Hey guys! So this is my first foray into the world of Sherlock. What a wonderful little mind to delve into.
...I hope I didn't horribly mangle him too much...
Also, the angst is only slight and hinted, so if you're looking for an angst overload that leaves you in tears, this is probably the wrong fic for you. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
"…I don't think Kate caught your name."
His target sauntered into the room just as he looked down, hips swaying (steps on outside of foot), smirk affixed on face (confident stride).
"I'm so sorry, I'm…"Sherlock stopped. There was something strikingly familiar about this woman, although for the life of him he couldn't understand what.
Well. That was new.
Wait. She was talking. Was she talking? Yes, she was most definitely talking.
"Well there now," She cooed, tearing off his clerical collar. "We're both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She smiles, ever so slightly. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" She narrowed her eyes, smile widening by the smallest margin, snatching the collar with her teeth.
Had he replied? Yes, he had replied. Yes? Yes.
"Right, that should do it," John said, thumping almost unbearably loudly into the room. He pauses for a moment. "I've missed something, haven't I."
Obviously.
She plucked the collar from in between her teeth. "Please, sit down. Or if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."
"I had some at the palace," Sherlock stated, hoping to throw her off.
"I know," she replied, not missing a beat and folding herself onto a couch.
It's so much easier to think without mammary glands in his face. Sherlock mentally sighed, eyes finally seeing instead of watching.
"Clearly."
The first thing Sherlock noted about Irene Adler is her hair. Auburn, perfectly coifed, stopping just above her ears with a tight curl. Obviously salon, done no more than a week before, as it hasn't lost the sheen only salon products can give hair that would be lost when the hair was washed. Hair is done almost exclusively at a salon, given its tendency to stay in place. She takes enough pride in her hair to go to a salon once a week, at the least.
Proud of her appearance. She's a dominatrix, that's to be expected.
Earrings: diamond, very expensive, large enough to be noticed, not large enough to be obtrusive. So, not the most expensive in the store, not a gift from a wealthy man, and therefore not a gift from a man at all. Not a gift from a woman, women don't buy each other earrings that expensive. Therefore, she bought them for herself.
She's rich, then. Bah, he knew that.
Then come the strikingly pale eyes highlighted by a light lavender eye shadow, delicate cheekbones smeared with rogue, and the thin lips painted blood red. Knows how to make an effect.
Obviously. Dominatrix. Is there nothing else he can divine of her? A glance at John tells him everything, but a minute of studying this woman can tell him nothing.
Then it struck him.
Irene Adler is his mother.
Not literally, of course, she's much too young for that and has obviously never had a child, and his mother is dead, but she bears a striking resemblance.
Striking. How fitting for the two women that offer to slap him.
"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Holmes?"
Of course he did.
"However hard you try, it's always a self portrait."
Very true… "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face."
Try to turn that around.
"Mm, I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In this case it's yourself."
Of course. Just like Mummy.
"And somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too."
That was reassuring, considering she was likely going to want to soon enough.
"…put something on please, anything at all. Uh, napkin." John interjects, looking very put out.
"Why?" Adler questioned serenely, looking very much like his mother. "Are you feeling exposed?"
"Not that John knows where to look," Sherlock rose, turning to face John.
"No, I think he knows exactly where." Adler said, rising as well. "Not sure about you," she breathed, nicking his coat.
"If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop."
John looked very uncomfortable. "You do borrow my laptop."
"I confiscate it."
"Oh, never mind, we've got better things to talk about," Adler put in crisply, shrugging on Sherlock's coat. "Now tell me, I need to know. How was it done?"
"What." Oh, he knew what.
"The hiker. With the bashed in head. How was he killed?" she questioned, pointing one high-heeled, and most likely very dangerous, shoe at him.
"That's not why I'm here…" Why remove the shoes now, of all times?
"No, no, you're here for the photographs, but since that's never going to happen, and we're here just chatting anyway…"
"That story's not on the news yet, how do you know about it?" John looked genuinely confused.
"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes."
"Oh," Sherlock could practically see the gears turning in John's head. "And you… like policemen?"
Sherlock almost laughed at the absurdity of John's infatuation with Adler.
"I like detective stories… and detectives. Brainy's the new sexy."
Sherlock almost laughed at the absurdity of Adler's infatuation with him.
"Psitinfthecr," Sherlock shook his head. Odd memories of his mother were coming back, and Sherlock didn't like not being in control of his mind. Not one bit. "Ah, the position of the car reminiscent to the hiker at the time of the hiker. And the fact that the deathblow was to the back of the head, and that's… all you need to know."
That was better. His mind was his mind.
"Okay, tell me, how was he murdered?"
Sherlock could almost dance with joy. He knew had the upper hand with this Adler, in a way he had never had with his mother. He settled for a knowing smirk.
"He wasn't."
"You don't think this is murder."
"I know it wasn't."
"How?"
"Same way that I know that that other victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel, and the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."
"Okay, but how."
So they are in this room. Thank you.
Had he said that aloud? "John, man the door. Let no one in."
Adler started.
"Two men alone in the countryside, several yards apart. And one car."
"Oh, I thought you were looking for the photos now."
Of course he was.
"Oh, no. Looking takes ages. I'm just going to find them. But you're moderately clever and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time."
Let's put your mind to the test, Adler.
"Two men, a car, and nobody else. The driver's trying to fix his engine. Getting nowhere. And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky. Watching the birds?"
Adler's brow creases. Ah, so she's caught on.
"Any moment now, something's going to happen. What?"
"The hiker's going to die."
Oh, Adler, you're smarter than that.
"No, that's the result. What's going to happen?"
"I… don't understand."
Yes, you do. Think.
"Oh, well, try to."
"Why?"
You know very well why.
"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think." Sherlock almost- almost -smirks. "It's the new sexy."
"The car's going to backfire."
Thank you.
"There's going to be a loud noise."
"So what?"
"Oh, noises are important," Three "noises can tell you everything" Two "for instance," One
Beep.
Adler's eyes flicker to the mirror. Oh, clever, nobody thinks of mirrors, they're too easily shattered.
"Thank you. Upon hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look to her baby." Or one of them. "Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."
He pauses. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here."
They have less than a minute before agents swarm the place, CIA most likely, though DOD or SS wouldn't surprise him.
"All right John, you can turn it off now," might give them more time "I said you can turn it off now!"
"Give me a minute!" John's voice, slightly muffled by the door, but not strained. Okay, so he might have a minute.
"Hm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used" quite clearly a three "but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read" think, only thirty seconds "I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday, no disrespect but you were obviously born in the eighties" earrings clearly from the late nineties oh so she was rich early on that's new "and the eight is barely used" smart enough to have gone over all the keys but that's not good enough "so…" think fifteen seconds
"I'd tell you the code, but you know what? I already have," Adler purred. "Think."
How obviously not hand movements they would have been impossible to miss when she was unclothed, she would never do anything so obvious in from of John think three seconds can't be with the coat would have been obvious so
Defrocked. Oh. Oh, that's smart.
"Hands behind your head," CIA then "On the floor, keep it still."
"Sorry, Sherlock." No reason to apologize, this is perfect for nicking the phone
"Ms. Adler, on the floor." She still isn't down?
"Don't you want me on the floor too?" answer quickly need to know
"No, sir, I want you to open the safe."
Trained, then. Need to be quick. Case 27.
"American. Interesting. Why would you care?"
"Sir, the safe, NOW, please," tsk so impatient
"I don't know the code."
"We've been listening. She said she told you." Of course.
"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."
"I'm assuming I've missed something" well obviously this man's IQ was quite possibly lower than Anderson's "From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes."
Reputation?
"Oh for God's sake," John broke in, "She's the one who knows the code" not going to work "Ask her."
"Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."
Learned.
"Mr. Holmes doesn't ..." And now Adler's trying.
"Shut up. One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship. Mr. Archer" strange name for an American "on the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."
How. Utterly. Predictable.
"I don't have the code."
three
32
"I don't know the code."
two
24
"She didn't tell me, I don't know it!"
one
34
"Stop."
322434
Case 27. How to communicate…
"Vatican cameos."
Duck.
Grab.
Silencer.
Strike.
Down.
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all." Ah, just like Mummy.
Crack.
Grab.
"He's dead."John stands up.
"Thank you. You were very observant." Adler breathed. "I'm flattered."
"Don't be. There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building," Sherlock muttered, sweeping out of the room.
"We should call the police."
"Yes." Five shots, tires squeal. "On their way."
"For God's sake!"
"Oh shut up. It's quick." They'll be here soom.
"Check the rest of the house. See how they got in." Sherlock ordered John, taking the camera phone out of his pocket and tossing it in the air. "Well, that's the knighthood in the bag."
"Ah. And that's mine."Adler demands, holding out her hand.
I a locked. "All the photographs are on here, I presume."
"I have copies, of course."Chin raised ever-so-slightly much too high. Past the point of true confidence, now false bravado.
"No you don't. You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them." Or use them, at all.
"Who said I'm selling?"
"Well, why would they be interested?" Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs.
"That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes. I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."
"Sherlock!"Good timing, John.
"It was."
Sherlock swept out of the room, taking long, purposeful strides toward the sound of John's voice, Adler following close behind.
"Must have come in this way."
Clearly.
"It's all right. She's just out cold."John reassures Adler.
Adler's obviously relieved. "Oh. Well, God knows she's used to that. There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson."
John hesitated for a moment before agreeing. "Sure."
A drawer opened then closed. "You're very calm." Adler seemed surprised. "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."
"He would have killed me. It was self defense in advance."Adler's trying to hide a syringe in her hand, Sherlock noted detachedly.
Three.
Two.
One.
A flare of pain, then an odd lethargy that threatened to shut his muscles down.
Well. That was a larger dose than he had expected.
"What? What is that? What ...?" An opioid. Morphine, most likely, judging by his body's lack of resistance.
Was he on the floor now? "Give it to me. Now. Give it to me."
What? Oh, the phone. "No."
"Give it to me."
"No."
"Oh, for goodness' sake."
Oh, dear.
"Drop it. I... said... drop it."
Sherlock was vaguely aware of sharp flashes of pain on both cheeks, which were, of course, quickly dispersed by the morphine. Not the right drug for lashing somebody, morphine.
"Ah. Thank you, dear. Now tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They're not for blackmail, just for insurance." Had he dropped the phone? Oh, yes. Oh. "Besides, I might want to see her again."
What? Who? Sherlock tried to blearily struggle to his feet.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you. Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Jesus. What are you doing?" John's voice joined Adler's, swirling around his mind.
"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse."
He knows that, he's a doctor.
"What's this? What have you given him? Sherlock!"
"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Stop… being… so… loud.
"You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look."
"For what? What are you talking about?" John was so confused and lost, like a little puppy.
"The key code to my safe."
"What was it?"
"Shall I tell him?" Yes, of course "My measurements."
Blackness engulfed Sherlock's vision.
"Got it!"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. This wasn't his mind palace or the blessed realm of unconsciousness. This was a mind… car? He turned, and tried to force a limp hand to open the door.
"Oh, shush now." Adler spoke hurriedly. "Don't get up. I'll do the talking. So the car's about to backfire... and the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now, you said he could be watching birds but he wasn't, was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing. The car backfires and the hiker turns to look... which was his big mistake. By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead. What he doesn't see is what killed him because it's already being washed downstream. An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with ... a boomerang. You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy."
"I ... I ..."
Mother? What? No, he was on a bed. Mother would never tuck him in.
"Hush now. It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."
What…?
Where did she go who else is here "John? John!"
John thunders into the room, looking ever-so-concerned. "You okay?"
"How did I get here?" Oh, yes. This was his room.
"Well, I don't suppose you remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."
Why was he on the floor?
"Where is she?"
She was here, he was certain of it.
"Where's who?"
"The woman. That woman."
"What woman?"
Sherlock was running out of patience.
"The woman. The woman woman!"
"What, Irene Adler? She got away. No one saw her. She wasn't here, Sherlock."
And… there went his legs. Perfect.
…perhaps she was under the bed?
"What are you ...? What ...? No, no, no, no."
Sherlock felt arms on his chest, just before he flopped (rather uncomfortably) onto his bed.
"Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."
"Of course I'll be fine. I am fine. I'm absolutely fine." It was only a dose of morphine.
"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."
Wha- "Why would I need you?"
"No reason at all."
His eyes closed and he drifted away.
"When I say run." He whispers, readjusting his grip on the machete.
"Run." He whirls. Just as his mother had once done for him.