Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.
Title: The Blood-Red Iris
Author: A Tail For Lemonade
Rating: T for safety
Chapters: 1/6
Summary: Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.
Warnings: There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.
A/N: This is my first Sherlock story, and my first stab at writing Sherlock, who is pretty difficult to write, so please give me a little bit of slack. Also, thanks to my sweet beta, who told me that my characterization was good, which made it a bit easier for me to publish this!
Also, this takes place after Hounds of Baskerville, and can be viewed as either pre-Reichanbach or just a new tale entirely in place of it.
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Chapter One
221B Baker Street. It had been more than easy to find him. It had taken her longer to set her affairs in order, pack and get on a train than it had to find one Sherlock Holmes. Resting her luggage against her legs, she lifted a slender hand and pressed the bell. Her heart hammered for reasons unknown, nerves she supposed, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the door opened.
An older woman in flower print stood there, smile on her face. "Ooh, hello dear," she said with such kindness that Iris had to smile too. "I bet you're here for Sherlock. Come in." She stepped back and leaned against the railing. "Boys! Client!"
"Oh, no I…" Iris trailed off as she grabbed her bags and shuffled into the hall.
A moment later, a small man pulling on a green jacket came down the stairs. "Oh hello," he said, spotting her. "John Watson," he put out a hand which she shook, "I was just heading out. Sherlock's upstairs." He gave her a smile and nod and walked out the door behind her.
Iris stood where she was, going through possible conversations in her head when the older woman showed up again. "Are you going somewhere, dear?" she asked, nodding at Iris's two stuffed bags.
"I just came from Cardiff and haven't gotten to my hotel yet," Iris replied, glancing up the stairs.
The woman nodded. "Just leave them here and go on up."
"Have they gone, Mrs. Hudson?" a deep voice called from upstairs.
"Of course not Sherlock, don't be rude," Mrs. Hudson replied, guiding Iris to the stairs.
Iris gave her a smile and walked up the stairs, slow as a snail.
"I haven't got all day," Sherlock called, forcing Iris to speed up. There were two doorways, the one on the left showing a kitchen and table filled with scientific equipment. She took the few steps forward and spotted a parlor. "Come in." His voice was annoyed.
She stepped through the doorway and there he was, standing before the mantle, hands pressed together, back to her. His eyes jumped to the mirror and Iris sucked in a breath as he turned.
"Fascinate me," he said, tapping index fingers together, "or get out. I'm busy."
Iris swallowed. "Don't you recognize me, Sherlock?" she asked, meeting his gaze.
Sherlock moved his eyebrows ever so slightly. The woman's accent was English, but tainted with another, recognizable one suggesting that she spend her maturing years in Wales. Her hair was a remarkable red, dyed at first glance, but natural at a second, pulled back simply and without much care for appearance. Tan coat, immaculate; plain black heels, slightly worn; and no jewelry, suggesting she disliked clutter and had no one to dress for. "I'm afraid not," he replied.
She let out a small sigh. "Honestly," she muttered under her breath. "Iris Felton. We lived across from one another growing up. Surely you haven't forgotten."
To be perfectly honest, he had forgotten. Or at least, pushed memories of that part of his childhood into the back recesses of his mind. However, they were easy enough to retrieve, and once he had, his eyebrows rose in surprise and he took one step closer. She was obviously different from his memories, no longer a young girl with thin limbs, but a curved woman nearly his height with those shoes. "I haven't," he said. "It's been twenty years."
Iris rolled her eyes. "Don't be daft. It's only been sixteen, Sherlock."
He knew that. "I was rounding."
"I've moved back," she pushed on excitedly. "I found you easy enough, through that Dr. Watson's blog." Just then it settled on her that the John Watson she had just met was the same person.
Sherlock dropped his hands, shoving them into trouser pockets. "Do you have a case for me to solve?" he asked with usual abruptness.
Iris's face dropped slightly. "Well, no."
"Then why did you come here?"
She was taken aback by the words and felt as though she had shrunk as small as a mouse. "I just…I had thought it would be nice to see an old friend but apparently I was wrong." She didn't know why this hurt so much. What was she expecting? She should have realized that Sherlock would have changed…for the worse, especially after how Mycroft used to act.
"I don't have friends," Sherlock said. "I think I've wasted enough time here. See yourself out." He turned his back to her to resume his previous position.
Iris didn't move. She gaped at him. "W—wasted?" she muttered under her breath. Ginger fury bubbled and she snatched up the closest small object—a square pillow from the sofa—and tossed it at him, hitting him between the shoulder blades. "Wasted?" she exclaimed.
Sherlock turned around slowly. "Excuse me?"
"I came all the way here when I got off the train! My hotel is in the opposite direction!" She picked up a magazine from the table and tossed it. He dodged it. "The least you could be is pleased to see me! Do you really not remember how close we were as children?" She picked up something hard and round—a crystal ashtray—and lobbed it.
He caught it. "Stop being so childish."
"Sherlock! For fuck's sake." She threw her hands up, face flushed. "I am so sorry I've wasted your precious time. I won't be seeing you again." With one last narrowing of her eyes, she turned on a heel and started down the stairs just as Mrs. Hudson arrived at the bottom of them with a tray of tea.
"Oh, are you leaving?" she asked as Iris angrily grabbed her bags from their spot in the corner. "I've just made tea."
"I am sorry," Iris said sharply, standing up straight and glancing at the older woman. "But Sherlock is entirely too…idiotic for me to stand." She left Mrs. Hudson repeating the word 'idiotic' under her breath and stepped onto the street, slamming down her luggage and breaking a wheel on the smaller of two. She let out a frustrated scream and flagged down a taxi.