Sherlock Holmes was bored. Again. For the third time that week, actually. Hell, he had been bored most of his adult life. And then some. The only relief he had had - well, the only real relief - was the meeting of one Miss Irene Adler a few months prior - in a way. Though, much to his uncharacteristic chagrin, he had discovered soon upon their 'meeting' that she was very soon about to forgo that title for that of a far more degrading, 'Mrs' so and so, to some barrister or duke. He really hadn't cared to find out which. Well, he had. But he quickly removed it from his brain. Yes, it had been several months since their meeting, and Sherlock had taken to his token dosage of diluted 0.07% cocaine, he had to admit, far more frequently than usual. Hell, he had even visited the opium den a bit more. But that had nothing to do with her. No. He was bored. And the cases that had arrived at 221b were achingly easy to solve. Not to mention predictable.
For lack of further exaggeration, Irene was taking a risk turning back to London proper to seek Sherlock Holmes' assistance. But it was without doubt the foremost logical conclusion that came to her mind, and notably the more amusing. After their recent interaction she had little doubt about that. But could he help her now? That was the question she was eager to find the answer to, as she found herself in front of 221b Baker Street, ringing the bell.
Sherlock, still reeling from the injection he had given himself about an hour or so ago, awoke from his self-induced coma, to find himself soaking in the bath, the room dim and full of incense as he had lowered the oil lights and lit some to cover the tobacco smoke he had indulged in before his even worse habit. Dr Watson never did cease to scold him, despite the fact that the man, himself, indulged in a cigar now and then. But that was the common pedestrian for you - a hypocrite in every way.
So far down his internal rant about his doctor had the consulting detective gone, he almost forgot what exactly had sprung him back to the dull world of reality. Oh, yes, the buzzer. Thank god, a client. Better be a worthy one, he mused, humming to himself as he staggered up and reached for his dressing gown.
"Let them in, Mrs Hudson. And do try and detain them with your endless prattling for a bit longer than usual...!" He bellowed down the stairs, needing a bit of extra time to get dressed...and well, sober. Ha.
After the very sweet, if frazzled landlady answered the door, muttering to herself and then proceeding to strike up a rather mindless conversation about the weather, Irene politely if determinedly began to continue towards the stairs, as the woman tittered after her only briefly. Eventually she seemed to simply give up on her efforts, waving her on. Irene smiled only semi-apologetically and continued on to the landing, tapping a rhythm on the door.
Having heard the polite, determined rapping at his door (indicating a woman, at the least), Holmes quickly buttoned his trousers, threw on a waistcoat over his very disheveled collared shirt, and quickly parted and slicked back his hair before making his way to answer the door. His hand planted on the knob, he gave himself a brief, but vital moment to 'collect himself' indulging in a sharp breath, before he swung the door open to allow their entrance only to stand, albeit briefly dumbfounded at the sight before him. He quickly caught himself and recovered.
"Miss Adler. I presumed as much." He drawled slowly, purposefully using her maiden title, though out of decided imprudence, bitterness, or even flirtation, he was not entirely sure.
She looked him over with a quick, thorough inspection, before meeting his eyes, keeping any inquiry she may have had about his demeanor to herself for the moment, and choosing not to correct him.
"Mr. Holmes. I hope it's not a bad time." She rose a brow faintly. Though spoken like one, it was not a question.
He eyed her levelly, only taking in her dark red dress and coat from his peripheral vision, and most certainly ignoring the rather risque neckline for the current decade, and replied curtly, "For you? Never. Please, sit down." He commanded rather than offered, pulling out his 'client chair' from the desk to place before his own leather-back one.
"Merci beaucoup," she intoned casually, following him into the room, taking it in with a nod of fond approval. "Hm. Much cozier than your doctor seems to describe it," she remarked as she looked around, then took a seat as he seemed to will her to.
The detective merely grunted at her remark, but did manage to give her a brief smile afterwards before crossing to sit in his own chair and steepled his fingers against his mouth. He gazed at at her. "So. What. Can. I. Help. You. With. Lady?"
"I'd consider it helping each other," she replied, somewhat coyly, settling into the chair as comfortably as her gown would allow her. "You need something to solve, and I need a solution."
"That is generally how it goes..." He murmured in response, crossing his legs as he noticed the buttons of his waist coat were mismatched and hoped to cover the error.
"Husband up to no good? Judging by the curl of your collar and the tobacco stain on your left shirt sleeves I'd say so..."
She gave an obscure smile. "I suspect so. But my concern isn't exactly of the adulterous fashion " she replied, almost flippantly. "As a lawyer he has dealings with all sorts, naturally, but I think a recent client of his may be of particular interest to you, and bother to me..." She began, at first vaguely.
Sherlock pressed his forefingers against his gently parted lips as he both watched her and listened to her, tutting internally to himself as he did so.
"I never claimed to infer it was adulterous, Mrs...? Please, kindly, don't put words in my mouth. My doctor does that enough for me already." He quipped, though gave her a warm smile upon his delivery. "Now then, a former client you say?... Was this individual, at one time, a former client of yours, as well...? Forgive me, I mean, a former admirer..." He wasn't quite sure if his vulgar implication of her character had been purposeful or not...
Her look had a testing quality, a single brow twitching almost dryly. "Merely being clear, detective. Don't need you getting bored," she replied, before answering his inquiry. "But no. I became aware of him in my associations with our mutual acquaintance, the King of Bohemia..." She trailed with deliberate inference.
He noted her glance and decided it best to tread lightly for the time being. That is, if he could get his wits about him. Her having two heads every now and then was certainly not aiding him any. Really shouldn't have upped the opium cut as much as he had. Oh well. Live and learn.
"Right. Yes, of course. I trust you and he are still on cordial ground...? Or did I fail you, ultimately, by his sending over some sort of spy...?" Sherlock half guessed, half assumed as he ran his tongue over his teeth in a tetchy fashion.
"I am not entirely sure, but that is where you come in, I'd say," she suggested, with a subtle smile watching his eyes lose some of their focus and seeming for the moment, amused. "My husband got him a reprieve from a murder charge a month or so past, I suspect under duress, but he seems to be lingering in the country longer than his intent was originally, never far from my own goings on. Could be coincidental, of course, but at risk of sounding superstitious - I doubt it."
"And was he actually innocent? Or is your husband just exceptionally good at the artificial rhetoric required for a barrister and the usual accompaniment of being corrupt?" He asked her, well, more like challenged her, as he brought his hands away from his face finally to lean forwards.
She almost chuckled. "He buried enough key evidence for reasonable doubt, which I have in my possession. It's yours, to aid you, if you can figure out why he's here and if it has anything to do with me," she offered, leaning forward to match him, almost instinctively.
"So I take it you don't recognize him, then?" The detective asked for obvious clarification, standing as he did so to cross to his desk.
"I never said as much. I know exactly who he is, what I don't know is if he's still in royal employ, and if not, whether that's worse. He was hired muscle, more or less, with all of it's implications." Her eyes followed him. "What I want to know is what he knows of me."
Sherlock bit his inner cheek, a subtle curse escaping under his breath at himself for his foolish folly clearly brought about by his current state. Christ, it really did obstruct the brain. "I see. Yes, of course. Well, give me what you have on him, and I shall start right away... I take it your husband has no idea of this... And thinks the matter settled?"
"Oblivious. As is his calling to be," she joked unceremoniously, plucking up the small case she had carried and removing a book of poetry, of seemingly normative looks, leather-bound and irrelevant. Opening it, the pages had been hollowed, leaving room for an assortment of documents, and folded correspondences, which she held out to him. "I don't suppose I need to tell you this isn't the most legal of methods on my part," she added, before he could snatch them, beginning to observe him in very real concern, as he began to sway on his feet.
He almost laughed, but instead gave her a short nod and a grin as he reached out to grasp them from her. "Something tells me this isn't the first time that you have ever stepped out of the confines of the law, Miss Adler. And thanks be to god..." He was about to continue his statement when he suddenly felt a rushing of blood to his head and began to see stars. He quickly fainted thereafter.
After the initial shock of his collapse, Irene got down on the floor to check on the detective's apparent state, finding him certainly alive but, after some prodding, decidedly unresponsive. She considered trying to call for the landlady, but didn't see much use. So, muttering a few curses she sought a cloth and some water, and the most pungent smelling thing in what she found to be his lab. She couldn't leave him alone, so she would attempt to awaken him, first politely, and if that failed, surely the glass vial in her hand could wake the dead.
Trying to open his eyes, Sherlock, finally, came to, though his vision was cloudy to be sure. He could see the somewhat sinister, yet angelic figure of A Woman leaning over him, fretting to herself as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead and cheek. He mumbled an incoherent sentence before closing his eyes once more.
In an attempt to halt his inevitable pass back into unconsciousness, Irene slapped his cheek briskly. "Mr. Holmes! I really would rather not have to run and fetch your medic, as I'm sure you'd agree..." She attempted to lure, hopefully while she had some amount of his attention, looking down at him more closely, her brow furrowed.
He hazily nodded a subtle yes, as his left hand reached out towards her right cheek, cupping it tightly and bringing her towards him to mutter, "I think I may have overdosed... Get the box underneath my bed... And for god's sake do not call for Dr Watson..."
"...We'll see," she replied, briefly, in albeit hopeful doubt, before standing to quickly do as he instructed, though finding it more than a bit ironic and equally worrisome that the only useful man in town was also being quite useless to himself. She brought the box back to him, settling it less than subtly on his chest to make sure he remained somewhat tethered. "What were you using?"
He fluttered his eyelids at her as he did his best to prop himself up on his left elbow. "A solution of opium and cocaine..." He muttered finally, opening the box to examine his vials. "Fuck..." He uttered beneath his breath. "Right... So... In a few moments I will likely lose all motor function... I may even convulse and perhaps vomit... I'll need water. Lots of water. And whatever I say, do not give me any more... Understand... Assuming you are willing to stay with me... This may... Take a while..."
She looked unsure of herself for perhaps one of the few obvious times in her adult life, as she watched him shakily inject himself with what she assumed to be an 'opioid antagonist' to help counter the OD, but nodded resolutely. "Don't have anything better to do," she conceded, in somewhat fabricated reluctance, settling herself more directly beside him.
Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, reaching a hand out to grasp the folds of her dress. "Get these clothes off. Please." He rarely ever employed such prudent jargon; certainly he was in a sorry state. Though, to be fair, she did bring out the 'worst' in him. Though others might concede to say 'the best'.
She didn't hesitate, given it seemed the only rational response as she witnessed sweat begin to pebble his forehead. Though it was only after she had assisted in stripping him of his waistcoat and half the buttons of his shirt that she had the inkling of her unusual place in this situation enough to make a comment as she continued. "You're lucky, Mr. Holmes, that I'm not your usual squeamish prude or you'd be left to your own devices."
He let out an audible chuckle before furrowing his brows as he convulsed again. "Yes... Well, luckily for me I have good taste..." He stated, rather ambiguously, hoping she wouldn't take note.
She shushed him briefly, pressing on his bare chest lightly to still him as she pushed the shirt open and quickly pulled down his trousers. "Stay. I'll get more water." She demanded briefly before hopping up as quickly as her garment allowed.
Never had Sherlock been in a more compromising and vulnerable position. Not to mention humiliating. And he only had himself to blame. Naturally. As he heard her walk away to fetch more water he managed to kick off his trousers before attempting to sit up. Not a good idea as it turned out. He suddenly felt horribly sick. He crawled, sweating and clothed in only his pants, to the nearby fireplace in which he proceeded to vomit what little food he had ingested that day into it. The once intrepid detective was grovelling on the floor. And worst of all, she was witness to all of it.
" Woman ... ! " He mumbled, pressing the heels of his hands to his eye sockets.
Her hard soled shoes clicked efficiently back to him, immediately crouching down to retrieve the damp cloth she had used to awaken him and pour more water on it, rolling him as best as she was able. His head ended up in her lap, which was good to elevate it, but somewhat inconvenient for her dress. She dabbed his face, then handed him the pitcher. "Drink."
He did as he was told, lapping up the water eagerly before pushing the pitcher back and allowing his head to fall backwards into her lap once more. He started to shiver and then shake, and closed his eyes tightly. "I. Am. Sorry. Miss Adler..." He stuttered out, reaching his hands to curl his fingers in the fabric of her dress.
"Oh, don't apologize to me, you'll be sorry enough for yourself later," she attempted to jest faintly, keeping his attention on her. "Though it's safe to say you'll be taking my case."
He nodded and managed to even grin. "Yes. On the house, I imagine..." He replied. "Can you take me to my bed...?" He asked, ignoring the shock value of such an idea in this day and age in England. People really were such idiots. At all times, it seemed.
"I can certainly help, but for proportions' sake I'm afraid you will need to be conscious for it," she replied, raising her brows for emphasis as she looked him over briefly.
He frowned at her and squinted, confused by her suggestion. "Wouldn't my being unconscious prove more safe for the sake of your honour ?"
She chuckled wryly. "To be blunt, you have a good 50 lbs on me, or there abouts and nearly a foot in height. If you want to make it there without being dragged I will need you to try to somewhat propel yourself."
"Right. Of course... proportion not propriety …." He corrected himself, struggling to his hands and knees before bringing himself to his feet, using her as an aid. As they made their way to his room, Sherlock paused a moment and looked at her suddenly, "You know, you really are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen..."
Irene merely gave him a crooked smile. "Tell me that when you're not drugged and delirious," she suggested playfully as she led him to the edge of his bed, urging him with a soft shove to fall back onto it.
