Sherlock strides with a purpose into the restaurant, unmindful of the social custom to hold the door open for the person behind him - even less mindful of the courtesy of "ladies first." The woman behind him smirks at his rudeness as if she expected nothing better. Irene manages to catch the door before it swings shut, and she gracefully steps inside.
"Evening, Mr. Holmes," Billy says pleasantly. His voice drops off when he sees the expression on Sherlock's face: it is an unmistakable mask of cold anger crossed with disgust.
"Good evening, Billy," Sherlock returns with effort. "Table for two, please."
Billy peers around Sherlock's tall figure as if he's looking for someone. He takes in the sight of the dark-haired, perfectly groomed woman standing behind Sherlock. She's undeniably beautiful, but Billy's gaze continues past the woman, through the windows and down the street.
"No Dr. Watson tonight, Mr. Holmes?"
"No, Billy. The table, please."
"Of course." Billy automatically reaches for two menus and leads Sherlock and Irene to the table by the window. He waits for the two to take their seats, places the menus with care, and steps away to the serving station. When he returns moments later with the water pitcher, the woman has removed her white coat and begun slowly unbuttoning elbow-length gloves. Positively predatory, she seems to be doing everything she can to capture Sherlock's attention. Sherlock, however, keeps his eyes determinedly fixed ahead of him.
Billy fills the water tumblers and lights the candle in the middle of the table. He is getting the distinct impression that this is an odd sort of... date. He decides to remain within earshot.
"Well, Mr. Holmes," Irene begins. Her voice is lovely, but just a tad superficial. "This is certainly... quaint." Her eyes dart around the room. With her left hand, she artfully begins pinching and tugging the fingertips of the glove on her right. "An interesting choice for such an important occasion. I'm not criticising, mind you, but I'm accustomed to dining a bit more elegantly than this. Next time, perhaps."
"There will not be a next time, Miss Adler, I can promise you," Sherlock growls, still refusing to make eye contact during the subtle striptease. He then mumbles something under his breath.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Did you say something?" Irene leans forward just a bit too far. She quite deliberately enters Sherlock's personal space. There; that's got his attention. He finally looks her fully in the eye and repeats himself in a clear voice.
"I said, you're sitting in John's seat."
Irene purses her lips, then allows a slow, smug smile. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Why, I'm sure Dr. Watson can be persuaded to forgive me."
Sherlock pulls back to a more comfortable distance. "I wouldn't be too sure of that. It would be a critical error to underestimate John Watson. People who do... well, they don't tend to do it twice. You'd be advised to keep that in mind. Now. Can we get on with this? Read your menu and make your choice. I recommend the arrabbiata."
Ready with a retort, Irene pauses when she realizes the sly insult. She recuperates by taking up her menu and scanning the offerings. When she next speaks, her voice is once again smooth as silk. "No, I rather think that's your area, Mr. Holmes. Why the animosity? Can't we have a cordial, intimate evening together, just the two of us?"
Sherlock looks across the room. He briefly makes eye contact with a lone woman seated at a table, who has been texting since he and Irene entered the restaurant. She appears to be fully focussed on the electronic device held in her hands, but Sherlock knows better.
"Let's just say my past failures in misplaced trust have left me somewhat cautious. I do have the ability to learn from my mistakes, few as they may be."
Irene considers, then decides to take that as a compliment. She also decides that it very nicely makes up for the previous insult, and she is pleased that despite Sherlock's hostility, she has his respect - no matter how begrudging.
Before she can reply, they are interrupted by a burly man who comes to the table and greets Sherlock effusively by name and a friendly handshake.
But the man breaks off as he stares at Irene in offense and horror. He splutters, "But - but - Dr. Watson?"
"Will not be joining us tonight," Sherlock finishes in a flat tone.
Speechless, Angelo looks from Irene to Sherlock, then back again, as if trying to calculate sums that simply don't add up. Irene stares at Angelo with half-lidded eyes, grasps a gloved fingertip in her teeth, and draws it away; it seems to help Angelo along. He suddenly reaches across the table and snatches up the candle. He mutters indignantly as he walks away, candle in hand, "Time to make things a little less romantic around here."
Irene sighs and simply removes her other glove. She angles for a new tactic, one which puts her at a slight advantage over Sherlock: the physical realm. Her now-bare hand crosses the short distance of the table top and caresses Sherlock's. "May I be frank?"
"Please do." The words are polite but the tone is icy.
"I once promised to make you beg for mercy. I would like nothing more than to carry out my... offer. Just once, and then you need never see me again."
Sherlock does not move, but he stares at the union of their hands, utterly unmoved. Billy returns at that moment with a basket of fresh-baked bread. As he bends to place the basket on the table, he looks out the window and whispers to Sherlock, "Dr. Watson won't be happy, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock follows the direction of Billy's purposeful glance. He freezes. Irene notices and turns her head to see what has caught Sherlock's attention where she herself has failed.
She sees the barely-illuminated silhouette of John Watson, standing across the street from the restaurant. The cant of his head, along with his folded arms and wide stance, tells Irene the whole story.
He is the very image of a jealous lover.
And make no mistake; she was meant to see it.
Could this be a trap?
Could she have misjudged... but no. Impossible. She had planned this, every last detail. She was completely in control. In her element, in fact. Why, this was supposed to be child's play. Right?
Oh dear. It was time to bail with her dignity intact.
She shifts her hand from Sherlock's, dips a finger beyond the sleeve of his jacket and cuff of his shirt to find the sensitive skin of his wrist. Rubbing soft circles, she murmurs, "Seems your doctor doesn't let you stray too far. Curious...but his loyalty to you does have a certain charm. Maybe I have underestimated this John Watson. I wouldn't be averse... well. I wonder if he would like to join us?"
(So I can deconstruct you both, lay you bare before me side by side, peel back the layers and extract whatever the two of you possess that is so precious)
(Now who's jealous?)
Of course, Sherlock senses the crumbling facade, the dissemblance. "Miss Adler. You don't seem to understand. No matter what happens tonight, we'll not be seeing each other again."
Irene laughs. "Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, quite." Sherlock grabs Irene's handbag (Prada, 2012 spring collection, gifted two weeks ago by an infatuated female client who works in the fashion industry), a gem of understated sophistication in crushed black leather which his practiced eye for good taste can appreciate. He turns the bag upside down. The contents cascade onto the table in front of Irene. Sherlock's deft fingers sift through the personal effects until they alight on one specific object. He plucks it up and holds it aloft.
It is an antique gold coin.
Across the room, the woman with the mobile phone pauses her constant texting and watches the scene unfold.
"This..." Sherlock hisses. "This is why we won't be seeing each other again. A gold sovereign bearing the likeness of Queen Victoria, circa 1887. Clever, my dear, hiding it in plain sight. Most people lock up their valuables in a safe. But you couldn't resist guarding it closely, could you?"
Irene cultivates a puzzled air. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Oh, I think you do. I've done my research, you see; you have some dark secrets of your own." Sherlock closes his fingers in a fist around the coin. He pitches his voice even lower. "Norton. Remember him? Your late husband. I know all about him and the role you played in his unfortunate accident. You even played the grieving widow to absolute perfection. Probably wasn't too much of a stretch; I know for a fact you look lovely in black."
Wounded, Irene gasps. "You can't prove anything!"
"Can't I? I believe I can." Sherlock leans forward. He reaches over and grasps Irene's wrist; it's not a painful hold, it's just meant to emphasize the irony of his next words. "Trust me."
Irene wrenches her arm away. She begins scooping up her little pile of personal belongings to replace them in her handbag. It's clear she is conceding defeat. Sherlock, however, can't resist his finale.
"You wanted to be rid of him, so you arranged his demise through a certain third party. We both know who I'm talking about; I needn't name names at this point. You might have gotten away with it, but you couldn't just leave it there, could you? No, you were overcome with typical feminine sentiment and felt compelled to take a souvenir, a memento. Norton's most prized possession - after you, of course. I knew that whomever possessed this coin was present at the time of Norton's death. While you may not have committed the deed, you were complicit in the act. You removed this coin from Norton's body after he died, and you have been carrying it on your person ever since."
Irene sees to it that her hands do not tremble. She stands up. She has her own coup to deliver.
"Mr. Holmes. I would encourage you to reconsider how far you want to press this matter. You may have cracked my passcode, but it's a shame you didn't find the folder containing compromising photos of a certain individual I needn't name. Let's just say that it's someone near and dear to your heart."
The blow is effective; Sherlock is startled.
After a prolonged silence he replies quietly, "Then it appears we are at an impasse."
Angelo comes to the table. "I think it's time for you to leave, miss."
"Yes, thank you, I was just about to." She allows herself one last, lingering look at Sherlock before turning to leave.
She scrambles out the door and nearly crashes into John Watson, who has crossed the street and is making his way towards the restaurant. He catches her before their impact, helps her regain her footing. She tears herself away and continues down the sidewalk.
A black sedan pulls to the curb beside Irene. The rear door opens. Mycroft Holmes is inside. John hears Mycroft say to Irene, "Do get in, my dear. I believe we need to negotiate the terms of your surrender."
Irene hesitates, but then she makes up her mind and, head held high, steps into the vehicle. Before she can close the door, however, John calls out:
"Good-night, Miss Irene Adler."