Time: in 'A Scandal in Belgravia' between the visit to Buckingham Palace/Irene's House and Christmas

It was a fairly normal November afternoon for the inhabitants of 221b Baker Street. Outside the weather was atrocious, with heavy rain and strong wind, but inside the flat everything was warm and cosy.

Sherlock was lying motionless on the sofa, deep in his mind palace. He had not had a case for three days and was becoming increasingly bored. This morning the Consulting Detective had 'taken it out on the wall', as John always put it so nicely, but after a short shouting match the aggravated doctor had taken and hidden the revolver (second to last drawer on the right side of John's desk, not a difficult deduction). So Sherlock was back to fighting boredom on his own. He could practically feel his mind rot without the stimulation of solving a crime.

He was just thinking about starting a particularly noisy and malodorous experiment when the doorbell yanked him out of the depths of his mind.

Single ring, right amount of pressure - client.

He shot of the sofa, stepped over the coffee table while pulling the dressing gown of his lanky frame and then slipped into the suit jacket that was hanging neatly over the back of a chair. He had found out that people did not quite take him as seriously when he received his clients in a dressing gown. Though that was apparently still more acceptable than a sheet. He never understood why people bothered with all these social rules when there were more important things to do.

John was in the kitchen making a pot of tea when the doorbell rang. He could hear Sherlock jumping of the sofa and putting on his jacket. So, obviously a client. And he was right. Just a few moments Ms Hudson's voice could be heard telling their visitor to 'Go ahead, they're upstairs'. John listened carefully. He had taken up some of Sherlock's methods and tried to deduce something about their visitor just by the sound coming up the stairs. The footsteps were light, but he could hear the faint 'click' of heels, so most likely a woman. It took her no more than five seconds to climb the 17 stairs, so she was probably young and in good condition.

John put down the kettle and ventured into the living room just in time to see a young woman stepping over the threshold. She was wearing a nearly knee-length coat in a deep red colour with a hood she had drawn up to shield herself from the ghastly weather outside. As she threw the hood back, very curly black hair spilled out from it and framed her face. She ruffled her hands through it in a gesture that reminded John very much of Sherlock. Said Consulting Detective stepped forward and put out his hand.

"May I? I could hang it up to dry."

John was surprised by such a considerate and polite offer coming from Sherlock. But then he saw the look in his friend's eyes – the 'deduction look', as he secretly called it – and realized that Sherlock had only stepped forward as an excuse to get closer to the woman in order to scrutinize her in detail. Hell, the man must really be bored out of his mind if he did that.

"Thank you."

Their visitor smiled brightly at Sherlock, though not in the particularly flirty manner most women – and a lot of men – did when meeting Sherlock for the first time (that was, before he opened his mouth and started to spew out the most impolite things, he really had the ability to piss off people within seconds).
Sherlock gestured towards the sofa.
"Please, take a seat. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. John Watson."
John smiled at the woman.
"Hello. I was just making some tea. Would you care for some? You look a bit chilled."

The woman sat down on the sofa, almost directly under the yellow smiley face on the wall. John hoped that there were no more stray shell casings lying around from Sherlock's 'shooting practice' this morning. Sherlock had started to pace to and fro after putting her coat on one of the pegs in the hallway.

"Yes, thank you, tea would be lovely."

John had to suppress an internal shiver when he heard the woman's Irish accent. Ever since The Pool he automatically connected that variety of English with the madman James Moriarty. He turned around on his heels and half-marched back into the kitchen. Only moments later he returned with a tray holding three steaming mugs of tea. One of them he placed in front of their visitor, the other he handed to Sherlock who stopped pacing and sat down in his chair. The detective took a careful sip of the hot liquid, while his eyes continued to scan over their mysterious guest.

John had to give the woman credit: very few people could survive under such a piercing Holmesian stare without fretting, but not only did she seem completely unfazed by it, she even returned it and seemed to scrutinize him in return.
Finally Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked: "Well, and you are?"
A short musical laughter left the woman's lips, though she seemed more amused than embarrassed.
"My god, where are my manners. I'm sorry. My name is Elisabeth O'Connell. First thing I wanted to tell you is that I am a great admirer of your work, Mr Holmes. I think your methods are astonishing. As for you, Dr. Watson, your blog is a continuous delight to read."

John still felt slightly embarrassed about the way an increasing number of people thought his blog was interesting. Even the government official at the Buckingham Palace and his 'employer' apparently had liked it.
Elizabeth squinted her sparkling green eyes.
"Though I have to admit, I am curious. Are you really as good as they say, Mr Holmes?"
A small arrogant smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.
"Better."
She cocked her head and smiled back at him.
"Really? Show me. Deduce me."

Sherlock was a little surprised. It was not rare that people wanted to see his 'little trick' – as they called it, dismissing the fact that it was a very precise science and not a party trick – but they usually did not want him to use it to deduce them. He had had quite a few quarrels with John about deducing people to their faces and apparently hurting their feelings. But this woman had practically invited him to do so. He cast one last glance at her and started.

"Despite your accent and your name it is very apparent that you yourself are not Irish. Definitely Europe, most likely Eastern Europe. But your husband is Irish and a bit of a traditionalist. You are quite well-to-do, but you are not snobbish about it. You also have a certain sense of nostalgia. You own a cat and are a talented seamstress. You don't mind the cold and you have a bit of a sweet tooth given that you stopped at the 'Petite Boulangerie d'Etoile' on Crawford Street just a few minutes ago. Am I right?"

He rattled through all of this within less than half a minute.

What he didn't say was that he was a little puzzled by her. When he had stood next to her while taking her coat he had taken a whiff of her perfume. Despite his normal proficiency in identifying all different kinds of perfume he could not tell what brand she used, only that it smelled of summer and rain, mixed with the faintest trace of copper. He was not even sure if it was a perfume or just her natural scent. He only knew that there was – something – about her that unnerved him.

It could be her almost suspiciously perfect pale skin, similar to the one seen on heavily photoshopped magazine covers. The lack of blemishes or even the faintest traces of scars took away very reliable clues for his deductions, which bothered Sherlock a little. If the way John was checking her out (really have to talk to him about how to eye someone inconspicuously) was any indication, Ms O'Connell obviously was pretty enough, but something as superficial as outward beauty had never bothered him. Maybe it was the fluent way with which she moved, like a dancer or a big cat of prey. She also held her mug a little more careful than necessary, which could indicate that she was stronger than she looked.

Sherlock had long ago learned to trust his own intuition – in contrast to that of other people, because they were idiots most of the time. He was aware that his subconscious could pick up clues so incredibly subtle that not even his conscious mind noticed them. Elizabeth O'Connell was one of these cases were he trusted his intuition. Nothing about her clothing – black tights, denim skirt, plum sweater – or her behaviour – open face, body language showing interest – suggested danger, but he was cautious. He had not recognized 'Jim from IT' for the psychopathic madman he was when they first met, and something like that was never going to happen again.

"That was amazing."
The tone of Elisabeth's voice showed how impressed she was.
"Mediocre."
Despite this statement and the dismissive wave of his hand John could see that Sherlock was flattered. The man was as vain as a peacock.
Elizabeth shook her head a little.
"No, that was truly remarkable. How did you see all that?"
"Your origin is made quite clear when you speak. Your English is excellent, but in your vowels I can still hear a trace of Eastern Europe. Besides, you were cautious not to greet me while still standing in the doorframe, which is an Eastern European superstition to prevent 'bad luck'. That your husband is a traditionalist I can see from the ring on your left hand. It is a customary Irish wedding ring called 'Claddagh'. The positioning on your finger indicates your marital status and I'd say yours is at least … two hundred years old, most likely a family heirloom. Your clothing and your handbag are from designer labels, but your shoes are worn, though in excellent condition, which means that you keep them out of sentimentality, not out of need. Conclusion: You have money, but you are not snobbish about it. Now about your coat: there's black cat hair in three different places. That it is hand-made is apparent from the perfect fit and the fact that is does not have a label like store-bought clothing. There's a letter in your pocket. High-quality stationery, unlikely to be official paperwork, so you keep in touch with someone via letter. Furthermore, the address is written with a calligraphy pen and black ink. All very posh and slightly nostalgic. Your recent visit to the bakery is most obvious. Even John could deduce it from the paper bag with the name printed on it. I said you don't mind the cold. That much is obvious from the fact that you wear a coat, but no scarf or gloves despite the somewhat freezing temperature. You also walked here – your coat is wet and your shoes show a very distinct dirt pattern. Even if you are not bothered by the cold, it is still far from the ideal weather for an idle stroll. So your visit here has a very specific purpose, one which you deem significant enough to brave the storm outside. So please, tell me what you want me to investigate and don't be boring."

Elisabeth laughed again, a cheerful sound that reminded John of a bird.
"I gladly repeat myself. Remarkable. You are right on every account."
She suddenly leaned forward and placed her tea cup on the small table, the merry expression gone from her face, steel shining in her eyes. Her voice had lost its warmth.
"Except one: I am not here because I want you to investigate something. In fact, I would ask you not to investigate something."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his face showed mild curiosity.
"Ah… and what would that be?"
"Laslo Balaur." Elisabeth said the name like it was an insult. A small shark-like smile appeared on Sherlock's lips.
"Who said I was investigating him?"
"I am aware that you have taken interest in his ventures, though only superficially at the moment."
Sherlock actually had the nerve to chuckle.
"It is never wrong to learn about a criminal before they become a real problem."
Elisabeth shook her head and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, again carefully sipping her still hot tea.
"Believe me, Balaur is a real problem. Just not yours."
"Excuse me, but who are you talking about?"

John decided that it was time to remind them that he was still sitting next to them. Sherlock answered him, although his gaze remained focused on the mysterious woman on the sofa.

"Laslo Balaur, nickname 'The Dragon'. Romanian criminal. Head of an organisation he calls 'The Sons of the Dragon' dealing with everything from human trafficking to stolen art coming from or going into Eastern Europe. He was Romania's most-wanted criminal for a while and has now decided to 'branch out'. He arrived in London about six months ago. I thought it wise to keep track of his business."
His attention shifted back to Elisabeth.
"Who told you I was investigating him?"
"Why do you want to know?"
Sherlock made a non-committal gesture with his hand.
"Call it professional curiosity."
Elisabeth drew a slightly exasperated breath and let it out through her aquiline nose.
"I was contacted about the matter by an old friend. A mutual … acquaintance, I believe."
She smiled at them. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Eireen Norton?" She spoke the name with a strong accent, sounding almost like 'Ee-RAY-n'. Sherlock showed no sign of recognizing the name. Elisabeth's musical laughter resurfaced for a moment.
"Oh, I forgot. You know her perhaps better as Irene Adler."
At the sound of that name Sherlock immediately tensed. His former nonchalance was completely gone and replaced by wariness.
"How do you know Ms Adler?" John injected carefully.
"I am sorry, Dr Watson, but I would rather not talk about that."
The tone of her words made it clear that it was useless to ask further questions.
"She is aware that you, Mr Holmes, are looking into Balaur's business and contacted me. She told me that your last meeting ended … a little 'unsatisfying' – her words, not mine. She knew that you would therefore not heed her advice, so she asked me to talk to you. And I'm telling you: stay away from that man. You have got no idea what you are dealing with. Balaur is dangerous. He is not like Moriarty. I know of the little game the two of you played, Mr Holmes. Balaur will not play games with you. He will kill you. Get in his way and you sign your own death warrant. Believe me."
The last two words came out in a very low and sad whisper and Elisabeth looked almost like she had to hold back tears.

"He killed your husband." That was a statement, not a question.
Elisabeth jolted in surprise, her face an unreadable mask, green eyes boring into Sherlock's blue-grey ones.
"How…?"
"The vehemence with which you speak of Balaur tells me that you have dealt with him in the past. You yourself are still alive, so apparently it was not you who got into his way. But it was someone very close to you judging from your emotional reaction. You were fidgeting with your wedding ring while you spoke of 'signing your own death warrant', so I'm assuming that it was your husband who was killed by Balaur."
Elisabeth looked down, an interesting mixture of rage, hurt and sorrow flitting over her face while she gently caressed the silver ring on her left hand. As she looked up, her face was expressionless again.
"Your deductions are correct, Mr Holmes. He killed my husband. And for that I hate Balaur with every fibre of my body. Believe me, he will pay for it. You, on the other hand, could only get yourself killed."

Sherlock gave a condescending sneer.
"Please. Other people way more dangerous than this self-proclaimed 'Dragon' have tried to kill me and found it a very difficult task to accomplish."
The smile that appeared on Elisabeth's face at that could only be described as wolfish.
"Mr Holmes, no matter how justified your pride in your abilities is, if Balaur decides that you are in his way, he will succeed in killing you. So, if you know what's good for you, don't go after him."
"So you propose that this man – if he really is as dangerous as you say – should be left alone to continue with his business here in London?"
"I never said that. I just said that you shouldn't do anything against him."
"And then who do you have in mind for that task? The police? Pfth. Frankly said, they're idiots most of the time. Or do you plan to go after Balaur yourself?"
The tone of Sherlock's voice made it clear that he had his doubts about her capability of going after an international criminal. The wolfish grin reappeared on Elisabeth's face.
"Indeed. You may doubt it, but it will be me to stop Balaur and no one else. That man is mine."

She spoke through clenched teeth and ended the promise with a barely audible growl. The murderous expression and the cold fire in her darkening eyes almost made John feel sorry for the man she had promised to hunt down. He did not know why, but he had a feeling that Elisabeth O'Connell was more than capable of whatever she had in mind. He had been in the military long enough to recognize unshakable determination when he saw it.

When Elisabeth spoke again, her voice had returned to the business-like tone she had used earlier.
"Now, Mr Holmes, I must repeat myself: If you know what's good for you, stay away from Balaur."
"Why are you so intent on keeping me alive? We don't know each other."
She chuckled.
"As I said, I was asked to do it on behalf of our mutual friend."
An expression of disdain crossed Sherlock's face.
"Right, Irene Adler. Then why is she so intent on keeping me alive? The last time I met her, she drugged me and hit me with a riding crop."
For a moment Elisabeth seemed surprised, then she started to laugh.
"Yeah, that sounds just like the Irene I know. I'm not sure exactly what her game is, but I know that you have piqued her curiosity. And she hates to lose her toys before she's finished with them."
She stood up before the glare on Sherlock's face could deepen any further.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got other important business to attend to. Mr Holmes, if you would be so kind as to fetch me my coat?"

Sherlock's raised eyebrow was met with a slightly mocking smile from their visitor. Finally the detective gave in and heaved his lanky frame from his chair to get her coat. Elisabeth shrugged into it with long-practiced grace.
"Now, Mr Holmes, it was a delight to meet you. I really hope we can repeat that experience one day."
"The feeling is mutual, Ms O'Connell, I can assure you."
Sherlock stood towering over the woman that barely reached up to his shoulder. They locked eyes, not quite glaring at each other, but very close to it. Slowly, a slightly malicious grin spread on Elisabeth's face. There's something wrong with her teeth, John thought, before the stare down was interrupted by an erotic sighing coming from the pocket of Sherlock's jacket. Elisabeth's eyebrows shot up till they nearly met her hairline.

"That was my phone, Ms O'Connell, no need to worry."
"I'm not worried. It's just… I'm a little surprised about that sound. When did Irene get hold off your phone?"
"How do you know it's her?"
Elisabeth bit down on her bottom lip as if lost in a pleasant memory.
"Let's just say I know her well enough to have heard that … sound before. I'll leave you to your own deductions."
Her smile spread even wider. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, but for once he was clever enough not to say anything. John was very surprised when Elisabeth turned around and beamed at him merrily.
"Oh, and thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson. It was really excellent."
"You're welcome."
John was a little stunned that she had not completely forgotten his presence in the room since she had been so preoccupied with Sherlock.
"Now, as I said, it was a pleasure. Have a nice afternoon, gentlemen."
And with that and a dramatic whirl of her garnet coat she was gone.

John turned towards Sherlock.
"What the bloody hell was that all about?"
Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows as he often did when he thought very hard, while he was checking his phone for the new message.
"I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."