A/N : I am assuming for the purposes of this that the fall was in early winter. The M rating will be needed (for a couple of reasons) in later chapters.
Dull.
Boring and pedestrian and so dull.
Everything was buffed into inoffensive sameness in these places so everything was alien. Barcelona could just as well be Brussels, Prague.
Sherlock's seat at the bar offered him a perfect view of his fellow hotel guests as they drifted from the golden early evening sunshine of the street into the lobby but he had found there was little entertainment to be had in deducing the patrons of these corporate chain hotels. It didn't matter what city, what country, sordid affairs and financial woes. Sex and money and in such a narrow predictable way. He sipped more of the Scotch in front of him,the burn fading to numbness as the minutes wore on.
He had expected, even hoped, this would be difficult and dangerous. Difficult and dangerous was what kept him out of trouble. Undoing all the carefully constructed intricacies of the consulting criminals network, that was what would save him from himself. What he hadn't expected, hadn't, couldn't have planned for were those nights when he was stuck in a strange room in a strange city with nothing to actively do or think. No violin, no lab equipment, no John Watson coming in to tell him it was three in the morning and would he mind giving it a sodding rest. The nights were when he felt he needed something to blunt his brain.
He could feel the small bag in his pocket like dead weight, he didn't dare leave it in his room. The twisted scar, still an angry red, on his shoulder was well past the point of giving him the excuse of needing pain relief. The rest of him however, longed for the switch-off, the brief absence he knew chemicals could provide.
Finding drugs in a major city was never going to be a problem. There was always someone with the signs, the furtiveness as much as anything. When he'd saw the waitress that morning at breakfast he'd known. An hour and a short cab ride later he was standing beside her in the kitchen of a nondescript modern flat while a middle aged woman exchanged his wad of euros for the small bag. He could, he was, resisting it for now but he knew it couldn't last-not here.
The touch to his wrist was so faint it could have been a memory, tracing an older scar, thin and white. The result of a glancing blow with a blade meant for someone else. A wound he'd never properly explained to John, who's suspicions were understandably aroused after an eight day absence.
'I think you still owe me dinner.' She said as he stood and turned, pleasantly unbalanced for a second, suddenly not bored.
He had a few moments to take her in as she coolly turned away to thank the barman for the glass of white wine placed in front of her. He noted the short peroxide hair and the tan, her hands and the way she shifted slightly from foot to foot. Her arms were then suddenly around his neck, hips pressing none too subtly against him. He reacted slowly and with too much thought as one hand came up to rest on her waist.
'I don't know about the beard. ' She whispered, lips brushing the growth on his face. 'What a shame your curls had to go.' One hand ran almost maternally through his short hair.
'Come and sit down Irene, people are watching.' He returned her whisper, fingertips pressing into the small of her back as he firmly guided her to a corner table.
'Go on then deduce me.' She said quietly, crossing her legs. A challenge.
He sipped a quantity of his drink, his eyes dragging over her, a delaying tactic. He knew everything he needed to already and when he started to speak his words ran together. There was something in Irene that made him eager for praise, he hated it without understanding it or even trying to.
'You've been staying here in Spain, one of the resorts on the coast probably. You can blend in there, big turnover of tourists, lots of expats. You're working in a bar , hands look a little rough, some traces of contact dermatitis so you use cleaning agents a lot. I see you're wearing heels tonight-I assume for my benefit-but you don't wear them much these days. Your gait is slightly awkward. Flat shoes are much more suited to long periods on you feet.' He paused for breath and she allowed the smallest upturn of her mouth before he continued.
'Probably somewhere middle of the road, anywhere too high end and you could bump into a former client, too many young people and you run more risk of your face ending up on YouTube or Facebook by accident. The bar work suits because it's casual, cash in hand, ideal to stay below the radar. Whatever ID you're using you don't quite have faith in because you want to stay off grid as far as possible.' He finished and sat back.
'Very good, felt good did it?' The question was left unanswered as she leaned over to her bag and brought out a folded sheet of newspaper, sliding it across the table.
' Some sort of anniversary memorial service organised by Scotland Yard.' She looked suddenly serious.
It was a British tabloid, five weeks old.
The photo centred on a blonde actress, a one-time client, but in the margins he could see John. The combination of a moustache and black suit aging him terribly.
The doctor appeared to be supported, almost physically, by a blonde woman who clutched possessively at his arm.
'Who's she?' The distaste in his voice surprised him.
' Mary Morstan. She's a nurse, works with him.' Irene paused.
'I know her from somewhere else- by another name.'
'From another previous life.' He broke in casually, fingers tapping pensively on the sheet of newspaper.
'You always knew- obviously.' She laughed slightly and shook her head.
'Booby trapping a safe and a mobile phone, putting a thirteen stone marine on the floor, faking your own death? Hardly necessary skills for a dominatrix.'
'You'd be surprised at the crossover.' She sipped her wine.
'How did you two meet?' He slid the paper back towards her.
' We didn't. I worked for the Americans, arms length obviously. There was an incident at a party I attended on their behalf. Lots of men with money that can't be explained. A bodyguard got shot while his employer stood behind him. It was a warning. One he didn't heed. Two days later I heard he'd died in a botched robbery at his warehouse.'
'She killed him?' Sherlock swallowed the last of his drink, crunching an ice cube.
'Think so. The Americans called me in to show me CCTV, asked if I'd seen her. She was on camera going in the front door but no one saw her after that, not at the party, not leaving. She was a brunette then too.'
'You've not seen her since?'
'No, but she was known to my employers who were obviously rattled when she turned up. '
' The bodyguard was a warning?'Irene nodded.
'What happened to your mark?'
'He fared better, sort of, he's doing ten years in a supermax in California now. Arms dealing. My American employers were a little more by the book than hers.
They were both silent for a few seconds as a waiter cleared the table behind them.
'The question now is what does she want with John? She must be good. I can't see an ex-military man like him being easily taken in. He always struck me as being...steady.' She said, folding the paper and tucking it in her bag.
Sherlock half smiled. ' You know people think John is all tea and cardigans but he loves-needs-the danger. He doesn't know it of course but that's...'
'The turn on?..Jealous?' She said, smirking.
The detective sighed suddenly, unusually, tired. ' Of course, he's probably been, well, lonely.'
'Sentiment Sherlock?' She raised her eyebrows. 'Come upstairs. I have something else to show you.' She stood and squeezed one tense shoulder.
He followed her mechanically, the new information refusing to settle and process in his brain.
Irene' s room was identical to his, aggressively tasteful beige. He noticed she shed the heels with relief as soon as she got in the door.
'Sit.' She patted the bed. before quickly going to her suitcase which rested on the floor below the window.
She climbed onto the bed beside him and handed him a few blown up photographs, obviously documents snapped quickly, most likely with a camera phone.
' These may be useful to your brother's people. Shipping documents of some sort. Relates to the north African end. I assume that's what you're currently working on.'
'Where did they come from?'
'Moriarty' s top man in Marrakech. Jim himself asked me to show him a good time when he was in London. Though I grant you it wouldn't have been everyone's idea of a good time.' Her voice dipped suggestively and she shifted on the bed. One hand coming to rest on his shoulder. He turned towards her, realising his error in a split second but still too late, as the needle plunged into his other arm.
He made to get up but she quickly drew herself round to straddle his lap, pushing his chest with surprising strength and forcing him onto his back. His limbs were already starting to feel like they were trying to move through treacle.
'Don't fight it Mr Holmes, it's been a while since I've tied a grown man to a bed but you never really lose the knack.' She held his wrists firm for a few seconds, pressing a kiss to his forehead as consciousness slipped away.