Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over anything to do with the BBC's Sherlock, and I make no money from this sort of thing.
Note: A follow-up of sorts to The Women.
Not Enough
It's simple enough, what they want of her. Mycroft Holmes explains it to her when she arrives in London.
"Think of it as going back to your old job, only with a more public spirited view," he says. "Only if you're interested, of course. Incidentally" - he stops to consult a notebook - "how did you find teaching geography?"
"Satisfying enough, though the pay left much to be desired. Anyway, I didn't do it for very long." Irene crosses her legs, leans forward in her seat. "But tell me, why would you go to all the trouble?" She has an inkling, but she wants to hear it from him. "Seems a lot of trouble to bring a girl back from the dead so she can do your dirty work."
"You are considerably less dead than I was led to believe, Miss Adler, so it was no great effort at all. And you are very good at what you do. Look what you managed to accomplish freelance." Unspoken is that he would much rather that she wasn't free to freelance now that she wasn't quite so dead.
"'Brought a nation to its knees' were your words for it as I remember. It was certainly a high point in my career." She doesn't mention Sherlock. She's seen John's blog, and she's read the tabloid websites, and she can see Jim Moriarty's hand in it even if she can't figure how he got the man to walk off the top of a building – God knows the smear campaign and the police persecution wouldn't have been enough. She also doesn't ask how Mycroft found out about her, or how much he knows about what Sherlock did.
"And you might get to do that again, just not to the British nation, if you would be so kind." He gives her a pointed look. "I'm offering you a chance to do what you do best, Miss Adler-"
"When you say and with whom you say."
"When I say and with whom I say," he agrees. "You won't have to worry about your protection this time, that will be taken care of."
"As long as I'm a good girl and follow orders."
"I'm glad you're keeping up. You'll be paid, of course, though not as much as you used to get for your services, but that's a government job for you." He glances at her briefly before looking at his watch. "There's a member of the Russian oil cartel in town - a very influential man. He married into money, and I understand that his in-laws hold most of the shares of his corporation. He is also expecting company of the professional sort in his hotel room in twenty minutes. His lady wife is not with him." Mycroft's fingers curl and uncurl around the curved handle of his umbrella. "I imagine you've noticed the atrocious price of petrol lately. Unnecessarily high, don't you think?"
Irene sits back, and stares at him for a while. She has missed this, and she has to admire how smoothly he's managed this. The Ice Man, she remembers. "I haven't said I'd do it yet."
"You don't have to. Welcome to government service." Mycroft Holmes smiles at her. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The assignment is easy, as far as she's concerned. The man is unimaginative, and she can tell what he likes at a glance. She leaves him more than satisfied, and she has a number of satisfactory photographs on her new camera phone (she was offered concealed cameras and microphones, the very latest, she was assured, but she prefers keeping things simple) and a feeling of satisfaction at a good job well done.
It is only as she is getting dressed that it strikes how quickly this could turn into a special kind of hell: Irene Adler as the government's tame dominatrix, forwages, where she once had the country's most powerful men and women at her mercy. She doesn't think she can stand the idea.
Irene finishes getting her clothes in order, and takes the cash from the man's wallet (it's a mix of currencies, mostly euros, apparently he's been doing a lot of traveling on the continent). She doesn't touch the credit cards - too risky - but the pictures in her phone should be worth a few million in the currency of her choice should she need money in a hurry. She leaves the hotel via the service entrance and walks to the nearest Underground station. One of the things she's always loved about London is that it's surrounded by so many ways to run.
She thinks she'll go up north, to Scotland, where she can maybe find a fishing boat, preferably illegal, to take her to Norway or Sweden - she can disappear properly from there. Going by aeroplane isn't a chance she's willing to take - it's what most people would do - so she buys a railway ticket to Thurso, and counts herself lucky that she makes it to the station just in time for the last trip of the day.
The train leaves the station, and she realizes too late that she's done it wrong. The car is empty except for one other occupant.
It's a black pantsuit this time, pinstriped and impeccably tailored, and she's looking every inch the respectable London office girl, though still quite delectable. She is still texting, and she spares Irene a mildly disappointed glance over the screen of her Blackberry.
"Hi," she says.
"I'm not the government's trained dog," Irene snarls. It's pure bluster, and she knows it.
"Well, I am," Anthea answers coolly. "Mister Holmes said you might try something like this."
Irene's hand goes to her pocket to touch the camera phone. She has the photographs, and if they really need them - even if they don't need them as badly as Mycroft said, she wasn't born yesterday, she knows they wouldn't trust her with anything big, not yet - she still has leverage. "And he sent you to what, put me on a leash?"
The corner of Anthea's mouth quirks upwards as if she enjoys the idea. "Mister Holmes sent me to get the photographs."
"That's not going to happen."
"It already has." She holds up the Blackberry, showing Irene the screen. It is entirely taken up by an image of the oil executive tied up in what could be called a highly imaginative position, with Irene herself making the situation even more compromising. "Government issue camera phone, Miss Adler. Sorry." And she smiles apologetically like she means it.
Irene presses her lips into a thin line of frustration. She should have remembered. Haste and panic have made her careless. "It's a pity I didn't find you before Mycroft Holmes did. I'd have had such fun with you."
"I could teach you a thing or two myself, Miss Adler."
"Perhaps. Well, what happens now? You've got the photographs."
"Yes."
"I don't suppose you'd let me go?"
"I could. If you like."
Irene raises an eyebrow. She knows she does this impeccably. "Really?"
"Oh, yes. Mister Holmes said that you were to be allowed perfect freedom in all of your choices."
"And what else did he say?"
"That I was to send a message to a certain list of people you've been acquainted with who would be less than pleased to learn that Irene Adler was still alive, should you choose to run." Again the half-apologetic smile. "I think I explained when we first met that you'd be perfectly free to deal with the consequences of your choices."
"You're good." Truly, it is such a pity that she hadn't met this girl sooner. "That message, though, why haven't you sent it yet?"
"You're not running."
This is news to her. She leans against the back of the nearest seat, arms crossed and skeptical. "I'm not?"
"No." Anthea pockets her mobile, which disappears into her jacket without leaving so much as a bulge in the fabric. "You see, Miss Adler, while Mister Holmes believes in a certain degree of freedom of choice, he pays me to get things done." She approaches Irene, her steps even and steady in the moving train, stops when they're practically toe to toe. "And I believe in a certain degree of coercion."
Irene shakes her head. "We could have been great friends, you and I. You're wasted as a public servant."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Anthea shrugs, one hand on the headrest of the seat Irene is leaning on. And then, faster than Irene credits possible, she spins her around, and shoves her roughly onto the row of seats, careless of the armrests. There is a metallic click as the handcuffs close painfully tight around Irene's wrists. "But you can think of me as your parole officer. It might help."
"Oh, for God's sake," Irene hisses acidly, twisting so that she can look up at Anthea. "You've got the photographs. I'm apparently going back to London. I do like to play rough, I think you know that, but this isn't necessary."
"Well, I didn't have an actual leash."
"Do you expect me to beg?"
"It wouldn't be enough, Miss Adler. Not nearly enough."