On the twelfth day of Sherlockmas ... "Twelve Days After Christmas," a gift for eanor
Author: sherlockholmes
Title: Twelve Days After Christmas
A gift for: eanor
Characters/Pairing: Irene Adler/Mycroft Holmes.
Category: Het
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: After Mycroft receives a strange card while at the Diogenes Club, he prepares for the arrival of his unnamed guest, but nothing seems to go according to plan.
Author's Notes: I sort of tried to combine the two prompts “Mycroft actually cares” and “Irene and Mycroft spend Christmas together” -- but with a bit of a twist that I hope you’ll like. It’s Irene Adler, after all. Nothing can be entirely straightforward, can it?
Also: Special thanks to the mod team, for being incredible. Thanks so much, you guys!
Even for a man like Mycroft, the holidays always called for a certain number of concessions. Some of these, like the cluttering up of his mantle with a collection of MP family portraits printed on red and green cardstock frustrated him to no end, but others -- the excuse to have something a touch stronger than Darjeeling in the afternoons -- did have their advantages. But Christmas soirees it was his duty to attend, insincere but expensive gifts that brought up the memory of family Christmases past to mind like a bad aftertaste, and mandatory vacation time all meant that the cons of the season far outweighed the pros.
As a general rule, Mycroft always spent little to no time in his home. Besides sleeping, unless his dwelling was being used for some private meeting or function, Mycroft simply was not in it. There were just far too many ghosts; the trouble of any childhood home, he imagined. Reminiscing was too potent a distraction, particularly around the end of the year, and so he spent his days off in the uncomfortable silence of the Diogenes Club.
That was one of the niggling differences between the elder and younger Holmes, Mycroft supposed. When Sherlock needed to think, he’d just shut the world away, pretending it didn’t exist and retreat to the solitude of his internal mind palace (a phrase that Mycroft could not even think without rolling his eyes). If anyone was tense or negative, Sherlock would make them leave the room or face a wall -- whereas Mycroft preferred that tension. He liked being in a room full of people who were strained in some way or another, be it because they were concealing something or because there were obligatory rules that they needed to follow for the sake of custom, etiquette or whim. That was the entire point to his precious Diogenes Club: to force an air of unease, to make a mental meal of other men’s malaise and thrive in their silent tongues but disquiet minds.
He sat there, whittling away the hours with his nose in a book whose pages may as well have been blank for all the attention he paid them. His mind was on the work that he wasn’t meant to touch until after Christmas. It was almost all economy-related and the numbers for the commercial side of the holiday needed to be crunched before he could move forward. Everything was already set in place based on his people’s projections, but Mycroft was never satisfied until every crease had been ironed. Until he knew without a doubt that his projection for England’s December spending was accurate, he’d spend his minutes coming up with ways to make up the difference.
He’d slid all the way to which civil programmes could face budget cuts by the time one of the waiters approached him with a tray holding an inviting glass of port. As he roused himself from his mental mathematics, he realised there was an envelope leaned up against the crystalware’s short stem. It was simple, small and white like one that might be tucked into a bouquet of flowers to reveal the admirer’s name only when opened. He plucked it casually from the tray with his left hand and then claimed the glass with his right, settling in to examine the curious note.
It was addressed to him only by his initials, written in gold ink across the face of the envelope with the sort of delicate flourish that suggested it was done by a woman’s hand. The stationery itself was heavy and textured. It probably came from some sort of set for invitations or placecards. It wasn’t cheap and it wasn’t the Club’s stationery. Such a trifle of a thing would have never stirred his interest on any ordinary day, but with no international plans to unravel at the moment, the small mystery was enough to pique his interest.
After checking to make sure no one else had turned their eyes in his direction, Holmes slid his thumbnail along the seam to slice it open. The second he’d done so, he was hit with a hauntingly familiar fragrance. The card inside, apparently, had been doused quite heavily in a perfume that Holmes was sure he recognised. It held a sharp, wood-like scent accented with peaches, mandarins subtly lined with warm undertones of carnation and cinnamon.
Mycroft no longer needed to free that card to know who it was from. But he wasn’t sure if it was the perfume alone that had ignited the memory or the way his heartbeat quickened that brought her blue eyes and raven hair to mind. He held his breath, guarding himself from complete intoxication as he pushed two fingers into the paper to retrieve the card. If it was a message from the woman he knew it had to be important.
But there was nothing on it; both sides of the small piece of red card were blank. He held it up to the light (as discreetly as he could) to see if there was some hidden writing or symbol but if the card held any secrets, they were as well-hidden and protected as he might have expected. This was a clue, a piece of a riddle, and he was meant to set about determining what it meant.
Because of course she did. She was a woman who thrived on making powerful, intelligent men try to impress her. She liked to watch them jump through hoops or roll over at her command. As far as Holmes was concerned, however, she was in for a rude awakening if she thought him as easy to manipulate as his brother. He was far too busy a man to play her heady little games. If there was something she wanted, she could come and beg for it, for all he cared.
He exhaled sharply enough to turn the heads of a few of the men sitting nearby and he dropped his eyes back to the perfumed card. She was, he thought for a moment, also a potentially dangerous woman. She didn’t have her former connections. Moriarty was dead, and for all intents and purposes so was she, but she was far too cunning and resourceful a person to overlook. If he didn’t try to decipher what she meant by sending this here, he would be taking a risk. And, when the outcome was impossible to calculate, Mycroft hated taking risks. So he had to sort out what she wanted, not because he wanted to, but because it was a poor choice not to.
As he thought, he waved the envelope idly beneath his nose, bringing in breezes of the scent. He imagined that this perfumed paper was meant to representing a visiting card. She knew where he lived, she’d been there before, and it guaranteed that he would be on his own. The only trick to it now was decoding which day she meant to grace him with her presence.
A year ago, about this time, she’d faked her own death and given Sherlock her phone in a brightly wrapped box as a Christmas present. She’d done it so he would properly examine exactly how indestructible the device was, but Mycroft imagined it was no coincidence that the card he held in his hand matched the wrapping paper. It made sense that she would visit him then; after all, it was the only coming day he was guaranteed to be at home. Even the Diogenes Club would be closed.
It was only days away, which meant he had a lot of preparations to attend to. There needed to be a dinner made, gifts purchased and silver polished. Not because the date was important to him, or her for that matter, but because he wanted the woman to know that he’d expected her. That he’d solved her little puzzle and knew exactly when she’d arrive. He was still a touch sour about the fact that she’d nearly won the day when it came to the contents of her phone, and she would have had it not been for her misstep, underestimating Sherlock’s intelligence. There was no better revenge than having her step unexpectedly into something extravagant -- it had nothing to do with impressing her at all.
But Christmas day came, and Christmas day went. The dinner goose and decadent desserts that Holmes had catered all spoiled untouched. With neither sight of nor sound from Irene Adler, Mycroft’s favoured meal was 25-year-old Talisker. At the start of the evening, he chalked his misery up to defeat. He was convinced that she would come, and he’d been wrong, but the more he drank the more his own, heart-felt disappointment rose to the surface. He’d wanted to see her and she hadn’t come, and neither had anyone else.
Sitting beside his fireplace and consuming his scotch, he thought about last Christmas. How he’d stood beside his brother and told him that caring was not an advantage. At the time, Mycroft had of course been referring to the woman whose absence was deeply felt, but it had also been a warning. He knew what was coming, even then, and what he’d probably have to submit his brother to. It made him feel sick with himself for not trying a different method for bringing Moriarty down. Something that might have made this Christmas a day that didn’t involve damaged soldiers visiting detectives’ graves and him holding onto the shadow of a hope that he wouldn’t be spending the day alone with his thoughts and all of his regrets.
The new year rolled in almost unnoticed. By then, Mycroft was back to his desk, his routine and his darjeeling. He’d decided that the card he’d received those days before Christmas hadn’t been from Irene at all. It wasn’t that he’d been wrong about what she would do, he’d simply been taken in by someone else’s ridiculous prank or perhaps the card hadn’t even been meant for him. Even when people could not speak, there was still room for miscommunication and perhaps the poor waiter who’d presented it to him with his port was truly the man to be blamed in all of this.
***
Holmes stood at his fireplace, a glass of 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion. It was twelve days after Christmas and something unfortunate had settled in the back of his mind. The holidays were behind him and he was as far away from them as he could be. He even thought he might have reason to look forward to next Christmas, that John might too, if everything went according to schedule. But currently, right now on this day he felt low. Christmas, of course, was meant to be a time for family, but today was meant to be a day for Sherlock Holmes. It was his birthday and he was spending it out in the world attempting to sweep up the cobwebs that Moriarty left behind. And it was all Mycroft’s fault that he wasn’t at home in Baker Street, gripping miserably about how birthdays did not matter. Sherlock had done nothing to warrant the responsibility that Mycroft had put on his shoulders, the weight he was going to have to endure for at least twelve more months.
When he heard the latch on the heavy, arched wooden doors to his living room click, he didn’t turn to look who it was. Instead, his shoulders sank with sudden relief. He knew about most of Sherlock’s movements, but he’d fallen off the grid -- which made perfect sense if he meant to come back to London for his birthday, really. Mycroft straightened, fixed his expression into something exasperated and turned to face his brother. “You know, you really should--”
“Mm?” Irene pressed the thick fur of her collar away from her face and lifted her chin. “What should I do, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ms. Adler.” He gaped for just a moment. She’d caught him entirely off-guard. He’d been so focused on his brother that his mind had leapt to conclusions on it’s own. He hadn’t expected her and he knew that it was too late to pretend that he did. “This--this is a surprise.”
“Is it? I did send you a note. Chopard Cašmir Eau de Parfum.” She smiled and crossed the room, the click of her heels muted by the Persian carpet that covered the hardwood floors. When she reached him, she claimed his wine glass from the mantle and held it up towards the light of the hanging chandelier to examine the colour. “How is your brother?”
“Sherlock is dead.”
“And so am I.” She kissed the side of his glass and replaced it. “Funny how little that seems to mean among our circle of friends, isn’t it?”
Mycroft wasn’t sure if Irene knew for certain that Sherlock was alive, or if this was some kind of stunt to gain confirmation that he had indeed faked his death. Either way, he supposed he couldn’t care less what she knew at this point. All her little games and tricks aside, he knew that she owed Sherlock too much of a debt to want to hurt him with any information she sussed out tonight. “Then you’re late.”
“I most certainly am not.” She replied.
“Christmas was nearly two weeks ago, Ms. Adler.”
“Christmas?” She laughed and took a step closer to him, sliding elegantly into his space. “My dear, dear Mr. Holmes, had I any idea that you were so sentimental about it, I would have, but I thought. No, you see I thought tonight -- you might need me.”
“Need you.” Mycroft scoffed, but made no motion to move away from her or close up against her advance. “I don’t--”
“A friend.” Irene said softly, reaching out to stroke her fingers across the centre of his tie. “That you might need a friend, as you’ve found yourself in such short supply.”
“You’re wrong.” He shifted back on his heels and cast a frown into the fireplace before turning away from Adler and crossing the floor to have a seat in his oversized leather wingback. Though he sank into his seat, he was anything but relaxed. It was impossible to be lethargic with Irene in the room. “Sherlock spent his birthdays as far from me as possible when he was in London, why be bothered with his absence now?”
Adler was silent for a moment, making no secret of the fact she was looking him over. She was, in Mycroft’s opinion, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Not simply her features, but in the way she carried herself. She wore her cunning and her confidence as elegantly as she wore her designer fabrics.
“After your brother lended me a hand, I realised something,” she said. “That he might have done the legwork and swung a sword, but there was simply no way he could make a person disappear, but that he knew someone who could. Considering our little disagreement, Mr. Holmes, I couldn’t imagine why on earth you’d want to help me, until I realised you were doing it for Sherlock.”
“Go on.” Mycroft drawled.
“Not because he had feelings for me. You needed practice. Practice making someone as connected as I was to Moriarty disappear, and you needed to do it because you already knew what was coming, didn’t you?”
It was an interesting beginning to a theory, Holmes thought, but it wasn’t entirely without flaw. He’d helped her, he’d chosen her because he truly hadn’t wished her ill. She was far too clever and beautiful a woman to die on her knees because of one miscalculation. He’d saved her because he’d wanted too, but he wasn’t going to tell her. If she wanted to believe that everything he’d done was practical, that it meant nothing to him, then she was more than willing. Mycroft didn’t worry about much, but letting Irene Adler think she had some kind of foothold in his heart was legitimate cause for concern.
“You formed a plan to end Jim Moriarty and you used your brother to do it.” She shook her head. “You even knew the best way to make Sherlock work for you was to make it seem as though it was all about him. I taught you that, didn’t I? That’s how I knew Sherlock was still alive, Mr. Holmes. I’d seen this all before, I’d lived it all before. Everything, everything went perfectly didn’t it, except for one small detail.”
Irene walked from the fireplace to stand in front of him. She slid her hands up the armrests as she dropped silently to the floor Her fingers moved from the chair to his thighs and she left them right above his knees, moving to occupy the space between his legs.
“And what was that?” Holmes did his utmost to seem unphased, but it wasn’t entirely possible. Adler was a bit like a fire. No matter how predicted the burn pattern might be, a subtle change in the wind could ruin every calculation. There was no point trying to assess her. Nor was there any gain in letting his mind travel to what he hoped and wished was her next move. He slipped his foot closer to her, so that the leather of his shoe rested against her leg.
“You never thought you’d feel guilty, did you?” She whispered, her expression was soft. Mycroft wasn’t quite ready to trust his eyes when it came to deciding whether or not Irene was sincere, but she certainly seemed it. “Disgracing him, ruining the career of his precious Detective Inspector, the life of his friend. Taking away the happiness that had taken him so long to carve out for himself -- after his struggles, drug use and dead ends. You made these choices long before he thought he was making them for himself, and now you wished you hadn’t.”
No one had ever done this to him. No one had ever sat and thought about how he must feel about any of this. John had only seen what he was meant too. Lestrade, as usual, had seen nothing at all. But this woman and come out of hiding to be here tonight just to tell him that she understood. That she saw every move he’d made and realised what it must have done to him, what it had done to his heart.
But he couldn’t quite give in. As much as he wanted to believe that she was there with the purest of intentions, she was not a woman known for her purity. “What is it that you want, Ms. Adler?”
Irene pressed her hands into his legs and straightened, leaning forward so close that he every breath he took was scented with her perfume. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected the kiss, by the time her lips met his, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated the way it would stir him. He reached for her, taking her by the hips and coaxing her to her feet without stalling her mouth. He wasn’t satisfied until he’d moved her into his chair and had her arms draped around his neck.
She sat on one of his knees, her feet still planted between his and when the kiss finally ended, she leaned her side against him, and stroked at his tie. She was silent, he soon realised, because she was waiting for him to speak.
“I had no choice.” He murmured, looking not at her but at the fireplace. His hand followed the curve of her waist. “If there had been another way -- “
“I know,” Irene whispered. “Even if no one else ever does.”
~*~
Title: Twelve Days After Christmas
A gift for: eanor
Characters/Pairing: Irene Adler/Mycroft Holmes.
Category: Het
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: After Mycroft receives a strange card while at the Diogenes Club, he prepares for the arrival of his unnamed guest, but nothing seems to go according to plan.
Author's Notes: I sort of tried to combine the two prompts “Mycroft actually cares” and “Irene and Mycroft spend Christmas together” -- but with a bit of a twist that I hope you’ll like. It’s Irene Adler, after all. Nothing can be entirely straightforward, can it?
Also: Special thanks to the mod team, for being incredible. Thanks so much, you guys!
Even for a man like Mycroft, the holidays always called for a certain number of concessions. Some of these, like the cluttering up of his mantle with a collection of MP family portraits printed on red and green cardstock frustrated him to no end, but others -- the excuse to have something a touch stronger than Darjeeling in the afternoons -- did have their advantages. But Christmas soirees it was his duty to attend, insincere but expensive gifts that brought up the memory of family Christmases past to mind like a bad aftertaste, and mandatory vacation time all meant that the cons of the season far outweighed the pros.
As a general rule, Mycroft always spent little to no time in his home. Besides sleeping, unless his dwelling was being used for some private meeting or function, Mycroft simply was not in it. There were just far too many ghosts; the trouble of any childhood home, he imagined. Reminiscing was too potent a distraction, particularly around the end of the year, and so he spent his days off in the uncomfortable silence of the Diogenes Club.
That was one of the niggling differences between the elder and younger Holmes, Mycroft supposed. When Sherlock needed to think, he’d just shut the world away, pretending it didn’t exist and retreat to the solitude of his internal mind palace (a phrase that Mycroft could not even think without rolling his eyes). If anyone was tense or negative, Sherlock would make them leave the room or face a wall -- whereas Mycroft preferred that tension. He liked being in a room full of people who were strained in some way or another, be it because they were concealing something or because there were obligatory rules that they needed to follow for the sake of custom, etiquette or whim. That was the entire point to his precious Diogenes Club: to force an air of unease, to make a mental meal of other men’s malaise and thrive in their silent tongues but disquiet minds.
He sat there, whittling away the hours with his nose in a book whose pages may as well have been blank for all the attention he paid them. His mind was on the work that he wasn’t meant to touch until after Christmas. It was almost all economy-related and the numbers for the commercial side of the holiday needed to be crunched before he could move forward. Everything was already set in place based on his people’s projections, but Mycroft was never satisfied until every crease had been ironed. Until he knew without a doubt that his projection for England’s December spending was accurate, he’d spend his minutes coming up with ways to make up the difference.
He’d slid all the way to which civil programmes could face budget cuts by the time one of the waiters approached him with a tray holding an inviting glass of port. As he roused himself from his mental mathematics, he realised there was an envelope leaned up against the crystalware’s short stem. It was simple, small and white like one that might be tucked into a bouquet of flowers to reveal the admirer’s name only when opened. He plucked it casually from the tray with his left hand and then claimed the glass with his right, settling in to examine the curious note.
It was addressed to him only by his initials, written in gold ink across the face of the envelope with the sort of delicate flourish that suggested it was done by a woman’s hand. The stationery itself was heavy and textured. It probably came from some sort of set for invitations or placecards. It wasn’t cheap and it wasn’t the Club’s stationery. Such a trifle of a thing would have never stirred his interest on any ordinary day, but with no international plans to unravel at the moment, the small mystery was enough to pique his interest.
After checking to make sure no one else had turned their eyes in his direction, Holmes slid his thumbnail along the seam to slice it open. The second he’d done so, he was hit with a hauntingly familiar fragrance. The card inside, apparently, had been doused quite heavily in a perfume that Holmes was sure he recognised. It held a sharp, wood-like scent accented with peaches, mandarins subtly lined with warm undertones of carnation and cinnamon.
Mycroft no longer needed to free that card to know who it was from. But he wasn’t sure if it was the perfume alone that had ignited the memory or the way his heartbeat quickened that brought her blue eyes and raven hair to mind. He held his breath, guarding himself from complete intoxication as he pushed two fingers into the paper to retrieve the card. If it was a message from the woman he knew it had to be important.
But there was nothing on it; both sides of the small piece of red card were blank. He held it up to the light (as discreetly as he could) to see if there was some hidden writing or symbol but if the card held any secrets, they were as well-hidden and protected as he might have expected. This was a clue, a piece of a riddle, and he was meant to set about determining what it meant.
Because of course she did. She was a woman who thrived on making powerful, intelligent men try to impress her. She liked to watch them jump through hoops or roll over at her command. As far as Holmes was concerned, however, she was in for a rude awakening if she thought him as easy to manipulate as his brother. He was far too busy a man to play her heady little games. If there was something she wanted, she could come and beg for it, for all he cared.
He exhaled sharply enough to turn the heads of a few of the men sitting nearby and he dropped his eyes back to the perfumed card. She was, he thought for a moment, also a potentially dangerous woman. She didn’t have her former connections. Moriarty was dead, and for all intents and purposes so was she, but she was far too cunning and resourceful a person to overlook. If he didn’t try to decipher what she meant by sending this here, he would be taking a risk. And, when the outcome was impossible to calculate, Mycroft hated taking risks. So he had to sort out what she wanted, not because he wanted to, but because it was a poor choice not to.
As he thought, he waved the envelope idly beneath his nose, bringing in breezes of the scent. He imagined that this perfumed paper was meant to representing a visiting card. She knew where he lived, she’d been there before, and it guaranteed that he would be on his own. The only trick to it now was decoding which day she meant to grace him with her presence.
A year ago, about this time, she’d faked her own death and given Sherlock her phone in a brightly wrapped box as a Christmas present. She’d done it so he would properly examine exactly how indestructible the device was, but Mycroft imagined it was no coincidence that the card he held in his hand matched the wrapping paper. It made sense that she would visit him then; after all, it was the only coming day he was guaranteed to be at home. Even the Diogenes Club would be closed.
It was only days away, which meant he had a lot of preparations to attend to. There needed to be a dinner made, gifts purchased and silver polished. Not because the date was important to him, or her for that matter, but because he wanted the woman to know that he’d expected her. That he’d solved her little puzzle and knew exactly when she’d arrive. He was still a touch sour about the fact that she’d nearly won the day when it came to the contents of her phone, and she would have had it not been for her misstep, underestimating Sherlock’s intelligence. There was no better revenge than having her step unexpectedly into something extravagant -- it had nothing to do with impressing her at all.
But Christmas day came, and Christmas day went. The dinner goose and decadent desserts that Holmes had catered all spoiled untouched. With neither sight of nor sound from Irene Adler, Mycroft’s favoured meal was 25-year-old Talisker. At the start of the evening, he chalked his misery up to defeat. He was convinced that she would come, and he’d been wrong, but the more he drank the more his own, heart-felt disappointment rose to the surface. He’d wanted to see her and she hadn’t come, and neither had anyone else.
Sitting beside his fireplace and consuming his scotch, he thought about last Christmas. How he’d stood beside his brother and told him that caring was not an advantage. At the time, Mycroft had of course been referring to the woman whose absence was deeply felt, but it had also been a warning. He knew what was coming, even then, and what he’d probably have to submit his brother to. It made him feel sick with himself for not trying a different method for bringing Moriarty down. Something that might have made this Christmas a day that didn’t involve damaged soldiers visiting detectives’ graves and him holding onto the shadow of a hope that he wouldn’t be spending the day alone with his thoughts and all of his regrets.
The new year rolled in almost unnoticed. By then, Mycroft was back to his desk, his routine and his darjeeling. He’d decided that the card he’d received those days before Christmas hadn’t been from Irene at all. It wasn’t that he’d been wrong about what she would do, he’d simply been taken in by someone else’s ridiculous prank or perhaps the card hadn’t even been meant for him. Even when people could not speak, there was still room for miscommunication and perhaps the poor waiter who’d presented it to him with his port was truly the man to be blamed in all of this.
***
Holmes stood at his fireplace, a glass of 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion. It was twelve days after Christmas and something unfortunate had settled in the back of his mind. The holidays were behind him and he was as far away from them as he could be. He even thought he might have reason to look forward to next Christmas, that John might too, if everything went according to schedule. But currently, right now on this day he felt low. Christmas, of course, was meant to be a time for family, but today was meant to be a day for Sherlock Holmes. It was his birthday and he was spending it out in the world attempting to sweep up the cobwebs that Moriarty left behind. And it was all Mycroft’s fault that he wasn’t at home in Baker Street, gripping miserably about how birthdays did not matter. Sherlock had done nothing to warrant the responsibility that Mycroft had put on his shoulders, the weight he was going to have to endure for at least twelve more months.
When he heard the latch on the heavy, arched wooden doors to his living room click, he didn’t turn to look who it was. Instead, his shoulders sank with sudden relief. He knew about most of Sherlock’s movements, but he’d fallen off the grid -- which made perfect sense if he meant to come back to London for his birthday, really. Mycroft straightened, fixed his expression into something exasperated and turned to face his brother. “You know, you really should--”
“Mm?” Irene pressed the thick fur of her collar away from her face and lifted her chin. “What should I do, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ms. Adler.” He gaped for just a moment. She’d caught him entirely off-guard. He’d been so focused on his brother that his mind had leapt to conclusions on it’s own. He hadn’t expected her and he knew that it was too late to pretend that he did. “This--this is a surprise.”
“Is it? I did send you a note. Chopard Cašmir Eau de Parfum.” She smiled and crossed the room, the click of her heels muted by the Persian carpet that covered the hardwood floors. When she reached him, she claimed his wine glass from the mantle and held it up towards the light of the hanging chandelier to examine the colour. “How is your brother?”
“Sherlock is dead.”
“And so am I.” She kissed the side of his glass and replaced it. “Funny how little that seems to mean among our circle of friends, isn’t it?”
Mycroft wasn’t sure if Irene knew for certain that Sherlock was alive, or if this was some kind of stunt to gain confirmation that he had indeed faked his death. Either way, he supposed he couldn’t care less what she knew at this point. All her little games and tricks aside, he knew that she owed Sherlock too much of a debt to want to hurt him with any information she sussed out tonight. “Then you’re late.”
“I most certainly am not.” She replied.
“Christmas was nearly two weeks ago, Ms. Adler.”
“Christmas?” She laughed and took a step closer to him, sliding elegantly into his space. “My dear, dear Mr. Holmes, had I any idea that you were so sentimental about it, I would have, but I thought. No, you see I thought tonight -- you might need me.”
“Need you.” Mycroft scoffed, but made no motion to move away from her or close up against her advance. “I don’t--”
“A friend.” Irene said softly, reaching out to stroke her fingers across the centre of his tie. “That you might need a friend, as you’ve found yourself in such short supply.”
“You’re wrong.” He shifted back on his heels and cast a frown into the fireplace before turning away from Adler and crossing the floor to have a seat in his oversized leather wingback. Though he sank into his seat, he was anything but relaxed. It was impossible to be lethargic with Irene in the room. “Sherlock spent his birthdays as far from me as possible when he was in London, why be bothered with his absence now?”
Adler was silent for a moment, making no secret of the fact she was looking him over. She was, in Mycroft’s opinion, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Not simply her features, but in the way she carried herself. She wore her cunning and her confidence as elegantly as she wore her designer fabrics.
“After your brother lended me a hand, I realised something,” she said. “That he might have done the legwork and swung a sword, but there was simply no way he could make a person disappear, but that he knew someone who could. Considering our little disagreement, Mr. Holmes, I couldn’t imagine why on earth you’d want to help me, until I realised you were doing it for Sherlock.”
“Go on.” Mycroft drawled.
“Not because he had feelings for me. You needed practice. Practice making someone as connected as I was to Moriarty disappear, and you needed to do it because you already knew what was coming, didn’t you?”
It was an interesting beginning to a theory, Holmes thought, but it wasn’t entirely without flaw. He’d helped her, he’d chosen her because he truly hadn’t wished her ill. She was far too clever and beautiful a woman to die on her knees because of one miscalculation. He’d saved her because he’d wanted too, but he wasn’t going to tell her. If she wanted to believe that everything he’d done was practical, that it meant nothing to him, then she was more than willing. Mycroft didn’t worry about much, but letting Irene Adler think she had some kind of foothold in his heart was legitimate cause for concern.
“You formed a plan to end Jim Moriarty and you used your brother to do it.” She shook her head. “You even knew the best way to make Sherlock work for you was to make it seem as though it was all about him. I taught you that, didn’t I? That’s how I knew Sherlock was still alive, Mr. Holmes. I’d seen this all before, I’d lived it all before. Everything, everything went perfectly didn’t it, except for one small detail.”
Irene walked from the fireplace to stand in front of him. She slid her hands up the armrests as she dropped silently to the floor Her fingers moved from the chair to his thighs and she left them right above his knees, moving to occupy the space between his legs.
“And what was that?” Holmes did his utmost to seem unphased, but it wasn’t entirely possible. Adler was a bit like a fire. No matter how predicted the burn pattern might be, a subtle change in the wind could ruin every calculation. There was no point trying to assess her. Nor was there any gain in letting his mind travel to what he hoped and wished was her next move. He slipped his foot closer to her, so that the leather of his shoe rested against her leg.
“You never thought you’d feel guilty, did you?” She whispered, her expression was soft. Mycroft wasn’t quite ready to trust his eyes when it came to deciding whether or not Irene was sincere, but she certainly seemed it. “Disgracing him, ruining the career of his precious Detective Inspector, the life of his friend. Taking away the happiness that had taken him so long to carve out for himself -- after his struggles, drug use and dead ends. You made these choices long before he thought he was making them for himself, and now you wished you hadn’t.”
No one had ever done this to him. No one had ever sat and thought about how he must feel about any of this. John had only seen what he was meant too. Lestrade, as usual, had seen nothing at all. But this woman and come out of hiding to be here tonight just to tell him that she understood. That she saw every move he’d made and realised what it must have done to him, what it had done to his heart.
But he couldn’t quite give in. As much as he wanted to believe that she was there with the purest of intentions, she was not a woman known for her purity. “What is it that you want, Ms. Adler?”
Irene pressed her hands into his legs and straightened, leaning forward so close that he every breath he took was scented with her perfume. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected the kiss, by the time her lips met his, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated the way it would stir him. He reached for her, taking her by the hips and coaxing her to her feet without stalling her mouth. He wasn’t satisfied until he’d moved her into his chair and had her arms draped around his neck.
She sat on one of his knees, her feet still planted between his and when the kiss finally ended, she leaned her side against him, and stroked at his tie. She was silent, he soon realised, because she was waiting for him to speak.
“I had no choice.” He murmured, looking not at her but at the fireplace. His hand followed the curve of her waist. “If there had been another way -- “
“I know,” Irene whispered. “Even if no one else ever does.”
~*~