Irene Adler was washing the dishes when her mobile rang. Just a short beep. A text, then. Hardly anyone texted her anymore. She hadn't bothered making many friends when she moved to New Jersey a few years prior; there was just Andy, and they usually waited to talk until after Andy got off work.
No, her 'friends' were all more like 'business acquaintances,' and she normally just gave them the number for the newspaper for which she often provided her services.
Consulting photographer. Or, 'freelance,' she supposed, was the official job title, but she preferred 'consulting'. It reminded her of an old friend. But regardless of official title, the job was perfect, as far as she was concerned. It allowed her to put some of her old talents to good use, and expose a few corrupt politicians in the process. She was always paid under the table; her name never accompanied any of the photos. And in any case, she no longer went by 'Irene Adler'.
As of her relocation to the States, her name was Irene Holmes.
A bit sentimental, perhaps, and she of all people knew the dangers of sentiment, but she had to change her name to something to avoid being found, and the surname 'Holmes' was common without being suspiciously common. Besides, what else would she have picked? Jones? Smith? Irene Smith sounded bloody ridiculous.
And besides, 'Holmes' was her only reminder of her old life in London. She spent so much of her time convincing Andy that she didn't miss it, but oh, how she missed it. She missed the excitement, the thrill of the chase, the feeling of the Blackberry in her hand that held enough secrets to topple the mightiest of empires. She missed being able to take the tube to Covent Garden and watch the street performers. She missed the beautiful hustle and bustle, the feeling of thousands of people's lives writhing around her, constantly changing and being changed. Now, in Jersey, she had to take a bloody ferry to get that same rush, and then she had to deal with the fact that seemingly the entirety of New York City stank of urine.
But there was no point in reminiscing. She could never go back. Too dangerous, both for her and anyone she happened to run into.
She sighed deeply and dried her hands quickly before retrieving her phone from her pocket. 1 New Message, the screen read. Blocked Number.
Irene, curious, unlocked her phone and read the message. Her eyes widened in shock and her grip on the phone faltered, sending it clattering to the floor where the little screen dutifully kept shining, the six words now burned into Irene's mind casually staring up at the ceiling, pretending to be insignificant but not doing a very good job.
I'm not dead, read the little screen. Let's have dinner.