Dear Irene,
Forgive me, but I am spending Valentine's Day with the girl my parents want me to marry. I hope you'll…
Dearest Irene,
Doubtlessly there is another man in your life. I shall not impose myself on you this Valentine's Day…
Irene, sweetheart.
Must dash to the countryside- a thousand, thousand apologies…
Irene flicked through the stack of letters, her expression growing considerably more sour with each one. How was it that, with all her various lovers, paramours, and admirers, she lacked a date for Valentine's Day? Even Godfrey Norton, who was one of her closest friends, (not to mention the only person, whether male or female, that she trusted to pick out clothes for her) was out of town with a man he'd met at a literature symposium.
She crossed to the hotel room's window and glanced out. On the street below, vendors hawked chocolates, and couples strolled arm in arm. Irene rested her forehead against the glass and sighed quietly. How could she of all people possibly lack company on Valentine's Day? Was there no one she could contact? She wanted nothing more than to destroy all those happy relationships and, metaphorically, at least, fling them into the Thames.
…Actually, that wasn't true. There was something she could imagine acquiring for herself as a present for Valentine's Day.
Or, to be more accurate, someone.
Irene smiled into the windowpane. It felt as smooth as ice under her lips.
She let herself in, as usual. Although an ordinary criminal- that is to say, one who hadn't understudied for a vaudeville troupe's escape artist throughout her childhood- would have found themselves stymied by the lock, Irene considered it a joke. She removed what looked like a perfume bottle from her reticule, unscrewed its top, and dabbed fine Italian olive oil onto the rusty hinges. They swung open soundlessly, and she tiptoed inside.
Holmes sat at his desk, his back to the door. Irene stepped towards him-
A long-fingered hand clapped itself over her mouth. "What are you doing here?"
Irene's first instinct was to struggle. If someone had broken into the flat before her- if they'd hurt Sherlock-
First, however, she stuck out her tongue; a slight intake of breath told her that she'd caught her captor off guard, and she twisted around, wrenching his wrist downwards and kicking him in that convenient pressure point directly behind the knee-
In all actuality, however, she never quite got that far. Before she could move, whoever-it-was had pinned her arms behind her back and shoved her into a chair. The figure, who wore a mask that obscured her face, advanced towards her.
Irene cracked up. Of course. Who else would be able to anticipate her movements so precisely? She smirked. "Good afternoon, Sherlock." (Of course, very little could persuade her to admit that she'd been worried about him.)
Holmes pulled off the mask, casually tossing it across the room; it hit a vase, knocking it to the carpet. He didn't look fazed. "To answer your question, yes, I am available on Valentine's Day, although I suspect that spending an inordinate amount of time in your presence could perhaps prove hazardous to my health."
Irene pursed her lips. "And would that be such a bad thing?"
He glanced away.
"How did you know that I wished to arrange an outing, then?"Irene asked, crossing her legs at the knee.
Holmes shrugged. "You break into my flat for three reasons: to oblige an employer, to keep me from investigating your latest theft, or because you're bored. To the best of my knowledge, you are not currently working for any of my enemies, and I have not seen any mentions of your exploits in the daily paper. Besides, Valentine's Day is the day after tomorrow, and I doubt that a woman of your caliber would be accustomed to spending the holiday of mandatory romance alone, as opposed to with a menagerie of hapless admirers falling at her feet." He ended the sentence with a hand resting on one of the chair's arms.
"Was that a compliment?"
Absentmindedly, without looking down, he brushed a stray curl back behind her ear. "What do you think?"
Irene didn't respond. Her fingertips trailed over the bedraggled, fuzzy fabric of his brown coat. Yes, she'd managed to avoid mention in the press, at least on this occasion. But if Holmes happened to correspond with the Polish embassy anytime soon… well, she'd have some serious explaining to do to the crowned heads of Europe. Only it wasn't my fault, she told herself with her usual pragmatism. It was a masquerade ball- how was I supposed to know that I'd made out with an already-engaged Germanic prince? All right, so the signet ring I stole did have his initials engraved on it, but…
"Well, since you continue to withhold your opinion, I shall voice one of my own. My faithless flatmate is spending Valentine's Day with a woman he met recently. For various reasons, I consider Valentine's Day the most moronic and abhorrent holiday in the universe; nevertheless, I am determined to discover what people see in it. Therefore, Miss Adler…" He took a deep breath, then looked directly at her. "Will you be my valentine?"
Carefully, Irene made her expression as enigmatic and in-control as possible, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Surely his romantic gesture had ulterior motives- hers almost always did, after all. For example, in visiting Baker Street, she'd hoped to distract Holmes from any international affairs surrounding her name. Yet she could swear that the emotions in his deep brown eyes appeared quite genuine. Nevertheless, she could not help but caution herself against getting too attached to anyone. Even Sherlock Holmes. "That depends," she said. A gleam of mischief played in the depths of her gaze. "Are you willing to work for it?"
"I am quite willing to work for anything I consider sufficiently interesting," he responded, a similar excitement flickering around the edges of his mouth. Almost immediately, his expression grew thoughtful. Irene knew that he was developing strategies in his head, the way that he did when he fought- or kissed her.
Time to depart, definitely. She couldn't allow herself to get distracted like this.
With an-I'm-still-highly-suspicious-of-your-motives nod, Irene rose to leave. "The Grand. Midnight tomorrow. I'll be waiting. Whether I chose to let you in or not-"
She pulled the door closed.
