own right.
“He must be grieving fiercely,” she says.
“I imagine so. Still, Sherlock plans to return to his dear doctor soon enough.”
“Are they really in love, do you think?”
“Let’s hurry. I want to make it to the shops before they crowd.”
Kate finishes off the last bite of bacon and the final dregs of her coffee. It’ll make for a pleasant afternoon, walking brisk, sunny streets with Irene to do the shopping. She’s rarely been accompanied on her weekly trips to buy supplies.
“Yes,” Irene says as she wipes her mouth. “I do suppose they are. It’s one of the reasons I’ve agreed to help. I have every hope that this will bring them closer together.”
Kate smiles. “That’s almost altruistic of you.”
“I do have a soft spot for the dear doctor, it’s true,” she chuckles, “but having Sherlock openly in love with someone - well, I think such a thing could be used to my benefit.”
“And you owe him a favor.”
“Yes, there is that, isn’t there?”
The End
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Irene/Kate, mentions of Sherlock, John (Sherlock/John?), Mycroft
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings: None.
Summary: A conversation over breakfast. Post-Reichenbach. Mostly a brief character study.
Beta: analineblue But then I changed, oh, so many things. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: I was playing around with the idea of Kate, and this happened. And now I have ~*ideas*~ about post-Reichenbach Kate. Of course I do.
(Also on AO3)
Worth It
It is morning, only just. On the covered table rest two white plates, silver utensils, and crystal goblets. There’s an egg cup, too, and a smaller plate, each relegated to a separate place setting.
Kate steps quickly to the sideboard to plate breakfast. Soft-boiled egg and fresh fruit with a rasher of bacon for herself, fruit and a scone for Irene. Juice for them both, and coffee from the sterling samovar poured into porcelain cups.
Everything set in its proper place, Kate draws the curtains and smoothes out her cream blouse and dark pencil skirt.
When Irene enters the room, she does it with pretty grace despite her plain grey cotton robe and her sloppy bun. There are dark smudges under her makeup-less eyes. She smiles brightly.
“Good morning,” Kate says. “There’s been a message from -”
“You aren’t my assistant today.” Irene sits and places a napkin on her lap. “You’re my Kate. Sit.”
Kate does, moving the morning paper from her seat. She places it on the table so that the headline faces up, bold and incriminating. Irene, as Kate had suspected, can’t help but glance at it.
“Oh, please don’t start,” she says, frowning. “He isn’t actually dead.”
There is silence as Irene butters her scone and sips her coffee. Kate simply stares. It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, because it does. Really, it’s the fact that it makes perfect sense that completely throws her. Once, feigned death was a foreign concept, something done by famous musicians and spoken of by conspiracy theorists. Now, it was a strange part of her very strange life.
“Mycroft Holmes was the one who phoned you last night, was he not?”
Kate nods, picks up a strawberry and puts it down again. “Yes, he was.”
“We’re going to have a very busy day, Kate. A very busy day indeed.”
“Shall I prepare the car?”
Irene frowns. “Not today. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. Today is for us. Now be a dear and eat your breakfast.”
She does. She’s good at following orders, even likes following them, but her eyes keep flicking from the cracked shell of her egg to the black-and-white paper on the table. The photograph is stock, an image from months ago of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in peculiar, out-of-date hats. She folds it up and tucks it away underneath her plate.
Irene is particularly lovely this morning. She is soft, relaxed and happy, and her eyes are bright. Kate can’t help but smile at her even as her heart does dangerous things in her chest.
--
“He’s not an easy man to seduce,” Irene says, biting her bottom lip.
Kate smiles, running a brush through her long hair.
“If I may make a suggestion?”
She waits until Irene gives an impatient nod and then she sets the brush on the vanity.
“You weren’t wearing any clothes when you met; you were wearing your armor. Go naked next time.”
“Oh, you brilliant girl!” Irene turns to look at her, beaming. “You bright thing. Yes, of course.”
Kate is kissed on the side of her temple, her cheek, the side of her mouth. Her head still throbs something awful from that afternoon. Oh, but it’s all worth it.
--
“I suppose you’ll want the full story,” Irene says as she rests her cup in its saucer.
Kate swallows a spoonful of egg and waits for the words to come. When she was younger, when she was just starting out as a secretary, she had been full of questions. That was when the world was there for immediate gratification. Irene has since taught her a great deal of patience.
“Moriarty is dead, which I suppose is the most important thing.”
That sends a thrill through her, one that shoots down her spine and makes her fingers tingle. She’s never much liked the man, to be honest. He was full of cruelty, and he put on horrid airs. Where men like Sherlock (not that there were many) were organic, Jim was manufactured, processed.
“Mycroft Holmes, of course, is in on the great deception. In fact, he helped to orchestrate it. It’s all very clever, though I’m afraid the logistics might bore you. In any case, no one else knows.”
“Not even Dr. Watson?”
“Why Kate, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a bit of a crush!” Irene exclaims, grinning. “No, he doesn’t have the slightest clue. He’s a bit like you, actually.”
Oh, that would’ve cut like knives once, but Kate smiles now. It’s affectionate jesting, is all. She could be brilliant like the Holmeses and Moriartys and Adlers of the world, but she’s much more content being average and helpful. Genius would be useless without someone to ground it, without a lightning rod in the storm of the mind.
Besides, Kate is clever in her own right.
“He must be grieving fiercely,” she says.
“I imagine so. Still, Sherlock plans to return to his dear doctor soon enough.”
“Are they really in love, do you think?”
“Let’s hurry. I want to make it to the shops before they crowd.”
Kate finishes off the last bite of bacon and the final dregs of her coffee. It’ll make for a pleasant afternoon, walking brisk, sunny streets with Irene to do the shopping. She’s rarely been accompanied on her weekly trips to buy supplies.
“Yes,” Irene says as she wipes her mouth. “I do suppose they are. It’s one of the reasons I’ve agreed to help. I have every hope that this will bring them closer together.”
Kate smiles. “That’s almost altruistic of you.”
“I do have a soft spot for the dear doctor, it’s true,” she chuckles, “but having Sherlock openly in love with someone - well, I think such a thing could be used to my benefit.”
“And you owe him a favor.”
“Yes, there is that, isn’t there?”
The End