Thursday at One
The staff members of a little café two blocks northwest of the Baker Street clinic habitually set aside a table in the northeast corner of the restaurant at half-twelve every Thursday afternoon. They know that at five past one, a beautiful, elegant woman will walk in and sit down facing the door. She always orders two pots of tea and two glasses of water. And then she folds her hands under her chin and waits.
The time that the harried man arrives at varies. Sometimes he arrives only minutes after the woman, sometimes up to half an hour. Whatever the time, she unfolds her hands, lifts an eyebrow and offers him a saucy smile. There is always a good reason for the man's lateness. This particular Thursday is no exception to the rule.
It is five past one when Irene Adler walks through the café's door. She smiles at the waitress and seats herself, shrugging out of her coat and double checking her phone before switching it off. She glances up at the waiter who brings over the tea and water, and folds her hands beneath her chin, fixing her eyes on the door. Six minutes later, John Watson blows in the door windswept and clearly fatigued. Irene cocks an eyebrow at him and waits.
"Absolute nightmare," says John, shaking his head. "A regular of mine came in – she's psychosomatic, complains of pain with no apparent cause – anyway, she came in to tell me that she's six weeks pregnant and thinks there's something wrong with her baby. It took forever to explain to her that her morning sickness is a good sign and that her baby does not have feet yet, and therefore cannot kick."
"Well, that's slightly more exciting than my morning," says Irene. "I nearly got hit by a cab while I was out getting fruit."
"What were you out getting fruit for?" asks John.
"Breakfast," says Irene saucily. "I was craving something sweet, so I went and got fruit."
"Ah," says John. "I hope that the cabbie was considerate enough to stop and make sure you were alright."
"Oh he did," Irene reassures him. "He was even lovely enough to drive me to work at a discount."
"Very sweet of him," says John. "Did you hear about the bridge collapse?"
"I did, in fact," says Irene, sipping her tea. "Please tell me that you weren't on it at the time."
"Thankfully, no," says John. "I was trying to talk sense into the butcher. Thirty pounds per kilo of sirloin is overly expensive."
"You had a dinner party and you didn't invite me?" asks Irene. The waiter sweeps over with their regular orders: a corned beef sandwich with fries for John and the daily soup and salad for Irene.
"You wouldn't have wanted to come," John assures her. "Police potluck. Sherlock volunteered us to bring, of all things, curried beef. And he insisted on having sirloin to work with." He shakes his head in exasperation.
"Was there anything decent to eat, at least?" asks Irene. "I've heard horror stories about that sort of thing."
"Molly made lovely pavlovas," says John. "I'm almost looking forward to the end of the month, when I can actually have the kitchen to try them. I'll bring you one."
"I'll look forward to it," smiles Irene. "I was reading in the Times that the area around Baker Street has shot up in value."
"It has, actually," says John, "though, thankfully, rent hasn't gone up. It's nice, though, hearing about new names at the green grocers'. What have you been up to in your spare time?"
"I went to this little art gallery," says Irene, "one I found just by chance. So I got myself some new art. This artist just had a wonderful and unusual sensibility. I was drawn into the paintings. Come over on Sunday and I'll show you."
"I'll definitely do that," says John. "You have quite the eye for art, so it must be a fascinating painting."
"Thank you," says Irene. "My artistic eye isn't well known."
"Sad, really," says John, "but that's one of my favourite things about you. You're brilliant."
"Remember the time we sent Sherlock on a wild goose chase?" asks Irene. "That was fun."
"It was hysterical, the expression on his face," laughs John, shaking his head. "Like he'd just realized that Mycroft was secretly a pinup."
"There's an image for you," says Irene dryly. "Do you think it was the pillows or the tea that did it?"
"I think it was you and me," says John, "having tea nude and talking about the weather."
Irene laughs. "It probably was. I was surprised when he decided to join us."
"It was safe for him," says John. "He does trust you, you know."
"I do know," says Irene softly. "He trusts you too. I trust you. You take such good care of both of us. Whether it's individually or together, physically or emotionally, you take care of us."
"You both take good care of me as well," says John. "I'd miss your passion and his madness. You're always welcome in our home, and in our lives."
"And just think," says Irene, "a year ago we couldn't stand each other. I'm almost glad you tricked me into meeting up with you."
"Best faked text I've ever sent," agrees John.
"So why me?" asks Irene. "I've never asked you. Why did you ask me to meet up with you?"
"The truth?" asks John. Irene nods. "I wanted to talk to someone who knew how insane Sherlock is, and who I wouldn't have to explain myself to. Even if you didn't like me, I knew where I stood with you. I didn't think you'd stay to talk, though. But I needed a Sherlock-and-work free hour. And frankly, you're the only person who I could think of at the time."
"Thank you," says Irene. "I'm flattered. And frankly, I needed a work free hour as well. You're a surprising conversationalist, John. And I do like to talk."
"Thank you," says John. "Crap, I've got to run. Listen, on Sunday, the ballet is doing Carmen. If you want to go, I'll grab a ticket for you."
"I'd love to," says Irene. "Carmen is one of my favourites. Part of a case?"
"Partially," admits John, waving a waiter over. "Just hope that it doesn't get too badly disrupted."
"With Sherlock there?" asks Irene as the waiter slides separate bills onto their table. "There's a chance. If Moriarty's there as well…"
"And I was hoping that he would learn to flirt like normal people," sighs John as he throws a few pound notes onto his bill. "Not going to happen, though. Insanity."
"Has Sherlock caught on yet?" asks Irene, settling her bill.
"God no," says John. "He just thinks that Moriarty likes to play elaborate games of live-action chess. I refuse to be the one to tell him."
"Poor Moriarty," laughs Irene. "He hasn't got a chance, has he?"
"I don't know if that bit of info would soothe him or make him worse. Likely worse."
"Very likely. I'll see you on Sunday at five. We'll go for dinner before."
"Of course. We'll pick you up. And it'll be nice to have someone to talk to at intermission when Sherlock goes missing and mysteriously comes back with a black eye."
"Silly boy. See you Sunday."
John hold the door open for Irene as they leave, and waits for her to hail a cab before he sets off at a light jog for the clinic. His next patient will understand if he's late, probably. Thankfully, he's on time – barely – and manages to keep himself more or less on schedule for the rest of the day. At the end of the day, John drags himself home to the flat. Sherlock greets him at the door.
"How did it go?" asks Sherlock impatiently.
"I had a great day," says John. "See if we can get a third ticket for Carmen, won't you? Irene's coming with us."
"I'll try not to break anything then," says Sherlock. "But this case is coming together, it really is."
"I'm glad to hear it," says John. "And so will Lestrade, when you get around to informing him. Anything interesting happen at the labs today?"
"Something did," says Sherlock gleefully. "I decided to do genetic comparisons on everyone I know." John listens patiently to Sherlock's enthusiasm as it overflows. Happy Sherlock is better than bored Sherlock, and Sherlock is better than no Sherlock. Thankfully, John has his ways of keeping himself balanced for Sherlock's sake, his favourite among them his meetings with Irene on Thursdays at one.