A Study in Scheming (BBC Sherlock)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary:
Irene Adler involves herself in the disappearance of Mary Morstan, and things no longer go to Sherlock’s plan.
That’s a good thing.
Characters: Irene Adler, Mary Morstan, cameo appearances by others
Notes: Written for Holmestice Winter 2020 for
vulgarweed, whose prompts were so appealing that they drew me into writing BBC Sherlock for the first time in years. :-) And thank you to my beta,
smallhobbit!
Read on AO3, or here below:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tucked up in the shadows of the hotel room, with her knees folded under her skirt on the low divan, Irene Adler watches the woman who carefully pushes open the latticed door to the room.
The hotel is a small establishment off a narrow alleyway near the crowded souk: by design, an unremarkable location. Irene approves of this choice. The place has class and a faded charm, but nothing that points to it as the hideout of an ex-assassin on the run. Too bad it’s about to outlast its usefulness as a hideaway.
The woman’s movements are careful as she steps inside. Her hand hovers close to a bulky shoulder bag that undoubtedly contains a gun. She lets the door swing shut behind her, but is not yet at ease, not yet reaching up to slide off the headscarf that covers a dark-haired wig. Her face is set, her gaze sharp as she scans the room. She makes no sound when she catches sight of Irene watching her from the corner, only reaches to her bag for her gun.
Irene Adler unfolds herself from the divan.
The woman at the door has the gun in her hands, levelling it Irene, no hesitation as she takes aim. “Who are you?” she demands.
Irene smiles a smile that is itself a kind of attack. “Mary Watson, née Morstan, I presume?”
Mary’s expression only hardens further. “I’m only giving you one chance. Who are you?”
Irene weighs the risks, studies the woman’s sure grip on the gun and decides that, on balance, now is not the time to toy with her. “Irene Adler. I’m a friend of Sherlock Holmes and, I hope, soon to be a friend of yours. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Mary’s face falls. “Sherlock sent you?” Then, a beat later, “Sherlock found me? How?”
Irene laughs. God, this woman is beautiful. And even better, she’s sharp. She knows it shouldn’t be possible for Sherlock to track her movements. “Sherlock, send me? No. He’s coming, though, just a few steps behind. And just between you and me, I’d advise you that I’m your better option.”
Mary glares at her. “You’re not doing a fantastic job of convincing me of that, by breaking into my hotel room. And I can’t see why I would need either your or Sherlock’s help, for that matter.” But despite herself, Mary’s lips are twitching up in amusement. “Also, as you seem to have noticed, I was trying to go on the run. That doesn’t usually involve dragging a bunch of friends along.”
Irene laughs. She lets it come out as her warm laugh, the one that says: I see you, and you are brilliant and beautiful. Mary’s cheeks flush a little, a promising sign.
“Come sit,” Irene says. “I’ll explain everything.”
Mary remains standing by the door.
Irene purrs, “I’m unarmed, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though you’re more than welcome to give me a very thorough search, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
Mary engages the safety on her gun and stows it neatly back in her bag. Then she throws her hands in the air and demands, “Why is everyone in my life a sociopath? No, don’t answer that. Seriously, don’t answer that.” She shakes her head. “Come here, stand exactly on this spot, and hold your arms out perpendicular to your body.”
Irene complies, sashaying towards Mary, appreciating the sensual sway of her skirt as it flares around her ankles with each step. It was a good choice for this mission. Irene always dresses for battle.
Irene stands on the appointed spot and spreads her arms. Mary gives her a brisk but thorough pat-down. She remains all business, despite Irene’s suggestive glances to the contrary.
“Now sit,” Mary says.
Irene complies once again, swishing back to the divan, taking her time. She tucks her knees up, arranges her skirt and poses artfully, one long arm stretching the length of the divan. Mary drags a chair over from the other side of the room, working rather too hard at showing how utterly unimpressed she is by Irene’s display.
“And now,” Mary says, “Explain.”
*
Irene makes the telling of it dramatic, for form’s sake, but fundamentally it was quite simple. That gorgeous assistant of Mycroft Holmes’s, dark-eyed and dark-haired and wide-eyed-devoted to her job, hardly needed any convincing. Oh, she wasn’t the type to spill state secrets. Not even to The Woman, who was quick at figuring out exactly what she liked. Rather, she’d come to Irene of her own accord, worried that things were about to go very wrong.
They’d had a few alliances like this, in the time since Irene had faked her own death for a second time and switched allegiances, dropping Jim Moriarty like the liability he was. Since then, she’s set herself up as her own sort of spymaster: the type who understands how to deploy subtlety and secrets, not only grand threats.
Irene still uses her powers mostly for her own gain, of course. She’s not that altruistic. Not even for the sake of Sherlock Holmes and his sexy brain. But occasionally a problem piques her interest, enough that she takes on the case for its own sake. And the problems that Sherlock’s brother’s beguiling assistant lays at her feet are always interesting.
Such as: That Tbilisi business is about to explode again, and I’m afraid John Watson’s wife is going to die.
*
“But why do you care?” Mary demands, for the third time now. “I’ve never met you before. I know for a fact that you make John nervous. And surely you’ve made Sherlock’s life difficult more often than you’ve ever helped him with anything. Why do you care if I live or die?”
Irene lifts one delicate eyebrow. “Would you believe me if I said I’m simply a very good person?”
“Absolutely not.”
Irene smiles, a shark smile with a lot of teeth in it. “Good, then you’re as clever as I thought. Or at least not entirely stupid.” She unfolds her legs and sets both feet on the floor. “You’re right not to trust me. But you can trust my skills. And you can trust that I generally have my own reasons for wanting a pretty woman to stick around a while longer.”
There, that blush again. Good to know Irene hasn’t lost her touch. She can turn a woman’s head even in the midst of mortal danger.
Speaking plainly, dropping all seduction for the moment, Irene tells Mary, “Sherlock is going to turn up here very soon. Within half a day, maybe sooner. I’d suggest it would be in your best interest to be gone before he arrives.”
“But how-” Mary begins.
“He put a tracer on you.” Irene rolls her eyes. “Not even particularly creative and, frankly, a little disappointing. But more to the point: because he’s Sherlock Holmes, he’s going to make grand pronouncements about how he has it all under control. He’s going to insist that you return to London, and he’ll protect you, and it will all work out somehow. Which I think you can agree is a bad idea, given that you’ve recently gone to great lengths to go in exactly the opposite direction. You’re not going to shake loose of Sherlock once he’s got to you. But you can come with me instead, and we can tidy up this little problem of your past once and for all. After that you can return to whatever life you like. If that’s London and the suburban married idyll, so be it.” Irene doesn’t roll her eyes again, but she thinks it. Quite loudly. “Mary,” she says, letting her voice go soft, making eye contact with earnest intensity, “there’s no happy idyll while your past is hunting you. Solve this first, and then you can choose your future.”
Slowly, grudgingly, Mary’s face shows she’s opening up to the possibility that Irene is right. “Supposing I agree to this plan of yours, what would I need to do first?”
Irene grins. Her expression is triumph and danger, but it’s also an invitation to follow her into the maelstrom. “First, open up that memory stick and take out the tracer you’ll find inside it.”
*
They trace their way back across Europe, still selecting each leg of the trip at random. Holding tight to Irene’s waist on the back of a jet ski as they speed past the coast of Monaco, Mary laughs and whoops, then looks chagrined. Irene turns her head in time to hear her say, “I shouldn’t be enjoying this. Am I a terrible person for enjoying this?”
That night, across the narrow space that separates their twin beds in a downmarket backpackers’ hostel in Milan, Irene can tell that Mary is quiet, ruminating. Worrying.
The next day, as they rattle towards Brno on the plush seats of a venerable old railway carriage, green countryside rolling past the picture windows, Irene looks at Mary’s long face and decides it’s time to fill her in on the plan.
She’s built up rather a nice intelligence network of her own, Irene has, in the years since she last tangled with the brothers Holmes. Mycroft the Ice Man is a genius, she’ll grant him that. But not every piece of information can be obtained through cool logic.
“This man Ajay,” Irene begins, leaning forward across the space between her bank of seats and the one opposite, where Mary sits. They have a compartment to themselves, of course. Irene knew they would want a chance to talk. “The one who wants you dead.”
“I still don’t believe that!” Mary insists. “Ajay is family. There’s a misunderstanding somewhere.”
“We’ll get to that.” Irene waves a hand. “Right now, what you need to know is that he’s tracking you by following Sherlock and John. When he realises they haven’t found you, he’ll start looking elsewhere.”
“Sherlock and John?” Mary sits bolt upright on her seat, every muscle tensed. “What do you mean, John? How is John a part of this? Where’s Rosie?”
“I understand Molly Hooper has agreed to look after her, for however long John will be gone. Everything seems to be squared away on that end.” Irene suppresses the expression her face would like to make right now. She both admires and disdains this dedication that Molly Hooper unaccountably grants to the strange, extended family of Sherlock Holmes.
Mary’s body is taut and straight, holding herself back by force of will from the urge to jump up and dash to the rescue. Very carefully and levelly she says, “The whole point of leaving was to move the target away from Rosie and John, until I can sort out what’s going on and take care of it. How exactly does it help if John runs towards the danger as well?”
Irene lifts an eyebrow and taps her fingernails against her knee. The polish on the smallest finger of her left hand is chipping slightly; she’ll have to retouch it tonight. “When have you ever known John Watson not to run towards danger?”
Mary’s lips compress into a tight line, but she says no more.
Irene, though, continues on despite her better instincts, or at least her kinder ones. “Surely you can see he’s been going stir-crazy without the regular shot of adrenalin that his old life with Sherlock used to give him. More importantly, so are you. How long are you going to play at happy families, Mary? Look at you: the first chance you got to run off for an adventure, you ran.”
“I didn’t run,” Mary snaps. “I left to protect Rosie and John.”
“I imagine John is telling himself the same story: that he dashed off to Morocco after Sherlock to save you and protect your daughter. How long will you both keep lying to yourselves, do you think?”
Mary’s face is pale, her expression hard. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I could offer you something better.” Irene leans back in her seat. She glances out the window: the gently rolling hills beyond the confines of their train compartment form a striking contrast to the quiet battle here inside.
“All of that is behind me,” Mary says. “This is the last mission, and then I’m going home to my daughter and my husband. I don’t see how that’s so hard to understand.”
“As you wish.” Irene flicks dust from the sleek leg of her trousers and carelessly hides her disappointment. It’s a shame, that’s all.
Mary must know it, too, for she won’t meet Irene’s eyes.
Irene says, back to business, “Ajay, who wants you dead, is trying to find you. You, meanwhile, insist he couldn’t possibly want to kill you. I propose we give both of you what you want: We let him find you, but on our terms, under controlled conditions. We neutralise the threat. And at the same time, give you your chance to talk to him and find out what he really wants. Do you agree to the plan?”
Mary’s gaze snaps back to Irene. “I-what? Yes, of course I agree. But how exactly do you plan to do it?”
Irene smiles, long and slow and satisfied. “Don’t worry about that, gorgeous. I’ve got friends in the right places.”
*
“Irene, darling!” exclaims the dark-haired beauty leaning out over the little wooden gate of her Sussex cottage.
“You, my dear, are a sight for sore eyes.” Irene steps closer and kisses Janine full on the mouth, watching with an amused, sideways glance as Mary blinks in surprise. Irene steps back as Janine swings open the gate. “Is everything in place?”
“You bet it is!” Janine waves them forward and they follow her up the path to the cottage.
Irene takes in the view around them, the little cottage and its tidy garden. “It’s a nice place,” she offers. Actually, it looks yawningly dull, with its wisteria and self-consciously charming stonework. Irene herself chooses London, always. But Janine seems to like this place, and Irene supposes it doesn’t cost her anything to say something pleasant.
“Nicest thing about it is that it didn’t cost a penny of my own money.” Janine winks, then opens the front door and ushers them inside.
“All right, so, the two of you know each other,” Mary says, rallying, as she follows them inside. “In hindsight, I can’t see why I’m surprised. How have you been, Janine?”
Stopping in the entryway of the cottage, Janine gives Mary a long look. “Frankly, doing better since I ditched a couple of friends who turned out only to be using me for my work connections.” But before Mary can say a thing, Janine lets out her loud, bright laugh. “I forgive you, by the way. That bastard Magnussen made us all do some very strange things. At least I got my retirement home out of it.” She claps her hands together. “So, which are we doing, booby-trapped garden or damsels in distress in the attic?”
*
The man, Ajay, is wild and desperate and desperately angry.
Fortunately, he’s also tied to a garden chair, his gun safely relocated into Mary’s hands.
It was Irene who caught him, disarmed him and bound him. She saw how Mary watched her, impressed although she didn’t want to be.
Now Mary stands facing the man from several paces away, her stance grounded and her gaze steady. But Irene is watching her face and sees the distress she’s holding back, the pain of watching someone she once cared for brought to this.
Irene feels a tug of-is this guilt? Guilt for having facilitated all this pain? Irene only took on this case for the fun of it, but she can’t help but suspect she’s becoming involved.
“We were betrayed,” Ajay snarls straight at Mary’s face, straining against the rope and Irene’s expert knots. “You betrayed us, you, after everything we were to each other, you destroyed us.”
“I didn’t, Ajay,” Mary says, her voice only barely keeping level. “I swear to you, I didn’t. Please tell me exactly what you heard, exactly what you learned. I want to understand.”
“The English woman. They said it was the English woman. And they were always saying ammo, ammo, ammo.” His head jerks back in remembered pain.
Mary’s face twists then falls. “Oh god,” she says. “Oh my god.”
She sets the gun down on the ground behind her and steps closer to Ajay. When she’s near enough that she could touch him if she chose, she stops, hesitates, then kneels, putting the two of them more or less at equal eye level. Instinctively, Irene and Janine fall back. Close enough to assist if needed, but allowing a little privacy.
“Ammo,” Mary repeats, looking at the broken man in front of her. “Ammo, that was the code word, the voice on the phone. That was London. We were betrayed by someone in London.”
Very slowly, Ajay’s chin lowers, his neck no longer arched in a rictus of agony. “It was someone in London?”
Mary nods.
The grin that spreads across his face is vicious. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s take care of the problem once and for all.”
Mary reaches out to Ajay, resting one of her hands on his. Her hand is steady; his shakes. “All right,” she says. “Let’s go.”
*
Mary is back in Sussex by nightfall. She refuses to say precisely what they did in London, only that the problem has been sorted.
Ajay isn’t with her. “I told him he could come with me,” Mary says, sagging and tired on the sofa in the sitting room, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea sweetened with honey from the bees Janine keeps in the field behind the cottage. “I told him I would look after him, make it up to him. God, I want to make it up to him. Six years, and I never knew he was alive. But he’s got too many demons now to allow me that close. I don’t think he’ll be able to stay still anywhere for long.”
Janine pats her hand, sympathetic. “At least he knows, now, that you would have saved him if you’d known.”
Irene watches them from an armchair opposite. All this time, Mary has steadily, politely avoided Irene’s gaze.
Mary nods to Janine and sighs. “I suppose so. I hope he does know that.”
“He does,” Janine says. “You did your part. That’s all anyone can do.” She squeezes Mary’s hand again, and then stands. “Well, I’m for bed. You two make yourselves at home. There are two spare bedrooms at the top of the stairs, kip anywhere you like.”
When Janine has gone, Irene keeps her gaze trained on Mary until Mary looks up.
Mary gives a little laugh when their eyes meet. “And you,” she says, sitting up straighter. “What do you get out of all of this, I wonder? Are you a Sherlock Holmes, living for the thrill of being right? I think we established a while back that you’re not mixed up in this out of the goodness of your heart.”
Irene leans back, draping an arm along the back of the armchair. She watches how Mary’s gaze follows the languid curve of her arm. Good. “I think we’ve also established,” Irene murmurs, “that I have motivations of my own.”
Mary flushes, but she doesn’t look away. Her hands rest in her lap, steady and still. “I only want to say this once,” she says. “But you were right. I keep trying to remake myself as a nice, peaceful person who’s happy to stay at home and keep house, but it just won’t stick. But what do I do with that fact? I’m a mother now. I can’t run off to live the life of an assassin whenever I feel like it.”
“No,” Irene says. “Perhaps not the life of an assassin. And perhaps not whenever you feel like it. But there are plenty of other ways to have fun getting into trouble. In case I haven’t made myself clear enough yet: I have a need for spies with your brains and your skills. You can work with me, John can work with Sherlock, everyone’s happy.”
Mary fixes her with a stare. “As if it could be that easy.”
“It can be that easy.”
Mary lets out a puff of breath, not a yes and not a no.
“And I could make you feel very, very good,” Irene points out. It’s merely a statement, not even a come-on. Mary should know the facts of what’s on offer here. She’s a smart woman; she can figure out the rest.
Mary sighs. “I don’t want to feel good right now. That doesn’t seem right at all.” She closes her eyes, all the weight of this day resting heavily in the lines of her face.
Irene studies the woman in front of her: beautiful in an unexpected way, the lines of her face only adding character. Good-humoured and quick-witted; a cheerful demeanour hiding a complicated history. A woman trying to be kind and good and happy, after a lifetime of doing awful things for pay.
Irene says, “I could make you feel less alone.”
Mary seems to wilt, then, all at once. “Yes,” she says.
She slides from the sofa to the floor, to her knees, and shuffles across to Irene that way, instead of standing to cross the few steps from the sofa to the armchair. There’s no hesitation at all as she comes and rests her head in Irene’s lap, her breath gusting warm against Irene’s silk-clad knee. Her eyes close; she surrenders.
Irene rests one hand on Mary’s head and gently strokes her hair. It’s Mary’s own hair again, no more wig, and it’s lank and straggling across her forehead after a long day. It’s rather alarming how beautiful Irene finds her, even in this moment. Especially in this moment.
“You should know,” Irene murmurs, “I’m not a very good person. I misbehave. Sometimes on quite a grand scale.”
Mary laughs softly into Irene’s knee. “I think you’ve proved that already. And it can’t have escaped your notice that I’m much the same.” Then more soberly she says, “There’s also the fact, not incidental, that I’m married.” She sighs, opens her eyes, and shifts her head to one side so her gaze meets Irene’s. “I’m not sure John and I are quite working out in the long term, and I don’t know if we’ll make it as a romantic couple. But I’m not just walking away. He’s my family. Because of Rosie, of course, but also John himself. Just John himself.”
“He’s in love with Sherlock,” Irene says, her hand pausing in its course along Mary’s hair. She doesn’t mean to be harsh, but she has little patience here for half-truths.
“Oh I know that,” Mary says. “But surely the world is big enough to hold all of that, don’t you think?”
Irene’s heart stutters, flooding with possibilities. At length she agrees, “I think so, too.”
Mary smiles, simple and sweet. “Well, then.”
“We’ll get in touch with Baker Street tomorrow,” Irene suggests. “I’ll text Mrs Hudson and have her tell the boys to meet us here.”
Mary lifts her head and snorts. “You’re in touch with Mrs Hudson. Of course you are.”
Irene gives an elegant shrug. “I keep informed.”
“One might almost think you care about the whereabouts and wellbeing of Sherlock Holmes, despite all protestations to the contrary.”
“He’s quite diverting,” Irene admits. “You, however, are far more my type.”
“Hm,” Mary murmurs, sounding sleepy now. She rests her head again in Irene’s lap, trusting and calm. “Adrenalin junkies and rogue spymasters. I do seem to draw the most interesting types.”
“You do,” Irene agrees quietly. “You’re rather magnetic that way.”
Mary laughs again, perhaps no longer really listening to the meaning of the words, but seeming to enjoy the sound of Irene’s voice.
“Just wait and see,” Irene whispers. “It’ll be brilliant. I can tell already what you like.”
Mary’s eyelids flutter as her breath evens out to the quiet, steady hush of a far-away ocean. Irene strokes her hair until she sleeps.
The room is so still. Irene’s hand pauses in its motion, cradling Mary’s temple. Her skin is warm under Irene’s fingers, the curve of her cheek endlessly alluring. Irene stares down at this improbable gift that the world has dropped, quite literally, at her feet.
Very softly, speaking to no one but the air and her own surprised heart, she says, “And it seems I’ve finally found what I like.”
.
(Crossposted from this post on Dreamwidth, which is now my primary journal. Comments are fine in either place.)
Summary:
Irene Adler involves herself in the disappearance of Mary Morstan, and things no longer go to Sherlock’s plan.
That’s a good thing.
Characters: Irene Adler, Mary Morstan, cameo appearances by others
Notes: Written for Holmestice Winter 2020 for
vulgarweed, whose prompts were so appealing that they drew me into writing BBC Sherlock for the first time in years. :-) And thank you to my beta,
smallhobbit!
Read on AO3, or here below:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tucked up in the shadows of the hotel room, with her knees folded under her skirt on the low divan, Irene Adler watches the woman who carefully pushes open the latticed door to the room.
The hotel is a small establishment off a narrow alleyway near the crowded souk: by design, an unremarkable location. Irene approves of this choice. The place has class and a faded charm, but nothing that points to it as the hideout of an ex-assassin on the run. Too bad it’s about to outlast its usefulness as a hideaway.
The woman’s movements are careful as she steps inside. Her hand hovers close to a bulky shoulder bag that undoubtedly contains a gun. She lets the door swing shut behind her, but is not yet at ease, not yet reaching up to slide off the headscarf that covers a dark-haired wig. Her face is set, her gaze sharp as she scans the room. She makes no sound when she catches sight of Irene watching her from the corner, only reaches to her bag for her gun.
Irene Adler unfolds herself from the divan.
The woman at the door has the gun in her hands, levelling it Irene, no hesitation as she takes aim. “Who are you?” she demands.
Irene smiles a smile that is itself a kind of attack. “Mary Watson, née Morstan, I presume?”
Mary’s expression only hardens further. “I’m only giving you one chance. Who are you?”
Irene weighs the risks, studies the woman’s sure grip on the gun and decides that, on balance, now is not the time to toy with her. “Irene Adler. I’m a friend of Sherlock Holmes and, I hope, soon to be a friend of yours. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Mary’s face falls. “Sherlock sent you?” Then, a beat later, “Sherlock found me? How?”
Irene laughs. God, this woman is beautiful. And even better, she’s sharp. She knows it shouldn’t be possible for Sherlock to track her movements. “Sherlock, send me? No. He’s coming, though, just a few steps behind. And just between you and me, I’d advise you that I’m your better option.”
Mary glares at her. “You’re not doing a fantastic job of convincing me of that, by breaking into my hotel room. And I can’t see why I would need either your or Sherlock’s help, for that matter.” But despite herself, Mary’s lips are twitching up in amusement. “Also, as you seem to have noticed, I was trying to go on the run. That doesn’t usually involve dragging a bunch of friends along.”
Irene laughs. She lets it come out as her warm laugh, the one that says: I see you, and you are brilliant and beautiful. Mary’s cheeks flush a little, a promising sign.
“Come sit,” Irene says. “I’ll explain everything.”
Mary remains standing by the door.
Irene purrs, “I’m unarmed, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though you’re more than welcome to give me a very thorough search, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
Mary engages the safety on her gun and stows it neatly back in her bag. Then she throws her hands in the air and demands, “Why is everyone in my life a sociopath? No, don’t answer that. Seriously, don’t answer that.” She shakes her head. “Come here, stand exactly on this spot, and hold your arms out perpendicular to your body.”
Irene complies, sashaying towards Mary, appreciating the sensual sway of her skirt as it flares around her ankles with each step. It was a good choice for this mission. Irene always dresses for battle.
Irene stands on the appointed spot and spreads her arms. Mary gives her a brisk but thorough pat-down. She remains all business, despite Irene’s suggestive glances to the contrary.
“Now sit,” Mary says.
Irene complies once again, swishing back to the divan, taking her time. She tucks her knees up, arranges her skirt and poses artfully, one long arm stretching the length of the divan. Mary drags a chair over from the other side of the room, working rather too hard at showing how utterly unimpressed she is by Irene’s display.
“And now,” Mary says, “Explain.”
*
Irene makes the telling of it dramatic, for form’s sake, but fundamentally it was quite simple. That gorgeous assistant of Mycroft Holmes’s, dark-eyed and dark-haired and wide-eyed-devoted to her job, hardly needed any convincing. Oh, she wasn’t the type to spill state secrets. Not even to The Woman, who was quick at figuring out exactly what she liked. Rather, she’d come to Irene of her own accord, worried that things were about to go very wrong.
They’d had a few alliances like this, in the time since Irene had faked her own death for a second time and switched allegiances, dropping Jim Moriarty like the liability he was. Since then, she’s set herself up as her own sort of spymaster: the type who understands how to deploy subtlety and secrets, not only grand threats.
Irene still uses her powers mostly for her own gain, of course. She’s not that altruistic. Not even for the sake of Sherlock Holmes and his sexy brain. But occasionally a problem piques her interest, enough that she takes on the case for its own sake. And the problems that Sherlock’s brother’s beguiling assistant lays at her feet are always interesting.
Such as: That Tbilisi business is about to explode again, and I’m afraid John Watson’s wife is going to die.
*
“But why do you care?” Mary demands, for the third time now. “I’ve never met you before. I know for a fact that you make John nervous. And surely you’ve made Sherlock’s life difficult more often than you’ve ever helped him with anything. Why do you care if I live or die?”
Irene lifts one delicate eyebrow. “Would you believe me if I said I’m simply a very good person?”
“Absolutely not.”
Irene smiles, a shark smile with a lot of teeth in it. “Good, then you’re as clever as I thought. Or at least not entirely stupid.” She unfolds her legs and sets both feet on the floor. “You’re right not to trust me. But you can trust my skills. And you can trust that I generally have my own reasons for wanting a pretty woman to stick around a while longer.”
There, that blush again. Good to know Irene hasn’t lost her touch. She can turn a woman’s head even in the midst of mortal danger.
Speaking plainly, dropping all seduction for the moment, Irene tells Mary, “Sherlock is going to turn up here very soon. Within half a day, maybe sooner. I’d suggest it would be in your best interest to be gone before he arrives.”
“But how-” Mary begins.
“He put a tracer on you.” Irene rolls her eyes. “Not even particularly creative and, frankly, a little disappointing. But more to the point: because he’s Sherlock Holmes, he’s going to make grand pronouncements about how he has it all under control. He’s going to insist that you return to London, and he’ll protect you, and it will all work out somehow. Which I think you can agree is a bad idea, given that you’ve recently gone to great lengths to go in exactly the opposite direction. You’re not going to shake loose of Sherlock once he’s got to you. But you can come with me instead, and we can tidy up this little problem of your past once and for all. After that you can return to whatever life you like. If that’s London and the suburban married idyll, so be it.” Irene doesn’t roll her eyes again, but she thinks it. Quite loudly. “Mary,” she says, letting her voice go soft, making eye contact with earnest intensity, “there’s no happy idyll while your past is hunting you. Solve this first, and then you can choose your future.”
Slowly, grudgingly, Mary’s face shows she’s opening up to the possibility that Irene is right. “Supposing I agree to this plan of yours, what would I need to do first?”
Irene grins. Her expression is triumph and danger, but it’s also an invitation to follow her into the maelstrom. “First, open up that memory stick and take out the tracer you’ll find inside it.”
*
They trace their way back across Europe, still selecting each leg of the trip at random. Holding tight to Irene’s waist on the back of a jet ski as they speed past the coast of Monaco, Mary laughs and whoops, then looks chagrined. Irene turns her head in time to hear her say, “I shouldn’t be enjoying this. Am I a terrible person for enjoying this?”
That night, across the narrow space that separates their twin beds in a downmarket backpackers’ hostel in Milan, Irene can tell that Mary is quiet, ruminating. Worrying.
The next day, as they rattle towards Brno on the plush seats of a venerable old railway carriage, green countryside rolling past the picture windows, Irene looks at Mary’s long face and decides it’s time to fill her in on the plan.
She’s built up rather a nice intelligence network of her own, Irene has, in the years since she last tangled with the brothers Holmes. Mycroft the Ice Man is a genius, she’ll grant him that. But not every piece of information can be obtained through cool logic.
“This man Ajay,” Irene begins, leaning forward across the space between her bank of seats and the one opposite, where Mary sits. They have a compartment to themselves, of course. Irene knew they would want a chance to talk. “The one who wants you dead.”
“I still don’t believe that!” Mary insists. “Ajay is family. There’s a misunderstanding somewhere.”
“We’ll get to that.” Irene waves a hand. “Right now, what you need to know is that he’s tracking you by following Sherlock and John. When he realises they haven’t found you, he’ll start looking elsewhere.”
“Sherlock and John?” Mary sits bolt upright on her seat, every muscle tensed. “What do you mean, John? How is John a part of this? Where’s Rosie?”
“I understand Molly Hooper has agreed to look after her, for however long John will be gone. Everything seems to be squared away on that end.” Irene suppresses the expression her face would like to make right now. She both admires and disdains this dedication that Molly Hooper unaccountably grants to the strange, extended family of Sherlock Holmes.
Mary’s body is taut and straight, holding herself back by force of will from the urge to jump up and dash to the rescue. Very carefully and levelly she says, “The whole point of leaving was to move the target away from Rosie and John, until I can sort out what’s going on and take care of it. How exactly does it help if John runs towards the danger as well?”
Irene lifts an eyebrow and taps her fingernails against her knee. The polish on the smallest finger of her left hand is chipping slightly; she’ll have to retouch it tonight. “When have you ever known John Watson not to run towards danger?”
Mary’s lips compress into a tight line, but she says no more.
Irene, though, continues on despite her better instincts, or at least her kinder ones. “Surely you can see he’s been going stir-crazy without the regular shot of adrenalin that his old life with Sherlock used to give him. More importantly, so are you. How long are you going to play at happy families, Mary? Look at you: the first chance you got to run off for an adventure, you ran.”
“I didn’t run,” Mary snaps. “I left to protect Rosie and John.”
“I imagine John is telling himself the same story: that he dashed off to Morocco after Sherlock to save you and protect your daughter. How long will you both keep lying to yourselves, do you think?”
Mary’s face is pale, her expression hard. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I could offer you something better.” Irene leans back in her seat. She glances out the window: the gently rolling hills beyond the confines of their train compartment form a striking contrast to the quiet battle here inside.
“All of that is behind me,” Mary says. “This is the last mission, and then I’m going home to my daughter and my husband. I don’t see how that’s so hard to understand.”
“As you wish.” Irene flicks dust from the sleek leg of her trousers and carelessly hides her disappointment. It’s a shame, that’s all.
Mary must know it, too, for she won’t meet Irene’s eyes.
Irene says, back to business, “Ajay, who wants you dead, is trying to find you. You, meanwhile, insist he couldn’t possibly want to kill you. I propose we give both of you what you want: We let him find you, but on our terms, under controlled conditions. We neutralise the threat. And at the same time, give you your chance to talk to him and find out what he really wants. Do you agree to the plan?”
Mary’s gaze snaps back to Irene. “I-what? Yes, of course I agree. But how exactly do you plan to do it?”
Irene smiles, long and slow and satisfied. “Don’t worry about that, gorgeous. I’ve got friends in the right places.”
*
“Irene, darling!” exclaims the dark-haired beauty leaning out over the little wooden gate of her Sussex cottage.
“You, my dear, are a sight for sore eyes.” Irene steps closer and kisses Janine full on the mouth, watching with an amused, sideways glance as Mary blinks in surprise. Irene steps back as Janine swings open the gate. “Is everything in place?”
“You bet it is!” Janine waves them forward and they follow her up the path to the cottage.
Irene takes in the view around them, the little cottage and its tidy garden. “It’s a nice place,” she offers. Actually, it looks yawningly dull, with its wisteria and self-consciously charming stonework. Irene herself chooses London, always. But Janine seems to like this place, and Irene supposes it doesn’t cost her anything to say something pleasant.
“Nicest thing about it is that it didn’t cost a penny of my own money.” Janine winks, then opens the front door and ushers them inside.
“All right, so, the two of you know each other,” Mary says, rallying, as she follows them inside. “In hindsight, I can’t see why I’m surprised. How have you been, Janine?”
Stopping in the entryway of the cottage, Janine gives Mary a long look. “Frankly, doing better since I ditched a couple of friends who turned out only to be using me for my work connections.” But before Mary can say a thing, Janine lets out her loud, bright laugh. “I forgive you, by the way. That bastard Magnussen made us all do some very strange things. At least I got my retirement home out of it.” She claps her hands together. “So, which are we doing, booby-trapped garden or damsels in distress in the attic?”
*
The man, Ajay, is wild and desperate and desperately angry.
Fortunately, he’s also tied to a garden chair, his gun safely relocated into Mary’s hands.
It was Irene who caught him, disarmed him and bound him. She saw how Mary watched her, impressed although she didn’t want to be.
Now Mary stands facing the man from several paces away, her stance grounded and her gaze steady. But Irene is watching her face and sees the distress she’s holding back, the pain of watching someone she once cared for brought to this.
Irene feels a tug of-is this guilt? Guilt for having facilitated all this pain? Irene only took on this case for the fun of it, but she can’t help but suspect she’s becoming involved.
“We were betrayed,” Ajay snarls straight at Mary’s face, straining against the rope and Irene’s expert knots. “You betrayed us, you, after everything we were to each other, you destroyed us.”
“I didn’t, Ajay,” Mary says, her voice only barely keeping level. “I swear to you, I didn’t. Please tell me exactly what you heard, exactly what you learned. I want to understand.”
“The English woman. They said it was the English woman. And they were always saying ammo, ammo, ammo.” His head jerks back in remembered pain.
Mary’s face twists then falls. “Oh god,” she says. “Oh my god.”
She sets the gun down on the ground behind her and steps closer to Ajay. When she’s near enough that she could touch him if she chose, she stops, hesitates, then kneels, putting the two of them more or less at equal eye level. Instinctively, Irene and Janine fall back. Close enough to assist if needed, but allowing a little privacy.
“Ammo,” Mary repeats, looking at the broken man in front of her. “Ammo, that was the code word, the voice on the phone. That was London. We were betrayed by someone in London.”
Very slowly, Ajay’s chin lowers, his neck no longer arched in a rictus of agony. “It was someone in London?”
Mary nods.
The grin that spreads across his face is vicious. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s take care of the problem once and for all.”
Mary reaches out to Ajay, resting one of her hands on his. Her hand is steady; his shakes. “All right,” she says. “Let’s go.”
*
Mary is back in Sussex by nightfall. She refuses to say precisely what they did in London, only that the problem has been sorted.
Ajay isn’t with her. “I told him he could come with me,” Mary says, sagging and tired on the sofa in the sitting room, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea sweetened with honey from the bees Janine keeps in the field behind the cottage. “I told him I would look after him, make it up to him. God, I want to make it up to him. Six years, and I never knew he was alive. But he’s got too many demons now to allow me that close. I don’t think he’ll be able to stay still anywhere for long.”
Janine pats her hand, sympathetic. “At least he knows, now, that you would have saved him if you’d known.”
Irene watches them from an armchair opposite. All this time, Mary has steadily, politely avoided Irene’s gaze.
Mary nods to Janine and sighs. “I suppose so. I hope he does know that.”
“He does,” Janine says. “You did your part. That’s all anyone can do.” She squeezes Mary’s hand again, and then stands. “Well, I’m for bed. You two make yourselves at home. There are two spare bedrooms at the top of the stairs, kip anywhere you like.”
When Janine has gone, Irene keeps her gaze trained on Mary until Mary looks up.
Mary gives a little laugh when their eyes meet. “And you,” she says, sitting up straighter. “What do you get out of all of this, I wonder? Are you a Sherlock Holmes, living for the thrill of being right? I think we established a while back that you’re not mixed up in this out of the goodness of your heart.”
Irene leans back, draping an arm along the back of the armchair. She watches how Mary’s gaze follows the languid curve of her arm. Good. “I think we’ve also established,” Irene murmurs, “that I have motivations of my own.”
Mary flushes, but she doesn’t look away. Her hands rest in her lap, steady and still. “I only want to say this once,” she says. “But you were right. I keep trying to remake myself as a nice, peaceful person who’s happy to stay at home and keep house, but it just won’t stick. But what do I do with that fact? I’m a mother now. I can’t run off to live the life of an assassin whenever I feel like it.”
“No,” Irene says. “Perhaps not the life of an assassin. And perhaps not whenever you feel like it. But there are plenty of other ways to have fun getting into trouble. In case I haven’t made myself clear enough yet: I have a need for spies with your brains and your skills. You can work with me, John can work with Sherlock, everyone’s happy.”
Mary fixes her with a stare. “As if it could be that easy.”
“It can be that easy.”
Mary lets out a puff of breath, not a yes and not a no.
“And I could make you feel very, very good,” Irene points out. It’s merely a statement, not even a come-on. Mary should know the facts of what’s on offer here. She’s a smart woman; she can figure out the rest.
Mary sighs. “I don’t want to feel good right now. That doesn’t seem right at all.” She closes her eyes, all the weight of this day resting heavily in the lines of her face.
Irene studies the woman in front of her: beautiful in an unexpected way, the lines of her face only adding character. Good-humoured and quick-witted; a cheerful demeanour hiding a complicated history. A woman trying to be kind and good and happy, after a lifetime of doing awful things for pay.
Irene says, “I could make you feel less alone.”
Mary seems to wilt, then, all at once. “Yes,” she says.
She slides from the sofa to the floor, to her knees, and shuffles across to Irene that way, instead of standing to cross the few steps from the sofa to the armchair. There’s no hesitation at all as she comes and rests her head in Irene’s lap, her breath gusting warm against Irene’s silk-clad knee. Her eyes close; she surrenders.
Irene rests one hand on Mary’s head and gently strokes her hair. It’s Mary’s own hair again, no more wig, and it’s lank and straggling across her forehead after a long day. It’s rather alarming how beautiful Irene finds her, even in this moment. Especially in this moment.
“You should know,” Irene murmurs, “I’m not a very good person. I misbehave. Sometimes on quite a grand scale.”
Mary laughs softly into Irene’s knee. “I think you’ve proved that already. And it can’t have escaped your notice that I’m much the same.” Then more soberly she says, “There’s also the fact, not incidental, that I’m married.” She sighs, opens her eyes, and shifts her head to one side so her gaze meets Irene’s. “I’m not sure John and I are quite working out in the long term, and I don’t know if we’ll make it as a romantic couple. But I’m not just walking away. He’s my family. Because of Rosie, of course, but also John himself. Just John himself.”
“He’s in love with Sherlock,” Irene says, her hand pausing in its course along Mary’s hair. She doesn’t mean to be harsh, but she has little patience here for half-truths.
“Oh I know that,” Mary says. “But surely the world is big enough to hold all of that, don’t you think?”
Irene’s heart stutters, flooding with possibilities. At length she agrees, “I think so, too.”
Mary smiles, simple and sweet. “Well, then.”
“We’ll get in touch with Baker Street tomorrow,” Irene suggests. “I’ll text Mrs Hudson and have her tell the boys to meet us here.”
Mary lifts her head and snorts. “You’re in touch with Mrs Hudson. Of course you are.”
Irene gives an elegant shrug. “I keep informed.”
“One might almost think you care about the whereabouts and wellbeing of Sherlock Holmes, despite all protestations to the contrary.”
“He’s quite diverting,” Irene admits. “You, however, are far more my type.”
“Hm,” Mary murmurs, sounding sleepy now. She rests her head again in Irene’s lap, trusting and calm. “Adrenalin junkies and rogue spymasters. I do seem to draw the most interesting types.”
“You do,” Irene agrees quietly. “You’re rather magnetic that way.”
Mary laughs again, perhaps no longer really listening to the meaning of the words, but seeming to enjoy the sound of Irene’s voice.
“Just wait and see,” Irene whispers. “It’ll be brilliant. I can tell already what you like.”
Mary’s eyelids flutter as her breath evens out to the quiet, steady hush of a far-away ocean. Irene strokes her hair until she sleeps.
The room is so still. Irene’s hand pauses in its motion, cradling Mary’s temple. Her skin is warm under Irene’s fingers, the curve of her cheek endlessly alluring. Irene stares down at this improbable gift that the world has dropped, quite literally, at her feet.
Very softly, speaking to no one but the air and her own surprised heart, she says, “And it seems I’ve finally found what I like.”
.
(Crossposted from this post on Dreamwidth, which is now my primary journal. Comments are fine in either place.)