Irene smokes an expensive cigarette, watching the rain splash down on the concrete and run along its grainy, grey surface in tumbling rivulets. The roof of the abandoned storage sheds is metal and the rain drums static rhythm with enthusiasm along its surface. Irene wasn't expecting Jim to come and meet her himself on a bleak day such as this. Usually, as of late, he sends one of his henchmen to do his work but it seems she has finally accounted for something in his eyes.

It's about bloody time.

Irene pulls a drag on the cigarette and thinks of those first nights working with Mr. Moriarty. She was not much into politics at that point, but she did know the underground club scene quite well – the hookers, the dealers, the regulars. She knew who owed whom, who wanted to get laid the most and who never had money to pay their debts. As most underground scenes, the criminal arena was huge in this area and it seemed that Mr. Moriarty needed a well informed contact who could keep her shit together and actually had some amount of intellect. As it is, Jim could never suffer idiots – not now, not then.

He had tried to charm her at first, but she didn't fall for it. He tried to threaten her and she told him to fuck off. Apparently he liked that. They had a couple of nice drinks and talked business. He needed information and she needed money to kick off a kinky private club of her own. Jim actually knew how to say "please" back then. Now he just makes demands – a fact that Irene finds annoying but she has to admit that Mr. Moriarty has people working for him, people whom Irene can't compromise and they could easily take her out if Jim wanted them to. She was never into henchmen herself – it took some of the fun out of it. But there is a price, of course, to being the lone wolf.

Jim had been a boy when they first met, a university drop out. He was always under investigation for one thing or another in school, although they had never been able to pin anything on him, of course. But he got "bored" of that game soon enough and, after his father's death and inheriting the family's relatively small but extremely lucrative casino empire, decided to move up in the business world.

Irene is not sure what he does these days. After Jim acquired some political contacts and got out of managing and orchestrating street gang wars they began to lose touch. She heard, through some contacts, that he was doing something on the black market – armaments and such, ran into trouble with the MI5 and MI6 a few times lately – but everything is vague. No one seems to know where Mr. Moriarty's influence ends and independent actions begin. Technically anyone could be his man.

It would not be true to say that Irene had not felt slightly abandoned when Jim had suddenly decided to burn bridges. He had always been unstable, psychopathic. She did not delude herself about that. But they made a good team, she and him. They had spent an incredible amount of time together in those first months – smoking, talking – about work and not – planning all sorts of sordid affairs. She knew he killed people and at first it bothered her but then she figured that everyone survived and got on it the world as they could. At least, back then, it wasn't for fun. She can't always find a logic to his schemes anymore, but then she doesn't know half as much about his life now as she used it.

Jim had always been entertaining, that was for sure. They would make a home out of a smoky bar or a lonely rooftop. They were both freer then, perhaps, just at the start of their individual paths. She isn't lonely without him as her career has moved far past an underground BDSM club and the people she now has influence over are far more important in the grand scheme of things than the local drug lord. But she does miss some of the conversations and the companionship, the understanding that neither of them gave a shit about other people. At least she understood that this mentality is wrong. He never did and perhaps that made it easier for her. He took away the guilt and that mattered.

They had never fucked, although Irene had certainly thought about it. But the truth is that Jim is something other than heterosexual and while she experiences an intellectual lust for men, her physical attractions lie more with women. It is for the better really, Irene thinks as she puts out her cigarette. If they had crossed that line, nothing would have been easy and they don't need any more issues than they already have.

She watches the black, unmarked car pull up, and doesn't even try to see inside, already knowing that the windows are tinted. Jim steps out from the back, holding an umbrella, which is of an offensive bright-purple shade. "Irene, dear, don't make me come through the puddles. Come get in the car."

She crosses her arms and waits until Jim finally rolls his eyes and gingerly makes his way to her. He folds his umbrella up once under the roof and regards her reproachfully. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Maybe. What do you want?"

"Tsk, tsk, so abrasive. And here I thought you would be happy to see me."

"After several years of silence from you, aside from the occasional mug that shows up to bother me about something or other you need, I've quite gotten used to living without you."

He laughs that coquettish, unnatural laugh he has. "Are you angry with me?" He makes one of his absurd faces at her.

"No. You wanted to talk, Jim – I'm here. I'm assuming this is important." She could provoke him more – she has never been scared of his temper tantrums, in fact Irene found them amusing half the time – but right now the weather is far too cold and wet to linger around for too long. If Mr. Moriarty is handling this himself, then there is something important at stake. Something she could perhaps get a benefit out of.

"Cigarette?"

She gives him one and lights it for him. Jim starts to talk and Irene listens. Maybe, just maybe, she had had a thing for him once. Back when they first met, when he was just a kid with a tempter problem and a death wish – mostly for everyone else, but still. Back when she was still just a little naïve enough to believe in certain things. But that was a long time ago.

Now, she just wants to work.