Disclaimer: I don't own any of this… Well, maybe some of it, but certainly not the rights to the characters or the plot of the episode A Scandal in Belgravia. I have been to 221B Baker Street, though. Which has nothing to do with anything, other than it being awesome. Anyway, all rights to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC! I doubt they'll ever get around to reading this, but if they ever did it might be kind of honor to be sued by them. Having said that, please don't sue me.
Author's Note: This story goes back and fourth between the climactic scene at the end of Scandal in Belgravia, and Sherlock's own inner monologue. Some dialogue has been lifted directly from the show and written around, but hopefully I've made it compelling. I thought it would be interesting to explore what was going through his head while Irene revealed herself for what she was - how he felt, how he figured it all out. This story kept me properly obsessed for about 2 weeks, because I found that out of every bit of fan fiction I've ever written, and all the character's heads I've gotten in to, Sherlock was the absolute hardest for me to write. It was a challenge, and it was awesome. I'm already working on my next Sherlock story, and I really hope this piece sets the stage, even though I very much hope to evolve my characterizations.
It was so much fun to write, and I've watched this episode so many times by now that I'm pretty sure I know it by heart. I hope that comes across, and that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
...
If I Could Do It Over
If I had it all to do over...
People think these things. These... self-pitying, regretful, things. It's so... useless, isn't it? The way they care and cry, and the way they lay awake at night replaying their lives in their head, watching past events as helpless spectators; unable to cope, unable to move on... unable to breathe. How did this trait survive thousands of years of psychological evolution? How did human kind survive it at all? Am I the prototype for the next stage in evolution? What a sane and rational world it would be if everyone were more like me.
But on the other hand...
Moriarty is like me. He may be more like me than even I care to try and understand. He isn't sane. He isn't even rational... but he is brilliant. And cold. Now, that is like me. The difference is that I never care to cause trouble. I never even care to fix it. The only thing I care about is the work.
But wait. What did you say?
"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months." Is what The Woman had said.
Sherlock came back to time and place for a moment at the mention of his name, and briefly wished he hadn't. His brother and The Liar sat several paces behind him at the dining table, talking over the terms of the latter's cooperation. Her "cooperation", in this case, of course, meaning that she wouldn't pop off and set the country on fire. Sherlock felt it was much easier to hide out in his mind, where things made outrageously more sense than they were making out in the real world; the world that Irene Adler now had by the lapels of its coat.
"Sherlock, dear," she continued in that very convincingly aloof voice. "Tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone."
He didn't bother to turn and look at them, and barely even noted the words coming out of his mouth. Four additional units wired in the casing. Acid? Explosives? This part was boring; he'd known it for months. It isn't what mattered now.
"Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive." He finished, his mind already somewhere else.
"Explosive." He heard The Woman say, and she may have been seated across the ocean for all that the words registered with him. He was already gone again. "It's more me."
No matter how hard you try, a disguise is always a self-portrait.
That means something, doesn't it? It's important, but why? People always give clues about themselves away; they can't help it. John walks as though he's in formation, a soldier ever on parade. Molly stares at me when she thinks I can't see her out of the corner of my eye. They're ordinary and obvious, because they don't realize it, and if you don't realize something, how do you stop it from being the first thing someone notices about you? It's like having an ink smudge on your face all day long that everyone else can see, but you'll never know it's there until someone holds up a mirror...
But you? You are not obvious. What did you give away, and in what way was it given?
I was sitting in your parlor, and you walked in without any clothes on. That's a clue about you, but not the type I'm looking for. No, there's something else. Something I'm not seeing...
"There," you'd said as you tore the clerical collar from my shirt. "Now we're both defrocked."
Clever turn of phrase there, I'll give you that. I did give you that.
John walked in then- no, no, that's useless. Fast forward through this part. What am I missing?
"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" You'd asked. Yes, in fact. I know several big problems with disguises, but since I was getting nowhere with visible clues (the two bruises - one on your wrist, and one on your thigh -notwithstanding, given that I already knew what you did professionally), I thought I might as well hear what your thoughts were on the subject. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."
Yes, yes, but what does it mean? Why is this significant to me?
And why did you have to be so naked? Why did you have to be so beautiful?
Beautiful? Where the hell did that-
No, wait. Naked. You were naked. Never mind what I didn't see, it's what I did see that's important. Your measurements. The key code.
"Sherlock?" It was his name spoken almost in a singsong by The Liar again that brought him back out of his head.
"There will be two passcodes." He started flatly, almost distractedly, though he felt he was on the brink of something. This seemed familiar, but how? "One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."
"He's good, isn't he?" She asked, and he could hear every falter of tone and catch of breath. What a painful disguise she had chosen. Was she fooling Mycroft? Probably. "I should have him on a leash – in fact, I might."
Didn't she already?
Then, of course, you drugged me and disappeared. Was it you actually speaking to me about the hiker as I lay incapacitated in my bed, or had I dreamed that? I know you'd been there, as evidenced by the prodigal coat's return to its hook, and the funny new text alert you'd programmed in to my mobile, but were you clever enough to figure out what had happened to the hiker on your own? It had been clear to Mycroft, as it had been clear to me. John had missed it entirely... but you? You might just be that good.
You are, aren't you? You're clever and beautiful, and a liar. You're lying to yourself, and you're trying to lie to me. Am I beaten? Have you beaten me? Should I take your advice, and just know it already?
I should have changed my text alert. I should have changed my phone number.
But since I didn't, I wonder if there aren't any clues in the texts?
Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let's have dinner.
You were at the Ritz, easy deduction, but no clues there.
John's blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner.
John's blog is not hilarious.
I can see tower bridge and the moon from my room. Work out where I am and join me.
Tower Hotel was a bit obvious, but it's clear it didn't matter to you if I actually did show up, so being obvious wasn't a problem for you.
I saw you in the street today. You didn't see me.
Was this one true? Still no clues here. Why am I doing this to myself?
You do know that hat actually suits you, don't you?
No.
I'm in Egypt talking to an idiot. Get on a plane, let's have dinner.
Ah, this one. I wanted to reply to this one.
BBC1 right now. You'll laugh.
I didn't.
Mantelpiece.
How had I not known you had been in my flat? How had I not seen some sign? How? You'd escaped my notice and evaded my observation, and I would have been impressed had I not been struck very suddenly with dread.
Am I beaten? Yes. I was beaten as soon as I thought you were dead and I realized I cared. Opening that blood red box to reveal your phone - your life, your protection - was... What was it? I blame this all on John and Mrs. Hudson, really. Slowly, very slowly, but surely, they've picked away at me, until one day the mold broke away, and a new man emerged from the stone. A new man who could look upon a camera phone with crushing clarity, and make him wish that he could do it all over again.
I stared down at your body in the morgue and wished that I could do it all over again. I spoke to my brother and took deep drags off of a cigarette he'd offered me, wondering if there was something wrong with me, wondering if there was something wrong with him, and wishing I could do it all over. I walked home from St. Bart's and back to my flat, and back to my room, and lay down in bed with my coat on, and wished that I could do it all over. I lay awake for the rest of the night, knowing there was something wrong with me, wishing you weren't dead, and wishing I could do it all over.
And what would I have done? For five days, I wondered what I would have done. I waded through the apartment in a daze, and I wrote music, and I ignored my friends, and I didn't eat, and I played my violin, and I stared at the screen of my phone, reading and re-reading my text messages...
And it eventually became clear to me that what I would have done, if the world folded in on itself and spit out some kind of Christmas miracle- if I could have done it all over again... I would have texted you a reply.
John called it heartbreak. Did you intend on breaking my heart as I calculate I'll break yours?
In any case, I followed him to the power complex when you sent that car for him, but then you knew that, because you set it up that way. You knew I'd be watching from the window, because that's what I do. Even when others don't notice, it's what Ido. I watch, I observe, I listen... and I track my friends to power complexes.
And then...
It's hard to say exactly what was going through my head when I heard your voice. I wondered at first if I had been knocked unconscious at some point previous, and if the conversation I was hearing between you and John wasn't some kind of hallucination. It wasn't just that you were alive; it was that you had been clever enough to fool me. The breath was gone from my body as my mind raced to catch up, to integrate this new information with the old. But the new didn't integrate with the old; it rewrote it.
"Tell him you're alive," John had implored you. But you already knew I was there. Which means any bit of information I've retained from this is false; the data was corrupted from the start.
You'd given in too easily. That should have told me something at the time, but I was too busy jumping through every hoop you'd held up for me.
"There," you said to John, presumably showing him your phone. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.
I couldn't get your voice out of my head as I dazedly made my way home. I felt...
I felt.
For God's sake, the memory is too emotionally charged to get anything useful from it.
The pain of loss, the joy of redemption...
Is this what you do to people? You tear them down and break their hearts, and make them useless to themselves? If I had been the type to wallow in emotion, if I had gone on some lovely jaunt of self reflection through London, or if I'd even been the type to faint dead away at shock (mental note: do people actually do this? Research effects of emotional shock)... I may not have made it back to Baker Street in time to catch the Americans before they did something I'd have had to kill them for to Mrs. Hudson.
You're lucky that I did.
"Telling you would be playing fair." Irene said, and Sherlock briefly filtered back in to her world. "I'm not playing any more."
Aren't you?
You've been playing a game this whole time, but you slipped up. I don't know how just yet, but I know you have. It's here. It's somewhere in here. I need a few moments to catch up. A few moments to see what I've already seen.
No, you haven't beaten me. Liars don't win; they only get away...
You may have broken my heart, but I'm going to crack the code in to yours.
Keep talking, Ms. Adler. I'm well on my way.
"A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted."
That voice; so confident. It seemed as far as she was concerned, she was about to walk out of this house with Britain, and Sherlock's heart and dignity on a silver platter.
And she would have been right, if not for one thing. One thing she had forgotten, the one thing she'd given away.
He was so close to figuring it out now that he could feel the solution forming in his head.
So, you were alive. I don't believe in God or in miracles, but I do believe in deals... And I made a deal to bring you back from the dead. If the world decided to spit you back out at me, I was supposed to send you a text.
Happy New Year.
SH
That was probably when you knew I'd help you... except you waited. Obviously to see just how impervious your phone was to being opened by anyone other than yourself. I did just as you wanted. I helped you... test your theory.
"You're going to make it tell you its passcode at gunpoint, are you?" John had asked me, startling me out of my thoughts. I looked up from the sofa with only my eyes, a gun hanging lazily from my hand - pointed at the gold and black mobile that had recently become the bane of my existence. He stood across from me with that look that he gets when he thinks he's just made a joke.
"Have you ever thought about not doing that?"
"What?"
"Being yourself." I replied caustically, tossing the gun on to the table so that it slid to rest just opposite of the phone.
His face changed, and took on that annoyingly concerned look that is particular only to John Watson, and gestured at the mobile.
"Solving her puzzle isn't going to make her not matter." He said, repositioning his weight.
"Solving her puzzle is the only thing that matters." I stared at it for a moment, and then picked it up. "She could easily have come looking for it if she really wanted it back, but she hasn't done that, so what am I missing? Why is she leaving it with me?"
John scoffed, and before walking away he said:
"Maybe she just really fancies you."
"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it." Irene went on as Mycroft looked over her list, though Sherlock doubted she was about to waste any more time letting him.
"Thank you, yes." He said offhandedly.
"Too bad."
Sherlock laughed once below his breath, knowingly and not amused.
"Now off you pop and talk to people." She finished - the smile as evident in her voice as it was probably visible on her face.
And then there you were just a few hours ago, asleep on my bed. All my missteps come home to roost.
"Shall we wake her?" John had asked, "Or do you suppose she's playing dead again?"
"She's waking up already." I responded. It was clear from the rise and fall of your breathing which stage of sleep you were in, and with John and I speaking, it was unlikely that you wouldn't wake to the disturbance.
Your eyes fluttered opened a few moments after that, and what I believe was a genuine expression of confusion moved briefly across your face as you looked at us. I could see John look at me in my peripheral vision. Insultingly easy to impress, unfortunately, but he's loyal and necessary to my continuing sanity. Especially now, I should think.
"Hiya." I said monotonously, sarcastically.
Your face softened in to a smile, and I found that I thought you looked much better with a makeup... to my infinite dismay.
"Hello, boys." You said, beginning to stretch. "You mind if I use your shower?"
"Wish our lot were half as good as you." Sherlock heard his brother say. He wondered, for a split moment, if that wasn't somehow directed at him, but he dismissed the idea. Mycroft had already made his point earlier. The man wasn't above kicking someone while they were down, by any means… but he knew when enough was enough. And tonight had been more than enough.
"I can't take all the credit." Irene responded loftily, and took a deep breath. "I had a bit of help," and when she spoke again, Sherlock could tell from the direction of her voice that this was directed at him. "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."
John told me not to trust you as you lingered in the bathroom. I'd told myself not to trust you months before that.
You've been working with Moriarty.
You were the phone call at the pool.
"Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man... And The Virgin."
You're trying to hurt me. You're deflecting. Deflecting from what? Why now when you think you've already won?
"-Even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."
Sherlock closed his eyes. She was giving herself away and didn't even know it.
My kind of man...
What?
My kind of man, my kind of man, my kind of man, my kind of man...
Disguise is always a self-portrait...
Key code, measurements, key code, measurements...
You're a liar. Self in involved, self-congratulating, you know you're clever, and you know when you've won. You don't give things away with your appearance or your words; you give them away through your disguises. That was my clue.
I tried the fixed counter number on John's blog, but no. That wasn't about you. My home address, likewise. You assumed I'd never catch on, assumed it was safe to let your guard down, to let the disguise blur with the truth.
When you dropped to your knees in front of me, I wanted to kiss you. There, in my flat, with your real face showing. My heart burned with a feeling I'd never known before, and I knew you were dangerous for me. I imagine you think I was flustered, but I was thinking. So, I didn't kiss you. Instead I made a very calculated decision to take your pulse.
I felt your heart in your wrist, and I know you love me.
"And here you are." Mycroft sounded resigned, but it was only because he didn't know that Sherlock was already working it all out. "The dominatrix-"
My kind of man...
You're afraid for your life. You're afraid of Moriarty. You need me to believe that you lied to me, because-
My kind of man, my kind of man, my kind of measurements, my kind of self portrait, my kind of disguise, my kind of man, I am _Locked...
I... AM... LOCKED
Your kind of man? Your kind of man is-
Me.
He opened his eyes, exhaling a breath of air, the tension momentarily leaving his whole body as it all clicked in to place. For two moments, he allowed himself to feel relieved. He'd solved the puzzle; he was still Sherlock Holmes...
"-That brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played."
Sherlock drew in a breath.
"No." He said, smiling very slightly, but with no accompanying warmth.
"I'm sorry?" The Woman asked, not knowing what was about to happen to her.
No, you're not sorry. Not yet.
You shouldn't have hidden in plain sight. You shouldn't have let me near you.
There was something in him, a feeling? Something that he didn't waste time analyzing, but that nonetheless gave him pause for such a small moment that it may have gone unnoticed by his captive audience, before he continued.
"I said no," he responded, looking at her for the first time since he'd sat down, readying his arsenal.
He was, after all, about to destroy her life.
"Very, very, close, but no. You got carried away." He stood up, and began closing the space between them. "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."
"No such thing as too much." She still sounded confident, but her body language betrayed her.
"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of the game - I sympathize entirely... But sentiment?" He hardened his face, and his heart as he came to stand directly in front of her. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."
And you almost took me down with you.
"Sentiment?" She asked, and though her mask remained in place, its cracks were already starting to show. "What are you talking about?"
He stared at her for a moment. She still thought she was being convincing.
"You."
"Oh, dear god. Look at the poor man."
I almost feel sorry for you: a beautiful, but more importantly a clever, woman who almost carved out a perfect place in the world for herself. You deserve more than this. You deserve more than to be beaten at your own game simply because you fell in love.
He continued to stare. He continued to let her speak. Let her say what she felt she needed to say. It wouldn't change anything.
"You don't really think I was interested in you?"
Ms. Adler... You've already lost.
He remained silent, waiting for his moment.
"Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes: the clever detective in the funny hat?"
"No..."
Even now, you're looking at me as though I'm the only man in the world. I can feel your heart in your wrist again. I can see your eyes lingering over my mouth as it hovers near yours. You still want me to kiss you. Are you starting to understand yet?
"Because I felt your pulse." He whispered in to her ear. Still she let him keep his fingers pressed against her forearm. He ignored the racing of his own heart, and continued. "Elevated. Pupils dilated."
He reached behind her and took her phone before briefly taking in her wide eyes and look of quiet terror before turning around and walking away.
"I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive." He turned back around to face Irene who had followed him as he walked. "When we first met you told me that disguise is always a self portrait-"
When we first met. You really were… incredible.
"-How true of you. The combination to your safe - your measurements, but this?" He tossed the phone in his hand, his voice taking on a slightly more sinister hue. "This is far more intimate. This is your heart-"
You should have never let me know that I was in your heart. You thought you could force me to feel for you, and then use my affection against me... Even if it meant hurting someone you loved or hurting yourself in the process. But you made one big miscalculation. You see, Ms. Adler-
"-And you should-"
He pressed in the first letter.
S
I
"-Never let it rule your head."
He stared at her, knowing realization had dawned on her as her shoulders rose and fell like a frightened child watching a horror film.
"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here with everything you worked for..."
He hit the second letter, the gesture becoming almost cruel.
H
DON'T
"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?"
He pressed his lips together slightly in what he told himself was an angry grin of satisfaction, but what felt more like a grimace against pain.
"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage-"
His whole body nearly moved with the force he exerted as he pressed the third letter of her code.
E
LOVE
His eyes widened at her, his expression set in hard lines and the anger visible in every feature on his face.
"Thank you for the final proof." He ground out from behind a nearly clenched jaw.
When he was about to land the killing blow, her hand shot up and took him by the wrist. His heart nearly caught in his throat as he looked down at it, then back at her.
"Everything I said," she started, the pain in her eyes and voice unmistakable. "It's not real..." She shook her head, and whispered: "I was just playing the game."
It's too late, Sherlock thought.
"I know." He whispered with a small, manic smile.
R
YOU.
"And this is just losing."
He showed her the completed password for a moment, and watched as tears rolled slowly down her face before handing the phone over to the older Holmes boy.
I'm sorry.
"There you are, brother." He said in a low voice, keeping his eyes locked with Irene's. "I hope the contents makeup for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."
"I'm certain it will," Mycroft, whom had been watching with concern and interest, said as he took the phone.
Sherlock turned and began toward the door.
"If you're any kind, lock her up. Otherwise, let her go. I doubt she'll last long without her protection."
Something inside of him hurt at that, but he wouldn't bother with caring.
"Are you expecting me to beg?" The Woman asked incredulously.
"Yes," Sherlock answered more than immediately as he came to stand just a step away from the doorway.
Beg? It's what you would have had me do, isn't it?
"Please." She said after a moment, and then to his slight surprise: "You're right."
He looked at her, taking in her tear-streaked face. The face that almost brought him to his knees right along with his brother's nation. He didn't want to be right. He didn't want her to cry. He didn't want to be here.
And he hated her for it.
"I won't even last six months."
I believe you.
There was only one last thing for him to say, and he knew that she would understand the finality of it even more than if he had told her to go to hell.
"Sorry about dinner." He said with a slight callous raise of his forehead, before abruptly walking away.
...
Sherlock hurried down the corridor to where the solace of his coat and muffler awaited him. His hands shook as he tied the blue knot around his neck, and for the first time since he could even recall, he felt a strange stinging behind his eyes.
He was just about to walk out in to the cold night, when his name forced him to turn around and face his brother, who was regarding him with what appeared to be keen contemplation.
"I must say," the older man started. "I was certainly not expecting... that."
"A pun." Sherlock responded with a sneer. "It was staring me right in the face for six months, but it was too obvious to see. I could have saved us both a lot of trouble."
"You and I?" His brother asked, raising his chin. "Or you and her?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment, looking past Mycroft, but not at anything of note. There was a dull ache in his chest, and he suddenly felt very exhausted. He took a deep breath, and looked his brother in the eyes.
"Goodnight, Mycroft."
...
If I had it all to do over... What would I do?
I've never been in love. I've never had the time or the need. My mind races too fast, and my heart could never keep up... But then you walked in to my life with a mobile phone and a smile, and now I'm left wondering.
What would I do, if I could do it all over?
Honestly, I think I'd do it all just the same.
Oh, and by the way, you're terribly easy to keep track of for someone so badly in need of protection. I've tracked you across two different continents already. I suppose I'll keep watch for a while, just until I think it's safe to stop watching.
After all… A man's got to keep his mind occupied.