Author's Note: Geeze, sorry folks, I don't know what happened to the formatting when I first uploaded this. It's corrected now. Enjoy!
It was happening too quickly, there wasn't time to warn Kate. By the time the Americans had burst into her parlor, there was little to be done but surrender and hope that Mr Holmes lived up to his illustrious reputation. I would tell you, but I already have. THINK.
In the end, he impressed her. The consulting detective figured out the code for the safe with only a mildly blatant hint or several, and even managed to rescue his darling pet into the bargain. His face when Dr. Watson's head was centimeters from a gun barrel said volumes. They really were an adorable couple, though it was obvious both were in deep, deep denial over it. She stored that tidbit away for future use. Emotional constipation was a delightfully useful handicap in an adversary. This was hardly going to be their last encounter after all, she was going to make sure of that.
Unfortunately, "The Virgin" recovered himself faster than expected and went for the safe instead of swooning over Dr. Watson as she'd hoped. He snatched her precious camera-phone from the safe before she could reach it. Naughty thing that he was, he refused to return it. Such disobedience to a direct order simply couldn't be tolerated. She'd soon see to it he learned: when the mistress gives an order, she is to be obeyed.
Upstairs, Dr. Watson found poor Kate, unconscious where the intruders had left her. She probably hadn't even seen them coming when they'd bashed her over the head and moved on. Irene let the doctor examine her assistant and planned the next move in the game.
This was hardly the first time Kate had been knocked out cold, and it wouldn't be the last. She was alive and at least this way the poor thing had an alibi. Just a normal maid, in the wrong place at the wrong time. She could easily claim to have known nothing about Irene's… unusual business practices. "I just work her her, officers. I had no idea!" They couldn't charge her with a thing. Anyway, Irene certainly couldn't carry her out the window, naked, wearing a borrowed (and frankly enormous) coat, so it was just as well. Now where had she left that syringe….?
Mr. Holmes was subdued quickly enough, and she enjoyed his shock and disorientation immensely. She decided to save flogging him with her riding crop for a more convenient time, though now was quite tempting. She really did need to be on her way, alas.
On her way to the window, she passed a very confused Dr. Watson. He wouldn't bother trying to capture or detain her, she was quite sure - not with his beloved detective convulsing alarmingly about on the floor. Mr Holmes wouldn't die of the drug in his system, she was sure of that, but made sure to warn the good doctor not to let him choke to death on his own vomit. No need to take unnecessary risks - Mr. Holmes hadn't outlived his usefulness just yet. Besides, the more alarming she made his condition sound, the less likely she was to be pursued.