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A/N: Rather rusty at posting fanfics. Still, worth trying…
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or his universe. That would only be a dream of mine.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Couple: Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler
Setting: Non-canon; sometime after The Adventure of the Final Problem, if you're chronologically accurate and put it after the Hound of the Baskervilles. In short, Holmes is presumed to be dead by Watson.
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It was a rather dismal night in T------. The roads were well-paved with an even blanket of snow.
I dismounted the cab, and having handed my driver a tip before retreating into the warmth of Der Bäcker, a small German restaurant in town, bowler hat atop my head.
It had been almost a year since my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, disappeared into the Reichenbach Falls. Albeit devastated, I decided it would not sink in so deep as to keep me from living my personal life, and I soon dealt with it as I did with Mrs. Watson's death. I still took residence in our old bachelor home, and Mrs. Hudson was more than willing to take me in, although my surroundings haunted me constantly still.
Once inside the quiet, if rustic-styled restaurant, I requested for a single seat and, once seated, the menu. As I scanned through the various entries my eye strayed momentarily to another seat.
I leaned over slightly to gain a better view which, sure enough, further proved what I wished to see, and there was no mistaking it – I'd never forgotten a face, and this was the face of Irene Norton.
She didn't change a day after our run-in in Bohemia. Her hair was dark as ever, tied up in a tight bun, her rosy complexion unchanged even under the dim lighting. It was easy to guess why she caught Holmes's attention, if not only for her cunning.
Conversing with her across the table was a rather gangly gentleman, whose graying hair matched his graying handlebar moustache. Curiously he wore both his dark-tinted glasses and top hat indoors. I presumed him to be Godfrey Norton, her husband.
I felt obligated to approach the pair, so I did, abandoning my table. Irene seemed to notice because she smiled as I approached, abruptly stopping the conversation.
"Good evening, Mrs. Norton, Mr. Norton," I greeted her, and offered my hand for them to shake. She took it willingly, whilst Mr. Norton reluctantly shook back with a bony hand.
"Good evening, good sir," she said, and although she happily returned the handshake her expression was very much puzzled. I flushed, realizing I didn't exactly think this through. Instead I gathered all the information I could manage to remember from Bohemia.
"I don't believe we've met," I lied, thanking High Heaven I didn't stumble through my words as I do when I lie. "My name is Dr. John Watson, I attended one of your operas and I must say I became a fan of your work."
"Why, thank you," she sweetly replied. "But you are wrong at implying this man is my husband, as in referring to me as Mrs. Norton. I'm afraid my dear Godfrey succumbed to severe pneumonia."
"I'm terribly, terribly sorry," I stammered, immensely embarrassed. "My condolences, Miss Adler…"
"Please," she said, smiling civilly. "Call me Irene."
"Irene… of course," I said, still flushed. I turned to her companion. "May I know the good gentleman's name?"
Irene's dark eyes glanced over to her escort, who returned the glance before smiling at me through his moustache. "The name is Gottlieb Scherer," he introduced himself with a heavy German accent, tipping his bowler hat.
"Herr Scherer is my violinist and pianist and plays alongside me in my recent tours," Irene explained.
"I apologize for not being aware," I added.
We stood in awkward silence for a while. I observed Mr. Scherer trying to avoid my gaze every time I began to examine him (thinking I recognized him somehow), before Irene broke the silence.
"Perhaps you would like a ticket to one of my shows, Doctor?" Irene inquired.
"Oh…," I said. "I would not want to bother the good lady."
"Please, Doctor," Irene replied. "I would love to have you in my audience. We are performing alongside a few others."
She smiled so amiably, I had no choice but to yield to her invitation, and took the ticket she handed me that night. "Thank you, Miss Ad – er, Irene."
"We really must be going," she said, and gestured for the bill.
"Of course," I said.
A waiter came immediately, and as Irene paid, Mr. Scherer stood up and offered her his arm as they left.
"Arzt Watson." Mr. Scherer nodded. "Pleasure meeting you."
"As you," I replied, and watched them walk to the door, Mr. Scherer opening the door for Irene as they went out. I observed them to be a most intriguing pair, and proceeded to my table, later noticing that the reason that Irene was the only one to pay was that her elusive violinist had not placed an order.
