The Woman (3/7)
Rating: M
Features: Rose Tyler, the 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, River Song, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Ianto Jones, Lois Habiba
A/N; Nothing you recognize belongs to me!
Summary: She is 'the woman' to both of them.
Part One Part Two
Rose's phone is in the safe; it always is, when she's not expecting a call or a text from Ianto. It's far too important to be left lying around, after all. There are secrets on her phone that can ruin individuals and (hopefully) topple governments. Sherlock tricks the location of the safe (concealed behind an ornately framed mirror set into the wall above the fully-functional fireplace) out of her with a bit of newspaper and a lighter. He is insufferably smug about it, of course, but she doesn't mind. The thrill of the hunt is back and this is what she lives for: the adrenaline rush of finding a challenge or (once upon a time) seeing an alien planet or just holding his hand. Sherlock doesn't get to press his advantage, though, because her last guests arrive precisely on time.
Two men in nondescript dark clothing burst into the room as Sherlock studies the keypad of her safe. John holds up his hands when the men pull their guns but Rose takes her cue from Sherlock and remains still but unafraid. They're not here to kill her; they need her alive. Sherlock simply behaves as if the guns don't exist, as if the men are nothing more than minor irritations-until they threaten Dr. Watson. She wonders for a moment if the intruders-American, from their accents-realize what they've just unleashed (I'm coming to get you and No power on earth can stop me and Give her back to me circle in her mind like vultures over a kill). She understands now why the Doctor hates guns so much, and why the intruders are in more trouble than they can possibly understand: a clever man is never unarmed, and a clever man can do more damage by thinking than a thousand men with machine guns-but give a person a gun and they start to think with it.
Sherlock tries to reason with them, to protest that he doesn't know the code, that she hasn't given it to him-but that's not quite true.
"He has it," she says, when they let her get a word in edgewise. "I've told him."
The look he gives her is positively dripping with venom but she cocks an eyebrow at him and glances down at her body (still wrapped in his coat) meaningfully. His eyes widen. She smirks at him. John looks back and forth between them, well, as much as he can with a gun pressed to the back of his head. He's got the same expression she's seen so many times before (lifetimes ago), the expression that says, quite clearly, that she's mad and he's mad and John must be mad for having anything to do with the pair of them. He loves it, though, or he wouldn't be here.
Sherlock turns back to the safe and presses four buttons. His shoulders tense the slightest bit and she knows he's heard the muffled 'click' of the gun inside the safe cocking. There are two codes. Both of them open the safe, but one of them triggers a small pistol to load and, when the safe is opened, to fire. Can't be too careful, after all.
"Vatican cameos!" he shouts and dives to the side as he pulls open the safe. It's a strange code word, but it works. The bullet catches the first intruder solidly in the shoulder-if he'd been any slower it might have actually killed him-and the man falls to the ground. Sherlock kicks his gun away and delivers a swift blow to his stomach.
Rose is moving before the bullet hits. She grabs the gun trained on Dr. Watson and whirls, twisting and pulling. She has the man on his knees at gun point as Sherlock's foot connects with his intruder's stomach a second time. John is up in a flash and binding the man's hands together with a bit of twine, but that's no surprise. She's read his file; it's not as thick as Sherlock's but it's telling. He was in Afghanistan, wounded in the line of duty and received an honorable discharge. He's described as dependable, solid, and practical-and he's a first-rate marksman. If she was hunting dangerous criminals she'd want someone like Dr. Watson at her back.
She realizes that he's watching her as he knots the string one last time. There's a look in his eyes, a calculating, measuring sort of look. Sherlock might be the genius, but John Watson is clever too and he can put a puzzle together on his own. Rose flips the gun in her hand-the motion is practiced and familiar-and the intruder's eyes roll back in his head as the butt connects with his temple. He slides to the floor, unconscious.
"That was well done," John comments as he lets her pull him to his feet. Sherlock has returned to the safe.
"I make my living by misbehaving, Dr. Watson," she points out. "Protecting myself is occasionally necessary." Sherlock pulls her phone out of the safe. "There's a back entrance, Dr. Watson," she says a bit more sharply than she'd intended. "Give that a look, would you?"
He blinks. "Yeah, okay." And then he strides away.
"I think you'll find that's mine," Rose remarks and holds out her hand.
Sherlock smirks. "Oh, I don't think so." He pockets the phone and moves to step around her, but she doesn't let him.
"That phone is my life," Rose scoffs. "D'you really think I'll just let you walk off with it?"
"Yes," he replies after a moment. "I think that's exactly what you're going to do."
He's wrong, of course. She follows him to her bedroom (not really hers, but the one she uses with clients). It's located on thsecond store and the fire escape is just out the window. Her more paranoid clients prefer to use that entrance, occasionally. It makes Rose feel a bit like Rapunzel, but that's neither here nor there. She palms a syringe when he turns his back (and really he is far too confident-if she'd been truly hostile he would have been dead just then).
It's nothing too harmful, just a mild sedative she keeps on hand as insurance. Some of her client can get-difficult. There are a few (arrogant, powerful people who are used to getting their own way) who come to her not to be broken, but to break. She prefers to nip that idea in the bud, without hurting anyone if possible. She bares her teeth for a moment. They forget that she is just as dangerous as they, and for all of Lois's warnings about Sherlock Holmes and his genius Rose is in control of the situation. She wonders briefly if anyone took the time to warn Sherlock about her, and then shrugs it off. He's clever enough to figure it out by himself.
He yelps when she stabs the needle into his arm. "What?" he gasps out as his heart pumps the drug through his veins and into his brain.
"Time to sleep, Mr. Holmes," Rose replies and holds out her hand. "Now drop it."
"No," he protests. He sways slightly but clutches the phone tighter.
She grabs a riding crop from the umbrella stand next to the bed. "Drop it," she commands. When he refuses she hits him once, twice, and then he falls like some great tree. Her phone skitters across the floor and she stops it with one strappy, stiletto-heeled shoe. Sherlock opens his mouth, tries to speak, but she caresses his face with the end of the crop. "No," she croons, "don't ruin it. I want you to remember this moment, remember the day that I beat you."
John finds them shortly after. "What did you do?" he demands, an edge of panic to his voice as he checks Sherlock's vital signs.
"Nothing permanent, Dr. Watson," Rose assures him. She's perched on the edge of the window, poised to make her escape. "He'll sleep for a few hours and then he'll be right as rain." She flashes him a mischievous smile and then she's falling out the window. Rose lands on her feet and wraps the coat more tightly around her body. Lois is waiting to streets over with the car.
"Well?" the other woman asks as Rose slides into the back seat.
She lets herself sag back into the smooth black leather and closes her eyes. Sherlock's wool coat is scratchy against her skin, and it's too heavy and smells all wrong, but for a moment she can trick herself into believing that it's his. "I think we'll be hearing from Mr. Holmes again."
Lois stares at her through the rearview mirror. "You've still got his coat."
A smile spreads across her face. "I should return it, don't you think?"
The Doctor takes Amy to meet Vincent van Gogh. It's sort of a tradition, he tells her, for his companions to meet historical figures and help save them from some disaster. Martha met Shakespeare, after all, and Donna met Agatha Christie. Amy almost asks what happened to them; when he mentions Martha (and he does so, rarely) it's always with a bit of wistful embarrassment. A grin always accompanies Donna's name, and a soft "she'd love you" usually follows. Amy has seen both of the women on the TARDIS monitors (tricking the Doctor into ordering the TARDIS to show her all previous companions was one of the smartest things she did that first trip)-but it's not the same. As much as he is her best friend there are times when she feels like she hardly knows him.
She almost asks him about the blonde girl, and which famous historical figure she met-but then she remembers the way he reached out to the girl and the old, heavy grief evident in every line on his face and she loses her nerve. She almost asks him who the girl was and what happened to her; why he keeps videos that cause him so much pain and why he persists in making that pain fresh-but she doesn't. There are some questions Amy isn't sure she wants answered.
Vincent is amazing. He's a bit of a drunk and a lot of a hopeless romantic, but he's sweet and kind and brilliant. And the way he looks at the world, Amy has never seen anything like it. She knows his story, of course (she wrote a report on him for school when she was younger) but the reality is so much more vibrant than she imagined. It pains her when he disparages his work. No one will buy his paintings until he's dead and it's such a pity that he never knew how much the world loves him, how popular his works are and how many lives he has touched. He never knew that he will matter, that he will be remembered for thousands, maybe even millions of years.
She fills his courtyard with cut sunflowers because she thinks it will make him smile. Vincent is less than enthusiastic.
"They're not my favorite flower," he comments as he examines one of the enormous blooms.
Amy blinks. "You don't like sunflowers?"
"I wouldn't say that," Vincent disagrees. "They're-complex. They turn to face the sun, constantly caught between life and death-human, in a way."
Amy touches the flower in front of her tentatively. When she looks at his paintings it's like seeing everything for the first time, like the curtain has been pulled away. It's a little like when she first started traveling with the Doctor and she realized there's a whole universe out there. Vincent manages to find beauty in everything, even the most ordinary object. It's a skill Amy wishes she had, and it reminds her a bit of the Doctor. She glances at her friend and frowns as his eyes slide away. The Doctor lean against the wall of the house, arms crossed over his chest, ridiculous hair flopping around his face like a horse's mane. He's been watching her again, but only when he thinks she's not looking. Does he fancy her, after all this time? No, she decides. There's affection in his eyes, eyes, but also deep sadness and pervasive guilt. He knows something, something that relates to her, something that's bad from the way he shies away from her gaze-and he refuses to tell her. Amy's eyes narrow. She isn't accustomed to letting anyone, alien best friend or not, meddle in her life without her knowledge and she's not about to start now.
Vincent wanders back inside. The Doctor follows him and Amy follows the Doctor. It's a big day today-the day that Vincent will paint the church at Auvers-the day that he will capture in vibrant color a face the Doctor declared to be 'evil.' Today is the reason that Amy and the Doctor are here. It started yesterday (and she can't believe it's been only 24 hours). The Doctor had taken her to see a collection of Van Gogh's paintings, which was odd in itself because they haven't overthrown a dictatorship or run for their lives in over a week and that's a record. It's like-like he's trying to make up for something and Amy has no idea what it could possibly be. He's taken her to Arcadia and the hanging gardens of Babylon, beautiful places that she would almost qualify as dates-except that's not how he sees her and she knows it. She'd even asked him about it-but then he'd seen a face staring out of the window of a church and they were off to save Vincent van Gogh.
The Doctor goes to check on Vincent. Amy wanders around the room, examining the paintings she didn't have a chance to study last night. There are many she's never seen before and she wonders what happened-will happen, from this perspective. There's an easel in the corner with a large painting covered in a black cloth perched atop it. Amy never could resist a 'keep out' sign, and a covered painting is nearly as good. She pulls the cloth back and gasps.
It's Christmas before John and Sherlock hear from Irene again. As soon as Sherlock recovered from the sedative she forced on him he'd gone straight to Mycroft. He told his brother to watch her carefully but to otherwise leave her alone. She wasn't using the pictures to extort money or favors-if anything she appeared to be using them as protection. Mycroft took his brother's advice-albeit grudgingly-and that was the last they would hear of Miss Irene Adler-or so John thought.
Something strange is going on with Sherlock's phone. Every day, often multiple times a day, he receives a text. This in itself is not strange, but his alert is. It had been a generic 'beep' when he and John met but now it is, well, a woman moaning. It isn't for all of his texts, either. When John or Mycroft or Greg texts Sherlock his notification is the same synthesized 'beep.' John is almost positive he knows who is texting Sherlock, but when he asks his friend Sherlock changes the subject. Every time. Without fail. Nor does he reply to the messages. He takes the phone from his pocket, checks the screen and occasionally smiles to himself, and then slips it back into his dressing gown or suit or coat.
It's refreshing, in a way, that Sherlock can have something as normal as a crush. If John had a thing for dangerous women he might even share his friend's feelings, but he prefers honesty, and the (relative) simplicity of a normal relationship. There is nothing simple about Irene Adler and he has a feeling that Sherlock likes it that way.
But it's Christmas Eve and Mrs. Hudson is throwing a party. Sherlock attends, though he insists that he hates parties and refuses to wear one of John's festive sweaters. D.I. Lestrade comes, as does John's girlfriend Jeanette and even Molly. None of them are related by blood, but it's a family gathering none the less (even if it is a little dysfunctional). Sherlock even puts his foot in it (for a genius he is remarkably good at being stupid). He taunts Molly about a new boyfriend (and it is true that she looks absolutely stunning in a slinky black and silver dress) but the present he claims is for the lucky man-is addressed to him. He glances to John, who looks terribly disappointed and then back to Molly, who hangs her head.
"Why do you always have to ruin it?" she murmurs sadly. For a moment the room is completely silent, but then Sherlock takes her hand.
"I'm sorry," he tells her. John blinks. It is the first time he's heard Sherlock apologize (seriously and sincerely) to anyone. Ever. Oh, he's said that he was sorry before, but it was more along the lines of 'I'm sorry you're so thick' and 'I'm sorry I'm smarter than you' and 'I'm sorry that this is obvious but you can't see it because you're not clever like me.'
Molly looks up at him, confusion and hope writ large on her face. It's barely a kiss, just a brush of his lips against her cheek, but it's the most human reaction John has ever seen.
And then Sherlock's phone moans. Molly, of course, is mortified. "That wasn't me!" she objects. "I didn't-"
"It was me," Sherlock announces. "My phone," he clarifies with an irritated frown at the shocked expressions which greet him. He pulls the phone out of his trouser pocket and glances at the screen. His brows pull together as he strides over to the mantelpiece-and removes a small, slim, box wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with a thin, shiny black ribbon. John hadn't even noticed it.
"Fifty seven," John notes.
Sherlock stares at the package. "What?"
"You've received fifty seven of those texts." John leans forward. "Do you ever reply?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and slides the ribbon off of the box. He opens the paper at one end, carefully, as if he is at a crime scene, and tips it up. A slim, black phone falls into his hand. John frowns. He's seen that phone before, somewhere. It's odd, not a design that's popular and it sticks in his mind.
Oh. Of course. It's her phone. Sherlock stares at it for a moment, and then he strides out of the main room. "Excuse me," he murmurs as he brushes past them.
"Sherlock?" John calls after him. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
He receives no reply. So he does what any concerned friend would do-he listens at the door.
"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight," Sherlock says. There's a pause-he must be talking to Mycroft, there's no one else he'd discuss Irene with. "No. I think you're going to find her dead."
John takes a step back.
Oh. Well. That was-unexpected.
Amy reaches out to touch the canvas, but snatches her fingers back before they can make contact. The Woman stares out at her, the one from the TARDIS, the one the Doctor remembers-but not. In the painting she is transformed. She stands with her back to some sort of light that frames the painting: vibrant flourishes of gold and white in a million shades that seem to sketch out flowing, circular designs. They're familiar-because Amy has seen them before on a thousand little post-it-notes stuck on the monitor, or the mirror, or the door of the refrigerator. She's seen the stylized circles on books and maps and the walls of the TARDIS, occasionally, in the older parts where the walls look like they were grown, not built. She's watched the Doctor scratch out variations, usually whilst muttering to himself, when he's calculating or checking coordinates or maybe just writing things he'd like to remain unseen. The TARDIS won't translate, never does-because it's his language. What do they say, the words that no one can read, anymore, no one but him?
Amy forces herself to look away. She can't understand it, can't even begin to try, and staring at it won't help. She examines the rest of the painting, looking for clues: something, anything to tell her who this girl was. She was from modern times and she had a fondness for pink: she's wearing a pink hoodie in the painting and black jeans. Her blonde hair swirls about her face and fades into the mass of gold and white behind her.
Her face is almost inhumanly calm, the sort of peace that Amy has seen on those in the grips of religious ecstasy and cadavers. Two blazing tears drip down her cheeks from eyes that are churning maelstroms of gold and deep brown. One hand is stretched out, palm flat and perpendicular to the floor, fingers spread like she's holding something back.
"Found a favorite, Amelia?" The Doctor's voice is loud in her ear and she jumps, startled. He grunts as her flailing arm whacks him soundly in the chest. "What was that for?" he whines and frowns at her. "I was just…" but then his eyes stray to the painting in question and he stops. Stops talking, stops breathing, stops moving for almost five full seconds-like the wind has been knocked out of him.
"Do you know her?" Vincent stands in the doorway behind them, a backpack slung over his shoulder and another easel in his hand. He's got a ridiculous straw hat on and Amy would laugh, she really would if the tension in the room wasn't suffocating.
"Yes." The Doctor's jaw clenches, like he's trying to keep the word in. "But the real question is how do you know her?" He whirls around, gesturing wildly. "Because there's no way, no conceivable way that you could."
Now that his fit of depression has passed Vincent is remarkably calm. "She visits me in my dreams, Doctor." He adjusts the wide brim of his hat and steps forward. Amy moves back, allows him to pass. Vincent brushes the canvas with delicate fingers, tracing the curve of the woman's cheek and the path of one incandescent tear. "She is always crying-and there's a wall, a white wall, but it's more than that. It's despair and anguish and distance." He lets his hand fall. "She is a goddess in exile, separated from everything she loves by an insurmountable wall."
Vincent has his eyes on the painting, so he doesn't see the way the Doctor's hands clench, or the way his shoulder's sag, or the way the muscle in his jaw twitches-but Amy does. And so the question comes bubbling out of her heart and over her lips before she can stop it.
"Was it for her?" she asks. The Doctor gives her a blank look. "That ring in your pocket-was it for her?"
He laughs sadly. "No, Amelia. It was for another friend."
"You have a lot of friends," Amy observes.
The Doctor straightens his bowtie. "Another friend-Sarah Jane Smith-said the same thing to me, once." A small smile curves his lips and the tension dissipates, just a bit. "She's very clever, Sarah Jane. I should take you to meet her."
"After we find the thing that was in the church window," Amy asserts.
"Yes," the Doctor agrees. "After we find it and stop it."
Part Four