There were few things in life that Godfrey Norton, son of a wildly adventuress, found himself thanking the heavens for. He did not wake up on Sundays and attend the morning service, had no children to dote over, could say nothing about the fortune or steady career as an inner temple lawyer he had kept since the chance came to accept such a job. However, there was one thing to make him fall to his knees and thank the lord for, and that was his darling wife, the adventuress Irene Adler.
Her pale skin and cascading chestnut hair had him in awe alone, a soft pink set of lips and wide green eyes to add the final touches on her exterior. And as if her beauty, enough to leave a grown man tongue tied, was not enough, there was so much more. Such as her personality, wild and willing, finding herself smiling in the eyes of danger. Or her voice, blessed by the holiest of angels, and captivating to even the royals of the world! If there was anyone in the world who had a woman they believed perfection, he would top them with his. Irene unknowingly had him so wrapped up in her, fawning over her every move.

She'd say jump, he'd ask how high.

And yet, it was never enough for Irene. He was never enough. Sarah Bernhardt had been the start, or so he liked to believe. The nights he would see her take the actress' hand and run off into the streets, the times she had denied him of affection simply to go and see Sarah. It was Nell, the parsons daughter who shared a home with the Nortons, who had first addressed the Sarah matter, advising Irene away from 'that woman'. Irene had not listened, of course, but at the end of the day, she was always there to slip under the covers in their wide bed. And then there was her unhealthy obsession with... The man. Sherlock Holmes. He could never understand it, no matter how desperately he tried. The consulting detective was far from dashing, unlike him. Pointy cheeks and a prominent nose, sharp grey eyes that read every movement, and gave no insight to his true emotion. It terrified him simply to look at the lanky detective, who far too much resembled a stork. An ugly stork. But at the mention of his name, Godfrey's wife would turn red, loose her breath and, yes, even swoon! When confronted, she stated her interest was focused solely around his intelligence, yet the first chance to go to England, she was gone. Gone to see him. At the end of the day, Irene would always come back to him, but it was never enough, and his jealousy blinded him. He hated the detective, hated Sarah Bernhardt, and worse, hated himself. Because no matter what, he loved Irene. No matter what...

She'd say jump, and he would ask how high.