A/N: I don't ship Irene and Sherlock much in the books nor in the movies but the BBC's versions just blew my mind with their chemistry, so I just have to write something for them. Haha. This is my first time writing for Sherlock so please be gentle. Enjoy and please leave a review if you can.
Evolution
I.
When Sherlock was four, the calm of their house in the country was destroyed by the sound of medics bursting from the front door. He stood, quietly beside his elder brother, and watched as the odd men and woman followed Hamilton, the butler, hurriedly to the servants quarters.
For a moment it was just their quiet house once more. Just the dull expanse of white marble floors bathed in spring sunshine from the floor length windows. But the noise returned as the medics spilled into the room again, carrying a stretcher. Sherlock saw the lump of black hair that was Mrs. Adler, the cook. He narrowed his eyes as he took in the details.
Mrs. Adler was going to the hospital. Something was wrong with her baby.
II.
When Sherlock was four years and seven months old he crept into the kitchen. Mrs. Adler and the rest of the staff were busy preparing dinner and did not notice him. He climbed one of the stool and peered down at the infant in the baby carrier on the counter. She looked up at him with unblinking blue-eyes. It was strange, the way she looked at him. He studied her and something passed between them. Then without warning she grabbed his nose. He let out a startled sound because nobody had touched him so. The stool wobbled and he was falling. He heard a chorus of "Master Sherlock!" before he hit the ground.
He dislocated a shoulder. Mykie and Mummy scolded him about sneaking in the kitchen. Daddy waved their lectures away and said that curiosity was a good trait to cultivate. Mrs. Adler apologized to him, the following afternoon during teatime.
"Why?" He asked.
The older woman gave him a confused look. "Why what, sir?"
"Why are you apologizing? I was the one who sneaked in the kitchen, climbed the stool and I am sure you didn't ask your child to startle me, so why are you apologizing?"
Mrs. Adler looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, an infant shouldn't have been in the kitchen in the first place sir. Rest assured it will not happen again as I placed my daughter in my sister's residence just in town."
Sherlock felt something at the pit of his stomach when he heard of this development. It was like his insides were heavy as stones but at the same times they were squirming like worms. It was a curious feeling. Guilt, he deduced. And disappointment. Mrs. Adler turned to leave but he stopped her with one more question.
"What's her name?"
She smiled. "Irene. Her name is Irene, Master Sherlock."
III.
When Sherlock was eight, he slipped away from the huge birthday party his mother threw for him. He had specifically asked for a quiet day to play his violin, they did not let him so he was not at fault if he did not participate in the said party.
He went to the family graveyard, just at the outskirts of the property. Unlike most children his age, he was neither scared nor intimidated by it. On the contrary, he loved it. He sat a top a tomb and played his violin. In the quiet of the graveyard the music was magnified and glorious. Mrs. Adler, of course, had found him. The woman was deceptively hiding a sharp mind underneath the motherly exterior. He firmly stated that he was not going back to the party proper and mingle with the dull children. But like always she had an ace up her sleeve.
"But Master Sherlock, my daughter is there. I had thought that with you asking about her regularly you might want to meet her in person."
Sherlock frowned. "That is sly Mrs. Adler." But he jumped off the tomb anyway and followed the older woman back. Photographs of the Adler girl could only go so far.
Mrs. Adler's daughter looked different from the last picture he saw of her. She had long dark hair now, that was in a neat braid and her cheeks slightly less chubby. She wore a cream-colored pea coat over her blue dress and her legs encased in white stockings with shoes that were the same shade as her dress. She was still small, the top of her head barely reaching his chest. The way she looked at him was the same though. And after Mrs. Adler had introduced them and left them in their own devices, they just stared at each other quietly.
"Play me something." She suddenly demanded, pointing at his violin.
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Why should I?"
"Isn't that why you slipped out of your party?"
He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. "What gave you the idea that I would like to play with you as audience?"
"Well, would you like to play in front of the other children?" At his frown, she smiled. "I didn't think so. Go on then."
He shrugged. It was not like he had anything better to do. He turned his back to her and began to play some Bach.
This is the beginning of their strange relationship.
IV.
Sherlock Holmes was ten when his father died. The funeral was on a Saturday. In a rare bright sunny day. He wore his Sunday's best and was between his brother and mother as his father joined the generations of Holmes in the family graveyard. Throughout the duration of the funeral he wondered why he or his brother had not shed a tear. Wondered if something was wrong with them or if everybody else just cared too much.
Their house was full of people. His father had been a sociable and friendly man, odd traits for a Holmes and ones neither of his sons inherited. Sherlock stood straight as friends and acquaintances offered their condolences, kissed his mother's cheeks, patted his brother's shoulder and looked at him saying that he needed to help take care of his mother now. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. He did not understand why they had to state the obvious.
Once he was free to go, he spotted Irene at one corner. She was standing by the window. Even with her small stature she was neither lost nor swallowed by the crowd.
The past year had her living at Holmes Manor with her mother. Though he would never admit it out loud, she was one of the few whose presence he did not mind having near him and the only company, around his age, he could tolerate. For a six years old, she was rather clever and sharp and never boring. Quite the upgrade from the dull children his mother had forced him to socialize with before.
He walked beside her and together they watched the people milling about and eating Mrs. Adler's excellent hors d'oeuvres.
"I never saw this place this full before." She said, breaking the silence that surrounded them.
"Neither have I."
She paused. "Your father must have been a great man."
He glanced at her, then looked back at the crowd. "He was."
"Want to walk outside?"
Without even thinking about it he agreed.
Somehow they ended up at the family graveyard. They stood in front of the newly erected tomb of his father. This time it was Sherlock who broke the silence.
"When I was younger I wanted to be pirate." He said, starting straight ahead to the tombstone bearing his father's name. "Mum and Mykie thought it was 'cute' and sent me on my way. But Dad, he-he bought me a pirate hat and a spy glass and he told me that if I found something I was passionate about I should go for it and don't let anybody stop me."
A soft warm hand wiped the tear he did not know was falling. He looked at Irene, on her tiptoes, who gave him a small smile.
"That's good advice." She said, solemnly.
He nodded. "Yes it is."
Side by side they stood.
V.
When Sherlock was eleven years old he was sent to a famous boarding school in Scotland. The day of his departure, Irene and Mrs. Adler came to say their goodbyes. The younger of the two, with her hands behind her back, stepped forward as his suitcases were placed in the family car.
"They say it's cold where you're going."
He nodded.
"Mummy and I made this." She revealed what she was holding. A finely knitted blue wool scarf with his name in crude green stitches at the edge.
He took it from her. He has quite a number of scarves in his bags but as he traced his name he knew that this was the only one he would be using. "Thank you."
"Sherlock come on." Mycroft called from the car.
"See you in the holidays." She said.
As the car accelerated Sherlock turned in his seat to watch Irene waving at him and he did not returned to his proper seat even when he could no longer see her.
VI.
When Irene was twelve years old she burned her hand making buttermilk scones. It was the start of the holiday vacation and 'Master Sherlock' was coming home from boarding school. Madame Holmes had specifically instructed Irene's mother to prepare her youngest son's favorite treats. So it was a long morning preparing treacle tarts and custards and roast beef sandwiches and scones in quantity that could feed at least four persons instead of one.
"Careful dear," Her mother said as she guides her hand under the relief of cold running water. "We wouldn't want the scones to taste like burning flesh."
Irene's face scrunched up in the face of her mother's strange humor. A loud hiss made them look over their shoulders. Sherlock Holmes stood in the kitchen with his finger in his mouth. The nearly stolen, fresh from the oven, scone dropped and was littering the tiled floor. He was still in his traveling clothes, the wool scarf they had given him five years prior still around his neck.
"Master Sherlock." Her mother tutted. "What have I told you about stealing from the baking sheet?"
The sixteen year old smirked. "Fastest way to burn your finger?"
She snickered at that, earning her a full blown smile from the older boy. Her mother shook her head good naturedly.
"Welcome home, sir."
"Glad to be back Mrs. Adler. You don't know how dreadful the food is back at that place."
"You sure know how to flatter a cook sir."
"It's no flattery, merely an observation. But I suppose I couldn't have such high standards seeing that our brand new cook there is having an affair with his adult stepdaughter."
"And how in the world did you know that?"
"The way the cook prepares his scrambled eggs." Irene cut in, much to the boy's annoyance. "What? It was in your last letter. It was quite obvious."
Sherlock huffed. "Yes quite."
"Well, Irene dear, why don't you go fetch some gel for your burn. I'll finish around here."
She nodded and moved to exit the kitchen. She smiled as she walked past the boy. She patted his cheek. "Good to have you back, Sherlock. Perhaps you can beat me in chess now."
His eyes narrowed at her quip. "It was a flunk the last time."
"Yes and what do you call the other four times?"
She laughed at his flabbergasted face and brushed by him.
"Irene!" She heard him call out. "The library in five minutes!"
VII.
Irene was thirteen years old when she had her first kiss. It was with a boy named Daniel. He had warm brown eyes and brown hair. Irene shut her eyes as their lips met and behind the closed lids she sees another face. This one with sharp blue eyes, high cheek bones and black curls.
VIII.
When Sherlock was nineteen he came home for the holidays. He always visited during the winter season, if only for the food and perhaps for a certain female whose company and chess skills he cherished. That year however, instead of playing chess as they always did on Boxing Day, the said fifteen year old female convinced him to accompany her to go shopping in London. If anybody asked him he would say that she had tricked him to agreeing. The fact that the way her blue eyes looked at him and the way she smelled sent shivers down his spine would go unstated. She persuaded him to drive and they took one of the family car and together they drove to London.
They weaved through the throngs of people. Her smaller hand intertwined with his as she dragged him from store to store. At one point she bought a deerstalker hat and placed it on his head.
"It suits you." She commented, laughter in her eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, the clever man with the funny hat."
They spent the whole day around the city proper. It was almost evening when they went home. About a couple of miles from the Holmes estate, Irene asked if she could drive. He shrugged and gave her the keys, instead of driving straight home she turned at one corner and pulled over a clearing off the main road. The car was barely seen behind the massive oak tree trunks. She unbuckled her seat belt and rested her head on the steering wheel.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay?" The overhead lights flickered off as he spoke bathing the both of them in darkness. His eyes adjusted and he only had a moment to see her grinning mischievously before she was on his lap. His whole body stiffened at the contact. She settled her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt already riding high.
"It's okay." He heard her whisper, kissing the line of his jaw. "It's just me Sherlock."
She guided his hands to her thighs and pressed her lips to his. Her tongue glided alongside his and she tasted sweet.
"Irene." He said, breathlessly when they broke off for air. "We, we shouldn't, your mother-"
"Shh..." She cut in, kissing him. "It's okay. I want this with you."
Sherlock tightened his hold of her hips when her hands dipped inside his suddenly open trousers.
"I picked you." She murmured and when the time arrived, it was he who thrust up to the mystery of Irene Adler.
He avoided Mrs. Adler and her the rest of his stay. When he left four days after Christmas, he did not return for a long time.
IX.
Sherlock Holmes was twenty-four years old when he saw Irene Adler in person again.
The message was short, as messages from his brother were, it went;
Mrs. Adler had passed away this morning. Her funeral is this Saturday.
It barely registered to him when his cellphone crashed against the wall of his flat.
Irene looked different from the last time he saw her. Five years was a long time he supposed. Gone was the juvenile awkwardness and it was replaced by grace and maturity that went beyond her twenty years. Her dark hair was in a loose French braid and she was wearing an elegant black shift dress that reached below her knees.
"Mr. Holmes." She greeted, offering her hand. Her eyes on a far away spot over his shoulder "Thank you for coming."
His chest constricted at her formal tone. He wrapped his large hand around her smaller one shaking it but not letting it go.
"Irene." He said, wordlessly trying to make her look at him.
With a slight shift her gaze locked with his. Her blue eyes were muted with grief and without thinking he tugged her towards him. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her under his chin. (The most contact he had with another human being in half a decade) She was stiff at first but slowly she relaxed and soon she was heaving out silent sobs.
"I'm sorry." He murmured against her hair. "I'm sorry."
X.
Sherlock was thirty four years old.
"What do you know about this woman." asked Mycroft, handing him a set of photographs. His eyes narrowed as he shifted through them. That hair. Those eyes. He knew her like the back of his hand. He last saw her ten years ago, in her mother's funeral. He stayed with her for half a year until the sentiment became too much for him to bear again. When he returned a month later she was gone. It was one of the biggest blunder of his life.
Mycroft knew that but he was acting otherwise, so Sherlock played the same game.
"Nothing, whatsoever."
Fin.