Author's note: A reader pointed out I hadn't written an Irene Adler Post-Reichenbach story yet, so I decided to do it – although, as usual, I couldn't resist the temptation to make it a little bit strange.
I don't own anything, please review.
She had done this for business often enough; this time it was for pleasure, and for pleasure only.
That wasn't to say that she didn't enjoy her work; but this one time, she would receive absolutely no benefit for what she was about to do, and she didn't care in the least.
She had had a weak spot for Sherlock Holmes, and she would sure that the persons responsible for his death paid for what they had done.
Her and Kate had been in Amsterdam when they'd heard about Sherlock's suicide. She always kept herself well-informed about what was going on in her home country; she even read John's blog and looked at Sherlock's homepage now and then. She had been pleased he was slowly getting the recognition he deserved, even if he most likely didn't care about it in the slightest.
And then the only man she had ever looked up to lost everything and took his life.
Ironically, she hadn't checked the headlines for a week when it happened, simply because she had been convinced that nothing interesting could be going on in London. Needless to say, she had been wrong.
On this day, the one day that mattered, she had asked Kate to quickly go over the headlines (later, she would be happy she had done so; she didn't like showing emotions in front of anyone, not even her faithful partner, and if she had read the news herself she wouldn't have been able to hold back) and see if anything of importance had happened. She had a client to attend to. She chose a riding crop and walked into her studio, humming to herself.
After she had finished the session, she went to get a cup of tea. As usual, Kate waiter for her; and yet Irene knew immediately something had happened. Her PA was paler than she'd ever seen her.
"What happened?" she asked, even though somehow, she realized she'd known all along as soon as Kate told her.
"Sherlock Holmes killed himself".
She didn't say anything, simply accepted the cup of tea Kate offered to her. Kate looked at her, somehow knew what she needed and gently squeezed her shoulder before going to the kitchen to make even more tea.
The irony that she and Kate resembled Sherlock and John in more than one respect didn't escape her.
She was shocked, there was no use denying it.
Sherlock Holmes certainly had never seemed like the type to commit suicide.
She knew men. Her whole business was built upon the fact that she knew men. And Sherlock Holmes wouldn't commit suicide. Unless –
Sherlock Holmes wouldn't commit suicide unless it was the very last option.
Someone had forced Sherlock to commit suicide. It was the only theory that made sense.
She tried to call Moriarty, of course. If there was anyone who could make sense of it all, it was the consulting criminal. Especially if he was the one to force him to commit suicide (as she suspected).
Her suspicion turned into certainty when she couldn't reach Moriarty. The self-proclaimed foremost champion of crime in his generation had never left his phone unanswered.
Either he as hiding, or he was dead.
Either way –
Irene soon found out that it had been him who'd spread the lies about Sherlock. Richard Brook and Moriarty were one and the same.
She had to admit that his plan was ingenious. Posing as an actor Sherlock had hired to play his archenemy – she couldn't have thought of a better plan.
But she would never have hurt Sherlock.
Not only because he had saved her life. She had always had a weak spot for the consulting detective, ever since she'd learned of his existence. She had never been in love with him – Love, as Sherlock had put it, was a chemical defect found on the losing side; she had learned that early in life.
And yet she had been as close as she would ever be to falling in love when she'd met Sherlock. He had been – different; he had been exciting; he had been everything normal men were not.
He had challenged her; he had beaten her – though only after she'd beaten him; he had saved her life.
In a way, she had admired him. He was – he had been –
He had been a good man, and no one could tell her otherwise. He had tried, and almost convinced, the World that he didn't care, that he was a sociopath. She and John Watson – amongst others, she wasn't as naive as to believe that no one had ever noticed the heart behind Sherlock's facade – had realized that this wasn't true. Sherlock had been human, utterly human, and this was what had led to his downfall. Irene still believed there had been more to his death. She had read the pathologist's report – she still had her connections, she knew what the Chief Superintendent liked – and accepted that Sherlock had indeed committed suicide, but that couldn't be all.
Sherlock Holmes would have considered how John would bear it, how his landlady – who according to the blog, was more like a mother to them – how – how anyone who meant something to him would bear his death, really. He had prided himself on his logic; but exactly this logic would have told him that his suicide would only confirm his guilt. It didn't make sense.
And yet he was dead. The only man who had ever remotely interested her was dead.
Somehow, especially but not only because he had saved her, she felt that she owed him some kind of justice. Undoubtedly he wouldn't have liked the thought of making people pay for his death – as opposed to many, she was convinced that Sherlock had been a good man, perhaps a too good man in the end – but he wasn't there to complain about it, and she would make certain that justice would prevail.
Even if no one but she and Kate would ever know, she would have her revenge. Sherlock's revenge.
Normally, she ruined people's life for business; because they hadn't paid, because they hadn't listened to her. This time, it was strictly for pleasure.
Moriarty was dead; after weeks of trying to find him, she was reasonably sure. There was no reason the consulting detective would simply disappear – especially after he had finally won the game he'd played with Sherlock Holmes.
Irene didn't know how or why he had died – she suspected the list of people who wished his death had been a long one, Mycroft Holmes' name being right at the top – but it didn't matter. Dead men couldn't suffer, and she wanted someone to suffer for Sherlock's death.
She would have liked to annoy Mycroft Holmes a little – she had never been fond of the Ice Man and, after reading the articles, she had come to the conclusion that only one person in England could have given Moriarty all this information. Sherlock's older brother. She had never taken kindly to betrayal – in a job like hers, one needed to know who one could and who one couldn't trust, and she had found Kate who would rather die than betray her – and she had a feeling that Sherlock would whole-heartedly approve any attempt to make his brother pay for what he had done.
Sadly, that was hardly possible. She had run out of pictures to blackmail the royal family with, and the elder Holmes certainly would not allow her to leave the country again if she tried to have some fun at his costs. So, sadly, she couldn't do anything about Mycroft Holmes.
The next name that came into her mind was Kitty Riley.
It was only logical. She had been taken in by Moriarty pretending to be Richard Brook, at least according to the newspaper articles; furthermore, Irene didn't think she was clever enough to have been his accomplice. But if she had bothered to do her research, she would soon have realized that Sherlock had never invented a single crime he had solved.
Kitty Riley had chosen the easy path, not bothering to check the facts, not caring whose life she destroyed in the process.
Irene had destroyed several lives in her time, she wouldn't deny that; but she'd always done her research. She had never believed in rumours or hearsay just because it would be easy. Nothing was ever obtained easily in this World. Kitty Riley had chosen to believe what she wanted to believe, and Sherlock had committed suicide because of it.
It was time she got what she deserved.
She was still working for the newspaper as if nothing had happened. And why shouldn't she? According to her (she continued writing articles about the case after Sherlock's suicide – Irene had to admit that she admired her bravado, if only a little), an impostor had taken his own life because somebody had uncovered the truth.
Irene would teach her a lesson. No one would ever know she had done so, of course, no one except her and Kate, but she didn't care about that. She simply wanted to prove a point. And have some fun while doing so.
Discrediting Kitty Riley could hardly be difficult. Seeing as she had been duped by Moriarty and happily believed his lies without bothering to hear Sherlock's side of the story, she was desperate for headlines.
So why not give her one.
It wasn't the most ingenious of plans – Sherlock would have seen through it in a minute – but this was not about making up and ingenious and elaborate plan. This was about getting even.
And Kate was more than happy to help her – Sherlock Holmes had saved Irene's life, after all.
So Kate posed as the mistress of the Minister of Internal Affairs. Irene made a list of nights her PA could claim she had spent with the Minister – dates of official functions, national and international emergencies, it didn't matter as long as there were witnesses to show that he could never have slept with Kate at the time – and sent her on her way. Her friend was well-versed in the art of deception, and reported that Kitty Riley was anxious to write about her story.
Irene wasn't surprised. A young journalist who had just landed her first big spook would naturally be anxious not to be forgotten.
She was certain that the fool would not try to find any evidence that Kate's claims were true. If she'd wanted to be a truly investigative journalist, she would have bothered to contact some of Sherlock's clients before publishing her article.
Irene half-expected to hear from Mycroft Holmes – she was more or less threatening the reputation of a member of the Government, and he had certainly found out by now that she and her faithful friend had returned to England and probably wondered why, especially if he thought her dead, like Sherlock had assured her he would – but the elder Holmes did nothing. There was the possibility that he hadn't noticed her return, but it was unlikely. This was the all-seeing Ice Man they were talking about.
Maybe he wanted her to finish what she had started.
Soon enough, just a week later – and after her and Kate's third meeting – Kitty's article appeared and sure enough caused a public uproar.
Until people realized that the Minister could prove he had never seen the woman who claimed to be his mistress in his life. As usual, there were a few conspiracy nuts who declared this all to be but a hush-up orchestrated by the Ministry but because of several picture, videos and interviews about the nights in question nobody would listen to them.
Kitty Riley was fired two weeks after the first proof that she had "invented" the story appeared (Irene had decided that to have Kate disappear and make people believe that the journalist had simply fabricated their interviews was a fitting way to destroy Kitty's reputation).
Kitty Riley would never publish a story again, and her and Kate would leave the country tomorrow.
There were two visits she still had to pay, though.
She stood in the shadows and watched as Kitty left her office for the last time.
A moment later, she was standing in front of her, asking pleasantly, "It doesn't feel nice, being called an impostor, does it?"
Somehow the other woman realized that it had been her who had destroyed her reputation, and spat out, "Why?"
"Because" she answered simply, looking her in the eyes, "Sherlock Holmes was an honest man".
She turned around and didn't look back.
The last thing she did before leaving England was visiting Sherlock's grave.
She didn't know if he would have wanted to take revenge on Kitty Riley – probably not, since he had dedicated his life to fighting crime – but she didn't care. She had done what needed to be done, what no one else could have done.
She laid down a single red rose on his grave before leaving England and Sherlock Holmes behind her forever.
Author's note: This idea just came to my mind, and I figured why not?
I hope you liked it, please review.