Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock. And I'm still waiting for the DVD's to get here!
My take on a showdown between Sherlock and a certain woman. ;-) Because I can't wait for series two!
The plan had worked perfectly. The nice thing about being bankrolled by the monarchy was the new toys he got to play with. Even Mycroft never offered him spy equipment. As expected, his idea had proved successful, and all that remained was for Sherlock to break into the American's rented flat and collect the information. Confident that he knew exactly where it was – and sure of his abilities – he had decided to burgle the place at 4:00 am, unconcerned if the occupant was there asleep.
But when he raised himself from his crouch at the lock and silently turned the door handle, he was met with an unexpected surprise.
The flat was empty.
Save for one thing – Irene Adler herself, standing by the bedroom door.
Sherlock took a few steps inside and closed the front door behind him, coming to stand in the middle of the barren living space. Irene flicked the light switch on the wall behind her, bathing the scene with a muted glow.
The American stood there, seemingly unconcerned by her burglar. The black jumper and slacks she wore were suitable to disguise her in the dark, but she'd done nothing to cover her shock of blonde hair. The choices were contradictory. She wanted to blend in, but didn't care if she was seen. Odd indeed.
"This is, uh… interesting," Sherlock said of the unexpected development, clearing his throat as he clasped his hands behind his back.
"Yes, it is," Irene said, moving a step closer to the stoic detective. "And may I ask just how you figured it out?"
"No," he answered, his chin rising fractionally. "Well, to clarify, you can ask – but I won't be providing the answer to your inquiry."
The American nodded.
"Alright." She took another step toward him, mirroring his posture and bearing by linking her own hands behind her back.
"Yes, well…" Sherlock said, rocking his weight onto his heels for the additional inch of distance it would provide between them. Though he was rather beginning to wonder what he was still doing in the room. "I should go," he said. But he didn't move.
Irene closed the gap between them with one last step. She smiled softly at him, one eyebrow reaching for her hairline.
Sherlock cleared his throat again. And before he could stop himself, the truth came tumbling out. He told himself it was nothing more than the chance to flaunt his brilliance.
"There was no gas leak. The man who came to your flat to repair the nonexistent problem was my associate, John Watson. There was a small camera embedded in one of the buttons on his shirt, and after that it was a simple matter of watching your reactions."
"You let me give myself away." What he could only have described as admiration shone in her face.
"Indeed."
"Very clever, Mr. Holmes," she said without a hint of condescension, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle on his coat lapel.
He didn't question how she knew his name, but merely nodded – uncharacteristically speechless. He was infinitely glad that Lestrade was nowhere nearby. The Detective Inspector would probably have produced a hideous orange blanket to place 'round his shoulders.
"But, um, even if you had managed to get the flash drive, you wouldn't be able to get around the encryptions." She fingered his scarf, and he suddenly wished he felt comfortable enough to remove it. He found himself staring at the top of her head as a distraction.
"You're not fooling anyone, you know," he said abruptly.
"Excuse me?" she asked, her hand falling down to her side.
"With the hair."
She reached the same hand up to run slowly over her golden locks. "Who said I was trying to fool anyone?"
"You're playing the dumb blonde." Sherlock was relieved as her face closed down fractionally. He had put her back on the defensive.
"I'm not going to deny the obvious fact that my roots are starting to show, but what makes you think I didn't do it because 'blondes have more fun'?"
"Somehow I don't think you need to be blonde to have fun." Sherlock felt the sudden need to throw a glass of cold water in his face. In no universe was it possible that he was… (how had John put it the other day?) flirting.
So much for putting her on the defensive. He cleared his throat again loudly as she twisted open one of the buttons on his coat. As much as he wished to the contrary, he was still rooted in place.
"Well how about the fact that 'gentlemen prefer blondes'?" She opened another button. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes? By all accounts – and I've heard many – you're certainly a gentleman…" Another button. Then she removed his scarf for him. "Do you prefer… blondes?"
Sherlock's brain jammed. She was… mesmerizing. For a moment he felt no better than an ordinary person, staring unblinkingly at a train wreck.
"What is on the flash drive?" he said, trying another tack to distract her.
That was when her body language molded seamlessly into a state more like his own. Tall, straight back, relaxed muscles, but with the underlying tension that combined the tediousness of standing still with the necessity of being ready to spring at a moment's notice. Gone was the slight slouch that accentuated her curves to their best advantage. Even the seductive tone in her voice evaporated.
He continued, glad of the change. "Was it blackmail against the Prince?" he asked as she stared at him. "Trying to break up his new marriage?"
She let out a quick breath, almost a huff of derision. "Of course not. I wish nothing but the best for the happy couple. But I did think the Prince would be interested in the… information I have – about who killed his mother."
Sherlock blinked. That wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "How can you possibly…"
"You know, I think you would've been interested, too. The letter arranging everything has got rather a unique theme to it."
The detective's brow furrowed.
Irene forged ahead, her jaw clenching slightly, as if she had some idea of the effect her words would have. "It goes something like this; Dear Jim," she began – barely breathing, "Will you please fix it for me?"
"What?" Sherlock murmured, his heart racing. Surely she wasn't suggesting… "Give me that letter," he said, lunging for her.
She raised a warning hand. "Oh, no. No one sees it unless I get paid."
He thought quickly, wondering how much money he had on him. Certainly not enough to meet her requirements. There was also no hope of stealing it now – it was already gone. They were standing in an empty flat, after all.
Sherlock reluctantly gave up on acquiring the drive and shook his head. "There's no way it could be him, anyway. Not unless he took to arranging elaborate crimes before entering University."
"Of course it wasn't him," she answered, somehow knowing everything he was talking about. It was unsettling to say the least. "But he wasn't hatched, you know. What he's doing now, well, let's just call it the continuation of a family business."
"Please," he said, surprised that he hadn't choked on the word. "I can get you the money."
But even his pleading didn't phase her.
"No. You know, I'm beginning to think it might be good to hang on to one or two things that the world's greatest consulting detective so desperately wants. Might come in handy later." Her posture and voice reverted to their earlier state, accentuating her femininity and her natural alto lilt. "Unless you can think of something you could give me now, in exchange for the information." She trailed a finger down his shirtfront. He was disconcerted to realize that he wasn't exactly sure what she had in mind. Physical intimacy was not likely her end goal, but he couldn't decipher the angle she was trying to play here.
"That's not going to work on me," he said, trying not to stammer.
She seemed taken aback. "Oh! Are you and John…?"
"No, no." Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "I don't do relationships. Of any sort."
He stood carefully still as she inclined her lips toward his, her hands resting gently on his chest. The part of his mind that could still form coherent thought noted that she was tall for a female.
"I'll bet I could change that," she said in a low, purring whisper.
"Hmm…" Sherlock replied. But whether it was a sound of curiosity, possibility, or outright denial, even the great detective could not be sure.
Their lips were millimeters apart, but neither party moved to close the distance. Irene stared into his eyes – hers half-lidded – for two seconds more before stepping back sufficiently to allow Sherlock to breathe again. He sincerely hoped she hadn't noticed the fact that he wasn't before.
"Perhaps not," she said, her face more amused and calculating than seductive now.
Sherlock looked on, agape at how rapidly and effortlessly she shifted from one persona to another. They all seemed to come naturally to her. He almost envied her the ability. She was a woman, and historically they were unable to contain their broader range of emotions. Her training as an actress certainly leant her some skills, too, but there was more to it than that. She was more than just a changeable female – more than a skilled actress.
Not just talented. Not just a woman.
The woman.
The quintessential essence of the sex; with all her inherent gifts, abilities, and – he had to admit – intelligence, honed into one perfect package.
The woman.
Sherlock wasn't sure how long they stood staring at one another, cataloguing each other's strengths and weaknesses. But the moment passed simultaneously for them both. With only a slight nod for a game well played – which Sherlock unflinchingly returned – Irene Adler turned and walked from the room.
Making his way to the window, the detective watched until she exited the building and hailed a cab. While a male passerby opened the door for her, which made Sherlock shake his head, Irene looked up at the window from where he was observing. He thought he saw a flash of a smile before she disappeared into the dark cab. It pulled up the street as he buttoned his coat.
Sherlock made his way outside to track down his own transportation back to Baker Street. Bracing himself against the cold, he shoved his hands in his pockets as he waited for a free cab to come down the road. A sharp edge came into contact with his left thumb, and he pulled the offending object from his pocket.
It was a picture. The dark green of Irene Adler's eyes smiled up at him. He smiled back. When a snowflake settled on the memento she had undoubtedly slipped in his coat while trying to seduce him, he hurriedly stored it back in his dry pocket - stomping his feet against the bitter cold. He shivered, and reached up to adjust his scarf. His hands met empty air. A quick glance down told him that one of his favorite articles of clothing was gone; pilfered by the beguiling woman herself when she'd taken it from his neck. And he – like a gullible male – had been so mesmerized that he'd failed to notice she hadn't returned it.
Her earlier words came back to him. "I'm beginning to think it might be good to hang on to one or two things that the world's greatest consulting detective so desperately wants. Might come in handy later."
He allowed himself a slight grin of resolution – knowing that she had won this round.
But as he finally succeeded in procuring a cab, something told him he would be seeing the mysterious American again.
And in one small part of his mind he realized…
He couldn't wait.
Tee, hee! Can't stand the wait to see Irene Adler, so I wrote her myself! I hope she doesn't come off too much like the Rachel McAdams' Irene. I tried to make her different – more fitting for the series I love!
But whether you loved her or hate her, you know reviews wouldn't hurt… Right? ;-)