Just Because - Part 8
Sort of fill for the sherlockbbc_fic prompt Molly/Sherlock, One More Night
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Life has a funny way of getting in the way of writing silly fanfiction.
The following chapter is a Frankenstein job of a piece but I humbly offer it to you in hopes it might appeal.
All cracky, stupid, ridiculous plots and mistakes are of my own doing.
___
Don't tell your friends about the two of us
"Ambassador Philips," Sherlock said, walking into the office.
The UK ambassador to Poland stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in, his hand extended in greeting. Sherlock shook it briefly.
"Thank you for coming," the ambassador said, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.
"So you're finally ready to tell me what's been bothering you," Sherlock said. The surprise on the man's face was quickly replaced by an appreciative smile.
The case he was working for Mycroft was a peculiar one. In the course of six weeks, alarms had gone off at several small software companies all over Europe. The companies were involved in the Schengen Information System.
However according to Mycroft, a few of them "Are involved in projects that we'd rather keep quiet, if you understand what I mean." The curious thing about the break-ins was that according to logs and protocols, nothing had been stolen nor left behind. In fact, if not for Mycroft's 'curiosity', the incidents would have been dismissed as a glitch in the security systems.
So far, Sherlock had deduced that the break-ins were simply a test of the security systems themselves. A company in Warsaw was working on a decryption software that he thought might be the real target. Mycroft, without revealing any further details, had agreed that this might be the case and contacted Ambassador Peter Philips, who had some involvement in the project.
Sherlock supposed that if Mycroft had nothing but praise for the man, the ambassador had to have some merits. It was probably his brother's influence as well that the ambassador was being so cooperative. Though Sherlock had not been able to shake the feeling that the ambassador was hiding something.
"Mycroft said you were a bright boy," the ambassador commented. Sherlock tried not to bristle.
"Well, then," the ambassador continued, "do you know my son, Thomas?"
Sherlock had done his research, "I believe there is talk of him being prime minister someday."
"Ah yes, that's what they're saying."
"You seem to disapprove."
The ambassador smiled ruefully, "I don't disapprove. Thomas would make an excellent prime minister, as long as he chooses his cabinet wisely. It's all about having the right people in your corner, you see."
Sherlock merely nodded. He understood the importance of having the right network.
The ambassador sighed, "I love my son and I have no doubts about him as a politician, but there are some personal things that I don't necessarily approve of."
"This is going to be a confession of him having an affair, isn’t it?" Sherlock found his interest waning. This was going to turn into something boring.
"Unfortunately, it is."
"There are enough sex scandals nowadays, should hardly shock anyone. Unless it's something illegal or truly perverted." Sherlock thought he should make an effort to end this conversation politely.
"Oh it's not the affair part that I'm concerned about. Although, as a married man with three children and a future in Downing Street, I'd rather he'd not indulge in them. Everything can be kept discreet, if you know how but..."
"What is the problem, then?" Perhaps this wasn’t so boring after all.
"The woman he had an affair with, a Miss Irene Adler. Have you heard of her?"
The name didn't trigger anything, "No."
"She's an opera singer. Beautiful voice. Beautiful face. Once you see her, I think you can understand why Thomas was so smitten."
"She is blackmailing him?" Maybe boring after all.
The ambassador winced. "I wish it were that simple."
"Then what is it'?" Sherlock wished the man would just go on with it.
The ambassador looked him squarely in the eyes, "The case you are working on, it deals in highly sensitive matter."
He nodded impatiently, "Yes, I've been made to understand that quiet perfectly by my brother."
"He hasn't disclosed to you my involvement in the project?"
"Not in details, no."
"I wish I could reveal to you everything so you can understand the gravity of the situation."
"I'm assuming this has to do with defence plans?"
The ambassador’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, "You really are clever. Yes but...if you do figure it out, I trust you to keep it a secret. I've been assured by your brother that you will handle things with discretion."
"Irene Adler has stolen something from you?"
"Yes. Or I think she has."
Maybe this wouldn't be that boring after all. "Continue."
"Thomas had his dalliance with Miss Adler a few weeks ago when he came to see me. He invited her over to my private residence one day. To show her the Dali. A fake but masterfully done.”
Sherlock had heard of it from Mycroft. Maybe there had been a reason why Mycroft had thought it necessary to share the trivia with him.
The ambassador continued, “I was just coming home, when I caught her exiting my bedroom. I thought it odd but she smiled and said she'd thought it was the bathroom.”
He shrugged his shoulders, “These things happen, so I dismissed the incident. But then these break-ins began and your brother told me of your suspicions and so the incident came back to mind. I had someone check the files.”
He gave Sherlock a considering look, “I can't give you precise details but there are several people who are in the possession of different parts of a file. They're all encrypted, of course, and cleverly, you'll need a decryption code for the decryption code - similar to a master key, as it's been explained to me.”
He cleared his throat, “The master key, I’ve been told, is safe. However, I have the second decryption code. The log said that someone had copied it on precisely the date that Miss Adler was at the house. Now, it could be a coincidence, but I very much doubt it is.”
“I assume you had Irene Adler investigated when your son started the affair?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course I have. 36, although she claims to be 30. Born and raised in New Jersey, USA. Father a bank clerk, mother a housewife. Scholarship to Julliard, studied opera. Cast in various productions all over the world. A few prominent lovers. Nothing really there to arouse suspicion.”
“I would like to see the report.”
“I'll forward it to you.”
“Has anything else happened...with regards to the files?”
The ambassador shook his head, “No, not that I'm aware of. I'm sure Mycroft would've let me know.”
“My brother, Ambassador Philips, has the habit of keeping things to himself,” he responded archly.
The ambassador smiled, “So I've noticed. But the nature of the matter...well, anyway, do you think you can help?”
Sherlock thought it over. “You've already sent someone to investigate, but they haven't found anything. And yet, you still think she's guilty.”
“Sherlock, I've been in this business too long not to think that she's not up to something.”
“The files would be useless anyway.”
“At the moment, yes. But things change. I'd rather put small fires out before the whole forest burns down.”
“I'm sure the government will have people to take care of things like these.” He tested the ambassador.
“Mycroft has assured me that you are the perfect man for the job.”
“Unusual praise coming from my brother.”
The ambassador smiled, “I was rather under the impression that he values you greatly.”
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, he asked the obvious, “So you want me to find out if she stole it and if she has, to retrieve it?”
“Yes.”
“I hope for both our sakes, ambassador, that this isn't just paranoia on your part.”
"Trust me, Sherlock, when you meet the woman, you will understand my concerns."
§
The moment she stepped out as Maddalena, he was mesmerized.
The woman was, in every sense, a stunning beauty. The surveillance footage he’d been shown didn’t do her justice at all.
Fifteen minutes in her presence, he knew the case would not be the straightforward affair he thought it’d be. She was definitely not going to make this easy.
This was going to be fun.
“Mr. Watts, what a pleasure,” she’d drawled in an accent that didn’t ring quite true.
“Please call me Patrick,” he said, taking her elegant hand.
“Then it’s Irene. I insist.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Irene.”
“What brings you to Warsaw?”
“Oh. I have a commission, at the embassy.”
“Ah. A government man.”
“Hardly. I’m an auditor.”
“Good with figures, then.”
“I know my way around them.”
“Is the embassy in trouble? I’ve always thought if there’s need for an auditor, there must be something wrong.”
“Just a matter of due diligence. With all that’s been happening, people just want to know that everything’s above board.”
“Hm.”
He smiled, admiringly. “Your performance tonight…it was wonderful.” It wasn’t even a lie.
“Thank you. Are you a big fan of opera?”
“I’m afraid not. To be perfectly honest, when they told me we were going to see ‘Rigoletto’” he deliberately mispronounced it, “the only thing that came to mind was chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
“Yes. The one with the caramel? I have an aunt with a bit of a sweet tooth.”
“I see. So what music are you in to?”
“A bit of this and that. Stones, The Beatles. Who, Floyd. Zeppelin. Though have to say am a massive Queen fan.”
“A Queen fan.” She smiled in delight.
“Yup. Used to be in a tribute band. Dressed up as Freddie Mercury, called myself Frankie Mars.” That wasn’t a lie, either.
She laughed, “I’ve been known to belt out ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ when I’ve had a few.”
“Who hasn’t?” They both laughed.
They met ‘by chance’ two days later, at a small party hosted by the mayor of the city.
“Patrick, nice to see a friendly face,” she greeted him with a hug.
“Irene, hello. What brings you here?”
“The mayor - or should I say president? Anyway, he’s a fan.”
“Then he has good taste.”
“You flatterer you.”
He didn’t leave her side until she said she was tired and ready to go home.
“Can I drive you?” he asked.
“There’s a car…you know what? Yes, please.”
“So, is there anyone at home, waiting for you?” she asked, as they were driving along the quiet streets of Warsaw.
“No. Just me. You?”
“Same.”
“Can’t really believe that. A woman like you…they must be queuing in hordes.”
She laughed, “You are sweet. But no, no hordes, not even a small polite queue.”
He seized the opportunity, “Then I hope you won’t think it too presumptuous of me…I would like to start one.”
“You would?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she challenged. Flirting with her was easy, felt natural.
“You are a fascinating woman, Irene.”
“Patrick…I…I’m not really looking for anything at the moment.”
“I understand…I just want to be friends with you.”
“Friends? Is that all?”
“I could use a friend.”
She looked out the window. He counted the beats in his head. One, two, three.
She looked back, “One can never have too many friends, I guess.” He smiled.
They met nearly every day. She would tell him about her life. Half of them obvious lies. He would tell her about Patrick Watts’ life. He found it hard pretending to be this harmless, geeky, slightly dull government auditor when all he wanted was to show her how clever he was.
Irene Adler was wit and charm. Intelligence and poise.
It was almost a shame that this was all a sham.
He was adjusting his bow tie when his mobile rang.
“John, if this is about the plumbing…”
“Hello Sherlock,” said a voice that was definitely not John’s.
“Very clever, Mycroft.”
“Thank you. I was expecting that little favour for Peter to be wrapped up by now.”
“I operate on my own schedule.”
“I know but you know me. I worry.”
“Well, you can tell that I’m fine.”
“Will you be returning to London soon?”
“If everything goes according to plan, I should be on a flight back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. Mummy has been asking after you. Perhaps you can make it for Sunday lunch.”
Sherlock hung up.
If everything did go according to plan, he’d have everything he needed to close the case. It’d taken him a while to locate the files and then some more time to make sure that they hadn’t been given to another unknown party. He knew the what and the how and even the where but what he hadn’t been able to figure out was the why.
He intended to find out tonight.
He adjusted the bowtie again and looked at himself in the mirror. Patrick Watts might get lucky tonight.
§
He wasn’t quite sure who pushed whom into the lift and who started the kissing.
But he knew how the silk of her dress felt as he pulled her closer and how little he had to bend down to kiss her. She pressed against him, pressing him into the wall and he could feel the coolness of the mirror on his back.
He hadn’t had to seduce anyone like this for a case in a long, long while. He didn’t at all find it difficult or distasteful. It felt like the finale to an intricate tango they’ve initiated the first time they met.
As he slipped his tongue between her lips - no man had ever called her mouth too small - she moaned his name. Sherlock.
And it had never sounded so foreign or so wrong to him.
She was wrong. Everything was wrong.
“Sherlock,” she murmured. He drew back, in shock. It wasn’t just her saying his real name - knowing his real name - but the way she said it.
His whole body felt flushed.
“How long?” he demanded.
“A day after we met,” she answered. She’d stepped back, leaned against the opposite wall.
Tall, regal, proud - she reminded him of an ice queen in a fairy story Mummy had told him when he still thought he could believe in them.
“Good for you,” he replied, feeling both angry at himself and admiration for her.
She really was exceptional.
The lift came to a halt and the door opened with an elegant ‘ping’. She stepped out wordlessly and he followed her.
The hallway was too bright and the carpet too thick and all his limbs felt like parts that didn’t belong to him. He wondered what and how long it would take. He still had questions.
“Why?” he asked when they reached her flat. He sat down heavily on a chair. He tried to figure out how long the substance had been in his system.
She released her hair from the clips that had been holding it up and it fell around her in soft waves. She really was breathtakingly beautiful.
Though, he surmised, the difficulty in breathing was probably more due to whatever poison she had slipped him. Probably in the drink earlier.
“You’re the great detective. You tell me,” she replied casually, walking towards him. He saw her watching him carefully, probably trying to gauge how long it would take before he collapsed.
“Not money. A woman like you…there are easier ways…”
“That’s very ungentlemanly of you, Patrick.”
“Forgive me. It’s all about the thrill with you, isn’t it?”
“What’s that saying? Pot calling kettle black?”
“You were trying to prove something…it was never about the data…none of it was ever about the data…”
Suddenly, a conversation he had with Molly many months ago about the Belladonna plant came to mind. She’d said something about the etymology, about the romantic nature. Atropos, the inevitable.
Why was he thinking of Molly?
Irene handed him the pendant from the necklace she’d been wearing tonight. The necklace she’d been wearing every single day since they met.
He reached for it, his hand feeling unsteady. It took him a few seconds before he managed to pull it apart to reveal the flash drive so cleverly hidden.
“It’s still all on there, but you probably guessed that already. How long did you know?”
“For certain? A day after we met,” he slurred. Focus, he told himself. Focus.
She smiled, “I wish circumstances were different.”
“Really?”
“You and I…we make a fine pair.”
“What did you…”
She put a finger on his lips, “Don’t fight it, Sherlock. It’ll only make it worse.”
He opened his mouth but his tongue would not cooperate. The room was spinning and he was sure any second now, everything would disappear into a black hole.
If it’d been a conscious choice. he’d have chosen her. But the choice had been made when he hadn’t been paying attention.
And then he too slipped into the black hole.
§
It felt very much like a hang-over. Not a particularly bad one, but a clear and undeniable hang-over.
She’d removed his shoes and belt and managed to get the jacket off as well. The bowtie, he remembered, had been ripped off in the lift. There was light coming through the windows but having no reference points, could not tell what time it was.
Then he remembered his watch. That he was wearing.
It was three in the afternoon, which meant he’d been out for a good twelve hours or so. He swallowed. His mouth felt dry.
Not dead, then. Why he ever thought that Irene had been trying to kill him was no longer that clear to him. Nothing was very clear to him at the moment. But after a shower and perhaps some food - his body could probably stand some food - his brain will make sense of this.
He turned to see a glass of water on the nightstand. A white envelope was propped against it.
§
“Yes, Mycroft, you can tell Mummy that I’ll be there,” he said, irritably. He was sitting in the departure lounge waiting for his flight back to London.
It’d taken him another day to tie up all loose ends - no traces of Irene Adler - and now he was ready to say goodbye to this case. As far as he
was concerned, the case was done and over with.
“I am not five, Mycroft, so shut-up!” He hung up.
A little girl was staring at him and he stuck his tongue out at her. She did exactly the same thing. It made him laugh. She smiled back shyly. A mop of brown hair and big brown eyes.
“Are you a vampire?” she suddenly asked, in a faint Scottish accent.
“Caitlin,” her mother scolded.
“Thorry,” she said, looking embarrassed.
He leaned forward, “ No, I’m not a vampire. I couldn’t be. It’s daylight.”
“Of course,” said the little girl and another conversation he’d had with Molly came to mind. On Porphyria.
Her mother said something to her and with a small wave, the little girl skipped off to play with some other children, presumably her siblings.
It was strange that when he thought he’d been poisoned by Irene - instead of simply drugged with a sedative - that the voice in his head trying to identify the poison had been Molly’s.
It didn’t matter how far he’d go and how much he’d try, she would follow him, in his head, like a quiet ghost.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
His phone rang just when the announcement for boarding came.
“Sherlock Holmes…ah, Lestrade. Yes. In a few hours. How many? Three. Now that’s what I call a nice welcoming home gift.
Part 9
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Life has a funny way of getting in the way of writing silly fanfiction.
The following chapter is a Frankenstein job of a piece but I humbly offer it to you in hopes it might appeal.
All cracky, stupid, ridiculous plots and mistakes are of my own doing.
___
Don't tell your friends about the two of us
"Ambassador Philips," Sherlock said, walking into the office.
The UK ambassador to Poland stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in, his hand extended in greeting. Sherlock shook it briefly.
"Thank you for coming," the ambassador said, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.
"So you're finally ready to tell me what's been bothering you," Sherlock said. The surprise on the man's face was quickly replaced by an appreciative smile.
The case he was working for Mycroft was a peculiar one. In the course of six weeks, alarms had gone off at several small software companies all over Europe. The companies were involved in the Schengen Information System.
However according to Mycroft, a few of them "Are involved in projects that we'd rather keep quiet, if you understand what I mean." The curious thing about the break-ins was that according to logs and protocols, nothing had been stolen nor left behind. In fact, if not for Mycroft's 'curiosity', the incidents would have been dismissed as a glitch in the security systems.
So far, Sherlock had deduced that the break-ins were simply a test of the security systems themselves. A company in Warsaw was working on a decryption software that he thought might be the real target. Mycroft, without revealing any further details, had agreed that this might be the case and contacted Ambassador Peter Philips, who had some involvement in the project.
Sherlock supposed that if Mycroft had nothing but praise for the man, the ambassador had to have some merits. It was probably his brother's influence as well that the ambassador was being so cooperative. Though Sherlock had not been able to shake the feeling that the ambassador was hiding something.
"Mycroft said you were a bright boy," the ambassador commented. Sherlock tried not to bristle.
"Well, then," the ambassador continued, "do you know my son, Thomas?"
Sherlock had done his research, "I believe there is talk of him being prime minister someday."
"Ah yes, that's what they're saying."
"You seem to disapprove."
The ambassador smiled ruefully, "I don't disapprove. Thomas would make an excellent prime minister, as long as he chooses his cabinet wisely. It's all about having the right people in your corner, you see."
Sherlock merely nodded. He understood the importance of having the right network.
The ambassador sighed, "I love my son and I have no doubts about him as a politician, but there are some personal things that I don't necessarily approve of."
"This is going to be a confession of him having an affair, isn’t it?" Sherlock found his interest waning. This was going to turn into something boring.
"Unfortunately, it is."
"There are enough sex scandals nowadays, should hardly shock anyone. Unless it's something illegal or truly perverted." Sherlock thought he should make an effort to end this conversation politely.
"Oh it's not the affair part that I'm concerned about. Although, as a married man with three children and a future in Downing Street, I'd rather he'd not indulge in them. Everything can be kept discreet, if you know how but..."
"What is the problem, then?" Perhaps this wasn’t so boring after all.
"The woman he had an affair with, a Miss Irene Adler. Have you heard of her?"
The name didn't trigger anything, "No."
"She's an opera singer. Beautiful voice. Beautiful face. Once you see her, I think you can understand why Thomas was so smitten."
"She is blackmailing him?" Maybe boring after all.
The ambassador winced. "I wish it were that simple."
"Then what is it'?" Sherlock wished the man would just go on with it.
The ambassador looked him squarely in the eyes, "The case you are working on, it deals in highly sensitive matter."
He nodded impatiently, "Yes, I've been made to understand that quiet perfectly by my brother."
"He hasn't disclosed to you my involvement in the project?"
"Not in details, no."
"I wish I could reveal to you everything so you can understand the gravity of the situation."
"I'm assuming this has to do with defence plans?"
The ambassador’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, "You really are clever. Yes but...if you do figure it out, I trust you to keep it a secret. I've been assured by your brother that you will handle things with discretion."
"Irene Adler has stolen something from you?"
"Yes. Or I think she has."
Maybe this wouldn't be that boring after all. "Continue."
"Thomas had his dalliance with Miss Adler a few weeks ago when he came to see me. He invited her over to my private residence one day. To show her the Dali. A fake but masterfully done.”
Sherlock had heard of it from Mycroft. Maybe there had been a reason why Mycroft had thought it necessary to share the trivia with him.
The ambassador continued, “I was just coming home, when I caught her exiting my bedroom. I thought it odd but she smiled and said she'd thought it was the bathroom.”
He shrugged his shoulders, “These things happen, so I dismissed the incident. But then these break-ins began and your brother told me of your suspicions and so the incident came back to mind. I had someone check the files.”
He gave Sherlock a considering look, “I can't give you precise details but there are several people who are in the possession of different parts of a file. They're all encrypted, of course, and cleverly, you'll need a decryption code for the decryption code - similar to a master key, as it's been explained to me.”
He cleared his throat, “The master key, I’ve been told, is safe. However, I have the second decryption code. The log said that someone had copied it on precisely the date that Miss Adler was at the house. Now, it could be a coincidence, but I very much doubt it is.”
“I assume you had Irene Adler investigated when your son started the affair?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course I have. 36, although she claims to be 30. Born and raised in New Jersey, USA. Father a bank clerk, mother a housewife. Scholarship to Julliard, studied opera. Cast in various productions all over the world. A few prominent lovers. Nothing really there to arouse suspicion.”
“I would like to see the report.”
“I'll forward it to you.”
“Has anything else happened...with regards to the files?”
The ambassador shook his head, “No, not that I'm aware of. I'm sure Mycroft would've let me know.”
“My brother, Ambassador Philips, has the habit of keeping things to himself,” he responded archly.
The ambassador smiled, “So I've noticed. But the nature of the matter...well, anyway, do you think you can help?”
Sherlock thought it over. “You've already sent someone to investigate, but they haven't found anything. And yet, you still think she's guilty.”
“Sherlock, I've been in this business too long not to think that she's not up to something.”
“The files would be useless anyway.”
“At the moment, yes. But things change. I'd rather put small fires out before the whole forest burns down.”
“I'm sure the government will have people to take care of things like these.” He tested the ambassador.
“Mycroft has assured me that you are the perfect man for the job.”
“Unusual praise coming from my brother.”
The ambassador smiled, “I was rather under the impression that he values you greatly.”
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, he asked the obvious, “So you want me to find out if she stole it and if she has, to retrieve it?”
“Yes.”
“I hope for both our sakes, ambassador, that this isn't just paranoia on your part.”
"Trust me, Sherlock, when you meet the woman, you will understand my concerns."
§
The moment she stepped out as Maddalena, he was mesmerized.
The woman was, in every sense, a stunning beauty. The surveillance footage he’d been shown didn’t do her justice at all.
Fifteen minutes in her presence, he knew the case would not be the straightforward affair he thought it’d be. She was definitely not going to make this easy.
This was going to be fun.
“Mr. Watts, what a pleasure,” she’d drawled in an accent that didn’t ring quite true.
“Please call me Patrick,” he said, taking her elegant hand.
“Then it’s Irene. I insist.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Irene.”
“What brings you to Warsaw?”
“Oh. I have a commission, at the embassy.”
“Ah. A government man.”
“Hardly. I’m an auditor.”
“Good with figures, then.”
“I know my way around them.”
“Is the embassy in trouble? I’ve always thought if there’s need for an auditor, there must be something wrong.”
“Just a matter of due diligence. With all that’s been happening, people just want to know that everything’s above board.”
“Hm.”
He smiled, admiringly. “Your performance tonight…it was wonderful.” It wasn’t even a lie.
“Thank you. Are you a big fan of opera?”
“I’m afraid not. To be perfectly honest, when they told me we were going to see ‘Rigoletto’” he deliberately mispronounced it, “the only thing that came to mind was chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
“Yes. The one with the caramel? I have an aunt with a bit of a sweet tooth.”
“I see. So what music are you in to?”
“A bit of this and that. Stones, The Beatles. Who, Floyd. Zeppelin. Though have to say am a massive Queen fan.”
“A Queen fan.” She smiled in delight.
“Yup. Used to be in a tribute band. Dressed up as Freddie Mercury, called myself Frankie Mars.” That wasn’t a lie, either.
She laughed, “I’ve been known to belt out ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ when I’ve had a few.”
“Who hasn’t?” They both laughed.
They met ‘by chance’ two days later, at a small party hosted by the mayor of the city.
“Patrick, nice to see a friendly face,” she greeted him with a hug.
“Irene, hello. What brings you here?”
“The mayor - or should I say president? Anyway, he’s a fan.”
“Then he has good taste.”
“You flatterer you.”
He didn’t leave her side until she said she was tired and ready to go home.
“Can I drive you?” he asked.
“There’s a car…you know what? Yes, please.”
“So, is there anyone at home, waiting for you?” she asked, as they were driving along the quiet streets of Warsaw.
“No. Just me. You?”
“Same.”
“Can’t really believe that. A woman like you…they must be queuing in hordes.”
She laughed, “You are sweet. But no, no hordes, not even a small polite queue.”
He seized the opportunity, “Then I hope you won’t think it too presumptuous of me…I would like to start one.”
“You would?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she challenged. Flirting with her was easy, felt natural.
“You are a fascinating woman, Irene.”
“Patrick…I…I’m not really looking for anything at the moment.”
“I understand…I just want to be friends with you.”
“Friends? Is that all?”
“I could use a friend.”
She looked out the window. He counted the beats in his head. One, two, three.
She looked back, “One can never have too many friends, I guess.” He smiled.
They met nearly every day. She would tell him about her life. Half of them obvious lies. He would tell her about Patrick Watts’ life. He found it hard pretending to be this harmless, geeky, slightly dull government auditor when all he wanted was to show her how clever he was.
Irene Adler was wit and charm. Intelligence and poise.
It was almost a shame that this was all a sham.
He was adjusting his bow tie when his mobile rang.
“John, if this is about the plumbing…”
“Hello Sherlock,” said a voice that was definitely not John’s.
“Very clever, Mycroft.”
“Thank you. I was expecting that little favour for Peter to be wrapped up by now.”
“I operate on my own schedule.”
“I know but you know me. I worry.”
“Well, you can tell that I’m fine.”
“Will you be returning to London soon?”
“If everything goes according to plan, I should be on a flight back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. Mummy has been asking after you. Perhaps you can make it for Sunday lunch.”
Sherlock hung up.
If everything did go according to plan, he’d have everything he needed to close the case. It’d taken him a while to locate the files and then some more time to make sure that they hadn’t been given to another unknown party. He knew the what and the how and even the where but what he hadn’t been able to figure out was the why.
He intended to find out tonight.
He adjusted the bowtie again and looked at himself in the mirror. Patrick Watts might get lucky tonight.
§
He wasn’t quite sure who pushed whom into the lift and who started the kissing.
But he knew how the silk of her dress felt as he pulled her closer and how little he had to bend down to kiss her. She pressed against him, pressing him into the wall and he could feel the coolness of the mirror on his back.
He hadn’t had to seduce anyone like this for a case in a long, long while. He didn’t at all find it difficult or distasteful. It felt like the finale to an intricate tango they’ve initiated the first time they met.
As he slipped his tongue between her lips - no man had ever called her mouth too small - she moaned his name. Sherlock.
And it had never sounded so foreign or so wrong to him.
She was wrong. Everything was wrong.
“Sherlock,” she murmured. He drew back, in shock. It wasn’t just her saying his real name - knowing his real name - but the way she said it.
His whole body felt flushed.
“How long?” he demanded.
“A day after we met,” she answered. She’d stepped back, leaned against the opposite wall.
Tall, regal, proud - she reminded him of an ice queen in a fairy story Mummy had told him when he still thought he could believe in them.
“Good for you,” he replied, feeling both angry at himself and admiration for her.
She really was exceptional.
The lift came to a halt and the door opened with an elegant ‘ping’. She stepped out wordlessly and he followed her.
The hallway was too bright and the carpet too thick and all his limbs felt like parts that didn’t belong to him. He wondered what and how long it would take. He still had questions.
“Why?” he asked when they reached her flat. He sat down heavily on a chair. He tried to figure out how long the substance had been in his system.
She released her hair from the clips that had been holding it up and it fell around her in soft waves. She really was breathtakingly beautiful.
Though, he surmised, the difficulty in breathing was probably more due to whatever poison she had slipped him. Probably in the drink earlier.
“You’re the great detective. You tell me,” she replied casually, walking towards him. He saw her watching him carefully, probably trying to gauge how long it would take before he collapsed.
“Not money. A woman like you…there are easier ways…”
“That’s very ungentlemanly of you, Patrick.”
“Forgive me. It’s all about the thrill with you, isn’t it?”
“What’s that saying? Pot calling kettle black?”
“You were trying to prove something…it was never about the data…none of it was ever about the data…”
Suddenly, a conversation he had with Molly many months ago about the Belladonna plant came to mind. She’d said something about the etymology, about the romantic nature. Atropos, the inevitable.
Why was he thinking of Molly?
Irene handed him the pendant from the necklace she’d been wearing tonight. The necklace she’d been wearing every single day since they met.
He reached for it, his hand feeling unsteady. It took him a few seconds before he managed to pull it apart to reveal the flash drive so cleverly hidden.
“It’s still all on there, but you probably guessed that already. How long did you know?”
“For certain? A day after we met,” he slurred. Focus, he told himself. Focus.
She smiled, “I wish circumstances were different.”
“Really?”
“You and I…we make a fine pair.”
“What did you…”
She put a finger on his lips, “Don’t fight it, Sherlock. It’ll only make it worse.”
He opened his mouth but his tongue would not cooperate. The room was spinning and he was sure any second now, everything would disappear into a black hole.
If it’d been a conscious choice. he’d have chosen her. But the choice had been made when he hadn’t been paying attention.
And then he too slipped into the black hole.
§
It felt very much like a hang-over. Not a particularly bad one, but a clear and undeniable hang-over.
She’d removed his shoes and belt and managed to get the jacket off as well. The bowtie, he remembered, had been ripped off in the lift. There was light coming through the windows but having no reference points, could not tell what time it was.
Then he remembered his watch. That he was wearing.
It was three in the afternoon, which meant he’d been out for a good twelve hours or so. He swallowed. His mouth felt dry.
Not dead, then. Why he ever thought that Irene had been trying to kill him was no longer that clear to him. Nothing was very clear to him at the moment. But after a shower and perhaps some food - his body could probably stand some food - his brain will make sense of this.
He turned to see a glass of water on the nightstand. A white envelope was propped against it.
§
“Yes, Mycroft, you can tell Mummy that I’ll be there,” he said, irritably. He was sitting in the departure lounge waiting for his flight back to London.
It’d taken him another day to tie up all loose ends - no traces of Irene Adler - and now he was ready to say goodbye to this case. As far as he
was concerned, the case was done and over with.
“I am not five, Mycroft, so shut-up!” He hung up.
A little girl was staring at him and he stuck his tongue out at her. She did exactly the same thing. It made him laugh. She smiled back shyly. A mop of brown hair and big brown eyes.
“Are you a vampire?” she suddenly asked, in a faint Scottish accent.
“Caitlin,” her mother scolded.
“Thorry,” she said, looking embarrassed.
He leaned forward, “ No, I’m not a vampire. I couldn’t be. It’s daylight.”
“Of course,” said the little girl and another conversation he’d had with Molly came to mind. On Porphyria.
Her mother said something to her and with a small wave, the little girl skipped off to play with some other children, presumably her siblings.
It was strange that when he thought he’d been poisoned by Irene - instead of simply drugged with a sedative - that the voice in his head trying to identify the poison had been Molly’s.
It didn’t matter how far he’d go and how much he’d try, she would follow him, in his head, like a quiet ghost.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
His phone rang just when the announcement for boarding came.
“Sherlock Holmes…ah, Lestrade. Yes. In a few hours. How many? Three. Now that’s what I call a nice welcoming home gift.
Part 9