A/N: So this is a completely unexpected plot bunny that was born from watching too much ASiB, and from catching the old Charlie's Angels episodes when I was at my older patient's house.
It always struck me that in ASiB, Irene had beautiful women at her disposal doing her bidding - Kate and that pretty girl she used to lure John. Of course, it's not surprising since Irene is a dominatrix, and she's bound to have more than one submissive doing her dirty work. But the idea of Irene commanding a small army of women just got hold of me. And I thought, what if she's got an Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith thing going. You know, where she's got a counterintelligence agency made up entirely of women - because I always thought Irene was the kind of girl that would excel in spy work and she would have a backup plan if something like that scene in ASiB happened to her, and I didn't buy that her motives in Bond Air were purely monetary. I mean, the woman has a closet full of designer clothes and a gorgeous house, how much more money can she need? Besides, I can totally get that she's a cold, self-serving, conniving powerhouse, but I don't think she'd be superficial. Plus, I don't really like those fics where Irene is suddenly weak and desperate and blowing in the wind when Sherlock ruins her, and she's just waiting for him to save her. Irene Adler would be more proactive than that.
So, anyway... here you go. Please take note that I live on the other side of the pond, and the closest I have ever come to being in Europe was going to Harry Potter World. So I might get some things wrong in here.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock in any way. If I did, he would be tied up already and Irene and I would probably be taking turns with him. Also, I meant absolutely no offense or harm with this thing. The Women I portrayed in here all have different personalities and origins, and whatever they do or say in this fic is in no way meant to be racist or sexist. That being said, please don't shoot me for the weirdness you are about to encounter.
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Kate was waiting for her outside Mycroft's home and Irene slid into the car with her head held high.
Life and Zhenshchina had taught her that defeat is the moment when one must hold up one's head highest. And Irene had been defeated. Oh, yes. Completely and devastatingly defeated. But she would not give Mycroft Holmes the satisfaction of seeing her desperation, and certainly not his brother. She had already begged him once. There would not be a second time, revenge would replace that.
Kate's silence was vibrating with curiosity, but Irene, needing to establish some sort of control, refused any answers, so Kate was forced to drive them both back to Eaton Square in confusion and increasing anxiety.
Finally, when she managed to calm herself, Irene replaced her earpiece and addressed Kate and the nine other women on the line, outlining the situation to them. She related all that had happened in Mycroft's study, excluding Sherlock's devastating deductions, and informed the women of the reality of the situation. Kate - Kvinna - came to a sudden stop in front of 44 Eaton Square, the screeching brakes the only signal betraying her surprise. Irene slid out and directed her to circle around the block and be back for her in ten minutes.
"Well, ladies. It seems we've hit a little snag in our plans," Irene spoke into earpiece in a nonchalant, almost bored, voice that belied her hurried movements. She had, at most, fifteen minutes before the first assassins could penetrate her security system and about ten minutes before the snipers came.
She reached into her other safe - which, thankfully, Sherlock had not been able to find, mostly because he was lying on top of it in a drugged state the last time he was in her bedroom - and rifled through the documents there: passports and visas in various countries all under different identities. Erin Watts. Clarice Orsini. Ann O'Neill. Karen Lord. Claudine Crane. She slipped them all, along with a gun, a disposable phone and about £ 20,000 in various currencies, into a hidden compartment in her purse. She had bank accounts in all countries these identities presumably lived in, of course, but it never hurt to have cash on hand, especially if she was going to be on the run.
Five minutes.
Irene quickly removed all her makeup, unpinned her hair and discarded the black Azagury dress in favor of a simple turtleneck and pants. She would miss her usual designer wardrobe, but she would have to do a lot of blending in for the immediate future. At the last minute, she spotted her riding crop, the one Sherlock Holmes had so obviously liked, on top of her bedside table and before she could think twice about it, she grabbed that too before hurrying down the stairs to the car where Kate - Kvinna - was waiting.
"Not to worry. I'll handle it as soon as I get out of London," Irene assured the others on the line as she slid into the car just as the first sniper fired, missing her ankle by inches. Bullets peppered the back of the car but Irene ducked calmly and withdrew her gun. "Drive, Kvinna."
"A little snag?!" It was Gynaika's voice that burst out in Irene's ear as Kate sped off and Irene fired at one of their attackers, hitting him in the shoulder just as they disappeared round the corner. Gynaika's grating voice jacked up the decibels in each of their earpieces and eleven women in five different countries winced. Irene saw Kate remove her earpiece in disgust. Gynaika did have a tendency to be melodramatic: the Greek woman was known to have a bit of a temper on her.
"You blew the whole operation! You put yourself and Kvinna, and maybe even Zena, in danger! And all for what? Some man." The contempt in Gynaika's voice was clearly audible.
The others started to protest in Irene's defense, but Irene stopped them all.
"Quiet."
Irene's steely voice snapped like a whip through the earpieces, and everyone fell silent. Even Gynaika. There was a reason why Irene was their alpha, and it wasn't just because she was the best dominatrix. "Are you questioning me, Gynaika?"
"No," When the other woman spoke again, it was in a more docile, though still slightly resentful, tone. "No, Woman. I was just - "
"Enough." Irene cut across her as Kate swerved into the traffic at Marylebone Road. Irene tapped her on the shoulder distractedly to make sure her Kvinna, who could be a maniac on the streets if the need arose like it did tonight, slowed down a little to avoid attracting notice by the police. They could afford it now that they weren't being tailed by anyone. Yet.
"Zena, " she addressed one of the women on the other line. "Are you secure? Are you out of London?"
"Yes, Woman. I left right after I knew you were secure at Baker Street." Zena's high, soft voice replied. "I'm in Germany with Yeoja and Wahine. We'll meet you in Frankfurt, shall we?"
"No. We'll proceed with plan B." Irene bent over again as Kate motioned to the space under Irene's seat. She pulled out a leather duffel bag and a violin case. As Irene began to transfer the passports, the phone and the money into the bag packed with a wig and enough clothes for two days, she kept talking. "I want you and Yeoja to see what you can extract from Freudenberg in Vienna. If he doesn't talk, you know what to do. I'll meet you there in a couple of days, once I shake off my tail. Wahine, I need you back here in London to help the others. Donna. Elle. Mahila."
"Yes, Woman?" three feminine voices chirped over the earpieces.
"Clean out Eaton Square. I don't want anything tracing back to me, Kvinna or Zena. You have thirty minutes." Probably less than half an hour, knowing Mycroft Holmes. He would have his men and half the Scotland Yard swarming all over her home like ants on a fallen sweet. He would be going over it with a fine-toothed comb, prying into her secrets, touching all of her possessions.
The thought made Irene's skin crawl.
There was probably no incriminating evidence against Zena in Eaton Square. After all, Zena had only played a small part in their tableau, just a lure for John Watson from Baker Street to the power station at Battersea. But even though she and Kate had been careful, there was still no telling what Mycroft Holmes might be able to deduce about Kvinna and The Woman at her home.
Mahila, Donna and Elle would have to be thorough as well as quick. But Irene knew her women and their abilities - they could finish the job well before any of Mycroft's men arrived.
Irene's eyes narrowed as she slid her riding crop into the violin case and zipped it shut. Gynaika was right about one thing at least: Irene had jeopardized the whole operation. She and her women were in danger because of her. Nothing they couldn't handle, of course. They had been through worse, much worse than Mycroft Holmes. But it still galled Irene to think that their plan had failed because of her one moment of weakness, because she had let her playful, childish infatuation for a certain consulting detective get the better of her.
Damn him, she could still feel his hand at her wrist, gently but methodically feeling for her pulse. It would have been better if he had hit her with it, a lot less painful to her pride and to her damned traitorous heart. But Irene would never admit that, the effect of his coldly devastating deduction on her, the way he had ripped apart her life with four strokes of his musician's fingers on her camera phone.
No, Sherlock Holmes may have detected the increase in her pulse whenever she was around him, but the dull, empty thudding of her heart and the sharp, stinging pain in her chest now would be her secret alone. Not even her women would know. Bad enough that she had revealed her vulnerability to Sherlock Holmes, she didn't need her women questioning her too. Thank God she hadn't been wearing her earpiece during that final confrontation in Mycroft Holmes' study - to hear her beg for her life and for theirs as well, Gynaika and her women would lose all respect for her. Then she truly would have lost everything.
Of course, she wasn't fool enough to put anything incriminating her women in her camera phone. All she had on it were the photographs of the posh little princess and other evidence against her clients as a dominatrix, her own personal insurance against the powerful who followed her like puppies on a leash in the safety of her play room but would not hesitate to attack her outside of it when the information was leaked. Damn it, so close... She had been so close...
"We're here."
Kate's voice snapped Irene out of her thoughts and she glanced out the car window. Kate had parked right in front of St. Pancras and was looking at her expectantly. Irene shook her head to clear it. "Are you three at Eaton Square?"
"Oui, Woman," Elle's voice whispered in her ear. The Frenchwoman's drawl was comforting in its monotony. "Two snipers on the roof across, and three CIA agents inside. Donna and Mahila neutralized them, and I disabled your security system. We're wiping the place down now."
"Well done. Get out before Mycroft's men get there."
"We will. Keep safe, Woman. We'll meet up with Kvinna and take care of everything here."
"Good." Irene examined herself in the rearview mirror. Though she felt a little vulnerable without her makeup, the lack of it made her look years younger. With that, and the auburn wig she fixed on her head, she could pass for Karen Lord, music student on vacation in Europe from Juilliard.
The gun would stay with Kate, she would get rid of it for her. Kate handed over her ticket just as Irene hoisted the duffel bag onto her shoulder. "You'd better hurry. You only have fifteen minutes left."
"Leave the car at Heathrow and have Elle fly as Claudine Crane to Paris, then tell her to use one of her own aliases to get to Italy and lie low there for a while. Get yourself to New York and stay there until I call for you." Irene instructed her calmly, handing the Crane passport over without skipping a beat.
The Crane alias was her weakest, any one of her clients could access it with moderate ease, and of all her women, Elle was the one who looked most like Irene. With some heavy makeup, she would facially match the photo on Claudine Crane's passport, and the fact that Elle had blond hair also helped: the people looking for Irene would no doubt be expecting her to change her appearance. Once in Paris, Elle could plant a few markers to establish Claudine Crane's presence in France to throw off their pursuers, then lose the disguise and fly to Milan or Florence to stay out of sight for the time being.
Irene felt Kate's hand linger on hers for just a millisecond as she handed her the ticket. As dominant as Kate was with their clients, she was still a sub to Irene. Irene softened a little bit and kissed the other woman on the cheek. Sentiment again. "Thank you, Kvinna."
Kate smiled wistfully back at her, but Irene was all business again as she pulled out the violin case and closed the car door. With barely another look back at the other woman, Irene walked into the train station, softening her graceful, predatory dominatrix stride into the loose lope of the college student she had once been. The doors closed and she disappeared from Kate's view.
She made it in time for her train, and as she settled into a compartment in the nearly-empty carriage, she quietly delivered her instructions to the other women.
"Mahila, Donna, keep tabs on Moriarty and his network, but keep your distance. You know how clever he is, I don't want him knowing anything about you. The rest of you, keep working on Zhenshchina's files, keep digging. I'll be in Damascus in three weeks' time and everything should go smoothly, but if it doesn't, Aimra'a, I need you to be in position in Esfahan, and Kadin, I'll need you in Karachi, just in case."
"Will you need an extraction, Woman?" Kadin's slow, lilting voice asked in her ear.
"No, no, nothing so drastic."
"What are you planning?" Aimra'a asked suspiciously.
The question made Irene laugh quietly as she settled into her seat before staring out the window to watch London recede from her view. She felt the smallest pang of loneliness, knowing it would be the last time she would see her home for a long time. Being a fugitive on the run from her own death was a prospect that caused a frisson of dread to ooze down her spine. It was a very real danger, this path she was facing, and she hadn't been lying to Sherlock when she said she might not last six months. These were dangerous people she had been playing with.
But she was Irene Adler, The Woman, and even the threat of impending death would not stop her from misbehaving.
It was in her very nature, that mischievous need to thumb her nose at life and wrestle, cajole or manipulate it into submission. It had been there even before Zhenshchina had discovered her talents, and Irene suspected it would remain there until she died of old age (God, she hoped not; she would get one of her women to shoot her first before she got to that point), or until she met her early end from said misbehaviours. Given the way her life was going now, it would most likely be the latter.
And she had to admit, this game she was planning had its merits. The chief of which was the prospect of crossing paths again with The Great Sherlock Holmes.
"Just a little game, darling," Irene responded to the other woman's question as she watched the smile on her own face grow in the train window's reflection. "I'm beginning to think I went a little too easy on the poor boy. I think it's time to raise the stakes, don't you?"
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To be continued.
P.S. Anyone care to guess the origin behind the names of my agents?