Hello and welcome to Followingthefire Fanfictions. To properly introduce myself I'm Kate. This is my first Sherlockian fanfiction. I've loads of works on loads of sites but enough about that. This story is an attempt to pay homage to the show that captured my attention like no other. I'd simply be thrilled if you give it a go and drop me a word. It should be a longish, most definitely mature story with a hopefully entertaining plot. Tell me what you think. I'd love to know.
Summary: When weapons mogul and brilliant scientist (not to mention Sherlock's oldest friend), Victor Trevor allegedly commits suicide, his young daughter Victoria goes to the consulting detective for help. The "suicide" seems to have something to do with none other than the newly undead Moriarty. It seems he's coming after everyone Sherlock has ever held dear which includes Violet Hunter, Sherlock's ex-fiancée. Now Sherlock has to play Moriarty's game and see the woman that once held his heart. While John learns the truth behind Sherlock's callous nature.
All the quotes in the opening are from the maestro, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
In this story, Violet is played by Sophie Hunter. Slight bit of Adlock in the first chapter.
I own nothing.
A Distracting Factor
Preface
The Personal Blog of John H. Watson
Having lived with him for over three years and having spent countless hours in his company, I began to assume that, despite his mercurial moods and steely reserve, I knew Sherlock Holmes rather well.
He was and remains my closest confidante and truest friend, but I can now, with certainty, say I never knew him at all until I knew the names Violet, Victor and Sherrinford.
Those names might seem and actually be of little or no consequence to you. I confess they meant nothing to me until the whole of what can only be described as an audacious, traumatic and utterly bewildering ordeal was known to me.
It was moment that underscored the fact that despite how dear he is to me, Sherlock is very much a mystery.
I'm writing this blog, but it's likely that I may never publish it. The matters addressed herein are of a most personal nature and I will, in no instance, make them public without the without the explicit permission of the parties involved.
That being said, I feel it incumbent upon myself to document the facts, in fear of it being widely known by other means and an erroneous distortion of the truth be viewed as Holy Writ.
The time I am about to relate is now two years past; much has changed and much is the same. My daughter, Sheryl Georgiana, is ten months old and my wife, Mary, is pregnant with our second child.
Things were going well, and I was entertaining notions of my own private surgery and Sherlock was, well…
Sherlock.
I had no expectations of him being anything else.
We were facing a reoccurring crisis: the ever-increasing and markedly troubling presence of one James Moriarty.
Moriarty has rose from the dead, scared the hell out of the free world, and had simply vanished.
Intelligence didn't have the foggiest, Mycroft and the King's Men were absolutely clueless, and if any of the scattered and shifty members of Moriarty's vast criminal network knew anything, they knew bloody well not to say anything.
We were at an impasse, waiting. And the wait was driving Sherlock mad. He paced his rooms furiously, longed for the most bizarre of cases to come around and take his mind off of Moriarty's game.
Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and myself all did our best to keep him engaged and well, not bored. But this proved rather challenging for all us.
Very little of the common world amused Sherlock. Telly certainly wouldn't have cut it. He was forcibly removed from every cinema I'd forcibly dragged him to. I dared not go near Cluedo.
Mary had the brilliant idea of enlisting Sherlock to hire our nanny. More than a few candidates left in tears, or in some cases, handcuffs. But this managed to keep Sherlock busy for a good period of time. But there was still no sign of Moriarty.
Meanwhile, we know now that the world's most terrifying psychopath (Moriarty, in case that wasn't clear) was busily doing his research on his only rival. Obsession doesn't even begin to describe the depth of his fixation with Sherlock.
Nothing could've prepared any of us for what was coming. We've could've never formed a contingency for how far Moriarty was going to push us.
It started the way all our adventures did: with a client.
But this was no ordinary client.
One
"Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst."
Whoever said that as a lover, Sherlock Holmes would've been placing himself in quite a false position would've considered themselves well-informed. It was true that the world's only consulting detective abstained from love, romance and carnal activity as much as certain people abstained from alcohol or saccharine beverages. It was also true that there were very few people who could've enraptured the cold, calculated and reasoning being that was Sherlock Holmes.
However, whoever claimed that Sherlock never knew anything of love would have found themselves quite mistaken.
Had they been present in the late 90s and early 2000s, a rather different picture of William Scott Sherlock Holmes would have emerged.
But one could not be bothered with age-old trifles, not when current events were far more engaging and potentially dangerous.
Indeed, Sherlock hadn't given a moment's consideration to his past, only, and some (Mycroft) might say quite disastrous love affair. And it was for a lack of better suited words that he'd labeled it that. No, that had been locked far away in the corners of his Mind Palace. He'd chosen not to delete it, for fear of forgetting the lessons it had taught him. But he hardly ever ventured into that corner of his brain. The memories stored there haunted him much more than any of the criminals, lowlifes, and insipid Scotland Yarders he'd come across.
It wasn't on his mind. It was never on his mind. Bigger things were happening. As he stared out the window, watching the sights and sounds of London in the fall, his fingers itched for a cigarette. He knew he shouldn't. He'd been doing so well since last Christmas.
The thought of last Christmas made him cringe. Magnussen…Mary…Moriarty. Blood was on his hands, not that he felt the least bit guilty. As Mary had so artfully encapsulated, people like Magnussen should be killed.
But that matter was over and done with, and bigger things were happening now. Moriarty was back, or at least, he had been. He'd broadcasted his return all over the world, and had suddenly vanished…again.
The whole ordeal was beyond tiresome. Sherlock was nearly bored. What was his game? And how had he survived?
Sherlock could think of at least 96 different scenarios, but none of them seemed the least bit probable. Moriarty was smart, doubtlessly. Of course, he was also a raging psychopath. Something Sherlock, decidedly, was not. As hard as he tried, he couldn't help but seem a disturbing similarity between himself, the consulting detective, and Moriarty, the consulting criminal.
But of course, Sherlock was on the side of the angels. And that was the major difference. He might not have possessed a halo or an angelic persona, but he was most certainly not a criminal. Thank God for that.
He was about to enter into his Mind Palace, with the notion that something tucked away in there might give a clue as to where the maniac was hiding out…but he was interrupted.
"Sherlock, do you think you could last five minutes actually listening?" called a familiar, and presently, mildly annoying feminine voice.
Sherlock's sharp ice blue eyes opened into the warm, deep brown eyes of Victoria Trevor, his goddaughter. Of course, most people didn't know the seventeen year old as the goddaughter of Sherlock Holmes.
Most knew her as the BAFTA award winning actress, singer and ballerina. She was young, talented and an absolute genius. Her career was massive, as was her intellect. Sherlock found it rather perplexing that she chose to use her artistic talents instead of her cerebral ones. Her father, Victor, was Sherlock's closest friend at uni.
The two, being public figures, took pains to avoid association. Tori, as she was affectionately called by everyone except Sherlock, desired that their connection remain as secretive as possible, as did Sherlock. The last time they encountered each other was while Sherlock was in hospital. She'd insisted on coming to visit him despite his pronounced protestations.
Presently, Sherlock didn't know why she'd come to see him, but he had deduced that whatever it was, it was worrisome.
"I'm terribly sorry, Victoria, do continue your regaling thesis of the merits of Westwood vs. McQueen."
A frown crossed Victoria's cappuccino-colored features. She knew that tone, she knew it all too well. Sherlock, her "Uncle" Sherlock, was getting bored with her. She didn't blame him. He knew that there was a marked reason for her visit, one she was hesitating to approach.
"All right, Sherlock," Tori said with a sigh. "Shall I be frank?"
"Of course."
Tori sat in the chair opposite, John Watson's chair, to be precise. Her short dark hair cupped her face and made her look younger than twenty, her bangs were growing into her big doe eyes. Sherlock decided it was the time to properly appraise her. His cool, calculating eyes scanned over her carriage, his brain quickly processing everything he saw:
She's wearing extra makeup around her eyes to hide the swelling. Eyes swelling? She's recently been crying. Crying, why? Why would a young, posh, brilliant girl be in tears? Career issues? No, she's too smart for that. Family troubles? The anniversary of her mother's dead is nowhere near. She's wearing expensive clothes; that's not unusual, she's an actress. Her nails are freshly manicured, but slightly uneven. She's been biting them. Nervous? Her bag is heavy; she's carrying more than lipstick and a brush. She usually travels light. She got up earlier than normal, and left in a rush. Straight from Chelsea to Baker Street. Also, she came by without calling, something we never do. I haven't heard from her father in three months and she hasn't mentioned him once during this visit. Conclusion: something unpleasant is going on with Victor.
"Of course," continued Sherlock. "Do tell me whatever's going on with your father and why you're coming to me about it. Something dreadful, I'm assuming considering the tears you've been shedding and the nails you've been biting."
Anyone else would've been surprised at his instant and freakishly correction summation, but not Tori. She knew him too well.
"Sherlock, Daddy's dead," she said with a decided air of sadness inching into her tone.
Sherlock's eyes widened. Victor dead? That was impossible. Victor was barely thirty-seven, two years older than Sherlock. It was unlikely that he'd succumbed to a serious illness. Victor was active and healthy, practically obsessed with physical stamina. And if he'd been ill, someone would've informed Sherlock.
Victor Trevor was a brilliant physicist, chemist, weapons designer and neurosurgeon. He was one of the most respected minds in Great Britain, if not the world. He had numerous papers published, went to countless conventions and summits on mental health and scientific developments and he was the CEO of the UK's largest weapons manufacturer, Burnwell Inc. His death would've been in the papers.
"Dead?" Sherlock repeated, feeling a slight tremor of emotion that he quickly quelled. "I had not heard…"
"No one has," Tori interrupted. "It's only happened two days ago. I've managed to keep the press away. But I can't hold the sodding vultures off for too long. Sherlock, the police are ruling it a suicide."
"But you don't think so?"
"Sherlock, you knew my father. Would you have believed him capable of…?"
"Never," Sherlock admitted. "He was not of the despondent mind. Your father is brilliant and determined, not the kind that would cave in to despair."
Tori cracked a smile even as she blinked back tears. This was not the time for grief. There would be plenty of time for that later. "That's what I told them, but they did hear a word I said and they ignored several crucial pieces of evidence."
"That's characteristic of Scotland Yard. Rest assured, in nine times out of ten, vital clues will be overlooked, if not stupidly ignored."
"Will you come? Please, will you help?"
"Well, I can't make bricks without clay. Start from the beginning."
Tori sat back in her chair and crossed her legs in a very Sherlockian way. "I've been in the States for a film. Dad usually visits me while I'm working. But we hadn't been getting on."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Bloody stupid it was," Tori huffed. "He says I'm a workaholic, I say he'd know. We were both being petty, snapping at each other. It's gets like this around the spring since…"
"Yes," Sherlock replied quickly. There was no need to go into that.
"Well, we were in a state when I left. He didn't bother seeing me off and I didn't bother ringing up when I got there."
"Victoria, I'm sure this is a moving tale, it's probably better suited for your therapist. So why don't we skip to the circumstances surrounding your father's death?"
"Well, I got back two nights ago. I hadn't phoned in over a week. When I got there, he was on the couch, pill bottle in hand. Note on the table in front of the telly. He was just there, a cup of tea right in front of him."
"What did the note say?"
"'My work has no meaning, my life has no meaning.' That was it. Nothing else."
"Was it in your father's handwriting?"
"That's the perplexing part," Tori said with her voice dropping into a sad, soft whisper. "It was. I confirmed it to DI Wilson. That was the one pertinent question they did ask. But I told him, I told him again and again that Daddy would have never committed suicide. A deafer ear I've never encountered, I'm certain."
Sherlock sighed. "I assume Scotland Yard has been all over the place, probably compromised telling evidence?"
"Your assumption is on sparkling form."
Sherlock shrugged. "What else is there?" he asked.
Tori hesitated again. Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience. "Victoria, we're not going to get anywhere if you're withholding crucial information."
"Sherlock, as you know, Daddy sold weapons to everyone. The MOD, the CIA, private corporations. But recently, it seems that he'd acquired some rather unsavory clients."
"Do go on," was Sherlock's only reply.
Tori hung her head down, clearly ashamed. "He hadn't the foggiest idea who he was selling his weapons too. Had he but known, I'm quite certain that he never would've…he tried to stop it happening. He did."
"Victoria, what happened?"
Tori shrugged. "He didn't know, I swear it, he didn't know. He would've never. Once he knew who Moriarty was, he tried to get out of it—"
"Moriarty?!" Sherlock jumped.
Victoria had turned pale. "Moriarty. He entered into a contract with Moriarty. This was before the trial; before anyone knew who Moriarty was. Before your…fake suicide. Thanks again for the warning. But ever since, Daddy's been trying to get out of it. He hadn't a clue that I knew about it."
"How did you find out?"
"It was almost four years ago, I came home early from rehearsal. Moriarty was walking out of our flat as I was driving back up. When I arrived, Daddy was on the phone, whispering something about he was not going to be threatened or intimidated. I didn't think anything of it. I didn't know who Moriarty was. But I think Daddy had begun to figure it out. After Moriarty's death, everything was normal. But then, that ghastly telecast. And now, Daddy's gone."
"And you're scared for your life?"
"What?"
"Clearly there's something, Victoria, something you're hiding. Something you haven't disclosed to the police. And why ever should you? You're smart. You don't trust them. You know they wouldn't know what to make of it. So you've brought it to me."
"You're sharp as ever," Victoria commented. "I found it in my room," she said as she rummaged in her purse. She pulled out a medium-sized yellow envelope. It had a tell-tale burgundy seal on it. Sherlock recognized it immediately. Victoria read the threat as calmly as she could. "'First the king, then the heir'. It's a threat."
"Clearly," Sherlock remarked. "Let me see it." He examined it briefly, but found it without so much of a trace. Moriarty was too smart to leave traces. "Nothing much to be found there, and the clue is very vague. So we'll have to start with your father. Do you have any idea what he was working on for Moriarty?"
Tori shrugged. "No. I didn't concern myself with my father's work. I had too much of my own. I'm not just West End theatre and Royal Ballet. I've had some of my psychology papers published. But no, I've not the slightest notion what it was. Likely a weapon of sorts."
"Seems the most probable option. Rest assured, I'll get to the bottom of it." Tori was just about to reach for her godfather's hand when John Watson's quick step was heard on the staircase.
"Sherlock," called the army doctor. "You busy?" He took in the situation and assumed it was a client. "Oh, if you're working a case…"
"Not at the moment, John," Sherlock called. "This is Victoria Trevor, my goddaughter."
John's eyes widened. "Tori Trevor?" he asked taking a closer look at the young woman. "The actress? The singer? Your goddaughter?" He turned, looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock just nodded impatiently. "Yes, my goddaughter, didn't you hear me?"
"You have a goddaughter?"
"John, I'm beginning to think a hearing aid might be advisable."
"Stop it, you," Tori interrupted. "Dr. Watson, we finally meet. I've heard much." She extended her hand to the bamboozled Dr. Watson who just starred at her for a few seconds. "I read your blog."
"You read my blog? You're Sherlock's…goddaughter? He's never mentioned you at all."
"Would you expect him to? We both prefer to avoid displays of sentimentality. He's appalled by it and I simply don't have the time."
Now, that John believed. "I didn't mean to interrupt…"
"It's quite all right, John, the kettle's just boiled and um, I was going to ring you up anyway. Victoria is the daughter of my old college roommate, Victor. It seems Victor has committed suicide."
John turned to Tori. "I'm terribly sorry for you loss—"
"John, please defer the pointless, boring, irrational condolences for another time. Victor didn't commit suicide. He was murdered, possibly by Moriarty."
John's eyes got intensely wider. "Why would Moriarty kill your old college mate? Is he trying to get to you or—"
"No, no, he's far too dramatically obsessed with me to waste time with people from my past. It's merely an unhappy accident. Victor was a weapons designer," Sherlock said with his characteristic eye-roll and dismissive wave of his hand. "But, still it raises an interesting question. Why did Moriarty come after your father? It could be about me, after all. When it comes to Moriarty, everything usually is."
Tori shrugged. "I don't know. Would Moriarty have known that you and Daddy knew each other?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. "It's possible. He's made it his life's work to know everything about me and destroy me."
"It was so much easier when he was dead," Tori remarked dryly. Sherlock couldn't help but nod in agreement.
"Well, what you going to do?" John asked, looking somewhat concerned about his friend. The last time Sherlock had a confrontation with Moriarty, the repercussions were immense. No one wanted to go through that again.
"Something tells me this is only Moriarty's first move. For now, we wait. He's showing his hand slowly, steadily, waiting for a perfect moment to strike. If he's coming after me, he won't want me to know it, but he's perfectly aware that I will." Sherlock stood and started pacing the floor, his brain clearly working. "He made a connection with Victor. CEOs of weaponry manufactures are not the kind of people Moriarty meets for tea. But why Victor? There are plenty of other weapon companies much more suited to Moriarty's client list. Because of a personal connection…Victor is an old friend…Moriarty has been planning this for an age."
John sighed. "So what? He's killed an old college mate of yours? Is he trying to scare you? Is he having you on?"
"He's trying to get my attention. He's succeeded. The question is what's going to be his next move?"
"So, shall we just sit here, watch telly, and wait for him to kill somebody else?" Tori asked impatiently. "Mind you, the man he killed was my father."
"I will stop him, Victoria. That is a promise."
Before Victoria could respond, the door opened and in stepped the tall and imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes. He carried his constant companion with him: a large and imposing umbrella. His eyes roved briefly across the room and they settled on Tori. "Ms. Trevor, I did not expect to see you here," he said with grave formality. "Considering the circumstances, it now seems all too likely. Afternoon, John." His eyes turned a cool gaze to Sherlock. "Hello, dear brother, I take it Ms. Trevor had reported to the news of her father's untimely demise?"
"Quite," Sherlock replied. "But I fail to see what it has to do with you."
"Dr. Trevor was a frequent consulter to the MOD, he had all types of classified information in his care. His death presents a significant problem to national security. If the information falls into the wrong hands…"
"England could fall," Sherlock finished for his elder brother.
John rolled his eyes, the Brothers Holmes never could resist a touch of the dramatic.
"Quite," was Mycroft's reply. "I was hoping you might be of assistance."
"Of course you were. I understand that Moriarty might've had something to do with it."
"Seems the likely conclusion, Victor consulted with numerous people, your consulting criminal just happens to be one of them."
"So what?" John asked. "It's not like we can go and arrest Moriarty. We don't even know where he is." He turned to Mycroft. "Does Intelligence have anything on his whereabouts?"
Mycroft shook his head. "Jim Moriarty is a shadow. We know of no one who could trace him."
Sherlock grinned. "I think I do."
Southampton, New York, USA
"Will you be requiring anything else, Ms. Pratt?"
"No, that will be all, thank you, Claire," called the young, well-groomed and splendidly beautiful "Ellen Pratt". Her catlike eyes scanned the room with a small amount of delight.
This had been her best scheme yet. She was comfortable, well-kept and out of harm's way. Yes, there were still people trying to find her, but none of them had the brainpower to do so, that she was certain of.
In truth, she missed London. The Hamptons were beautiful and filled with rich, careless and gullible people, which were most certainly her favorite.
As she sat in her summer house, filled with nothing but the best and brightest, she reasoned that New York had been good for her. But besting these people was nowhere near as fun as besting the blokes in London.
Content as she was, she longed for just a hint of danger. But she knew better than to return to London. She stayed in touch with many of her connections from past. And plenty of them were moving their interests out of London with ferocious speed and a slight whisper on their lips: Moriarty.
He was back. And that was reason enough to stay out of the High Street for the time being.
But the universe, it seemed, had other ideas. Her cell phone rang. Not the one she used for the everyday nothingness of pretending to be the slightest bit interested in New York society, but the other one. The phone that called to and from her past. She kept in a locked safe, only accessible by means of her fingerprint. She pulled it out and smiled widely at the number flashing on the caller ID. "Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm afraid I need to ask you about something. How fast can you get to London?"
"I'll leave straightaway."
"Excellent, Ms. Adler."
Back in Baker Street
"Your contact, how long are they to keep us waiting?" asked an impatient Mycroft.
"Do relax Mycroft, I'm quite certain they'll be here momentarily," Sherlock said dismissively. "Criminals are so apt at keeping their word."
"Will this contact really be able to help?" asked a worried Victoria.
It was the mid afternoon, the next morning. Sherlock, Mycroft and Tori were gathered in Baker Street, awaiting Sherlock's mysterious contact.
Mycroft hadn't bothered to ask who it was, figuring it some was shady, narcotics kingpin that Sherlock had some sort of unholy alliance with.
John came up the steps next. "Are they here yet?"
"John, what ever are you doing here?" asked Mycroft.
"I want to help," John replied.
Mycroft smiled somewhat condescendingly. "Of course. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, the dynamic duo. One day, it will be said that my brother never stirred without you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was only so much Mycroft he could take. Still, he was eager to see his brother's reaction when the identity of his contact was revealed.
And he didn't have long to wait. Footsteps were heard on the stairs. Sherlock grinned to himself as he picked away at his violin.
"Ah," Sherlock said softly as he checked his watch. "Right on time. I do love a timely person."
"Quite," Mycroft said glancing at his pocket watch. "Hopefully, they'll have some useful information."
"Unlike your useless Intelligence agents, brother dear."
The doorknob turned with slow, deliberate and glorious purpose. The grin on Sherlock's face grew. And in stepped the supreme, sublime figure of Irene Adler.
The Woman had arrived.
Shock was not something Mycroft Holmes was accustomed to. Usually, he could see everything in a clear, precise pattern. Nothing was nebulous or obscure. Everything was obvious, simple or elementary. Nothing ever escaped his notice, there was nothing he overlooked.
But faced with this current situation, he found himself unequal to the sight of Irene Adler, the confirmed dead Irene Adler.
His eyes briefly glanced towards John Watson who was clearly as flabbergasted as he was. John's jaw was hanging rather indiscreetly open, his eyes were wide and his teacup was suspended in mid-air, hovering over its saucer.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," said Irene in her cool, calm and unflappable voice. The shock on Mycroft and John's face added a bit more delight to her arrival and she smiled broadly, her blood red lips outlining her brilliant smile.
"How?" John asked when he recovered his voice. He turned to Mycroft. "You said she was…she was…."
"Isn't it obvious, John?" asked Mycroft once he had reclaimed his distant, aloof and nonchalant persona. "Obviously, she is not dead and I do believe my little brother had quite a bit to do with it." He met Irene's smiling eyes. "How was Karachi?"
"Ooh, it was quite…deadly."
"But obviously, you managed to escape?"
"If you want to know, I suggest you ask Sherlock."
Mycroft looked at his brother. "Let me guess: one of your international homeless networks alerted you of her immediate danger and you swooped in to slay the dragons. Bodies burned beyond recognition. Clever."
"Elementary," was Sherlock's only reply. "But we've got better things to discuss."
"Ms. Adler has information on Moriarty?"
"Perhaps," Irene said with a smile. "But I'm not divulging anything until we've had a proper chat, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I am not bargaining with this woman," he stood. "She is a criminal."
Sherlock laughed. "Bargaining with criminals is what you, the British Government, do best. Do you or any of the King's Men have any resources, leads, or data that will lead to capture of Jim Moriarty?"
"No."
"Sit down, Mycroft, and please do listen carefully. This is not terrorism, this is not geopolitics. This is a war, and not one you, the British Government, can afford to lose."
There was a momentary standoff between the Brother Holmes. The ice-blue eyes of Sherlock's met Mycroft's river green ones and there was a moment of palpable impasse, followed by a rather heavy sigh from Mycroft.
"I'll give this resoundingly insipid course of action exactly one hundred and eighty seconds," he said and huffed into a corner chair.
"Can you last that long?" Irene asked in a cheeky, innuendo-laden voice.
Sherlock suppressed a grin. She was still The Woman: brilliant, calculating, icy and mildly fascinating.
John still hadn't found his voice. He was openly staring at Irene Adler, half-shocked, half wondering what the exact implications were in the small matter of Sherlock saving her life.
"Sorry," he finally said. "You saved her life?" he asked looking at Sherlock in disbelief.
"Didn't you hear Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in usual arrogant, bordering on narcissistic condescending tone.
Irene gave Sherlock a mischievous grin. She slowly walked towards his chair, until her knee brushed up against his carefully crossed legs, which in an uncharacteristic display of good manners, he uncrossed.
The Woman leaned in and proceeded to snog the world's only consulting detective in front of his gobsmacked brother and best friend.
"Holy…" John muttered, before shaking his head. There were things about Sherlock he would never understand. Sherlock made no move to touch Irene, but he made no move to push her away either. When she pulled away, she couldn't help but be slightly delighted at the look on Mycroft's face.
Mycroft made every effort to appear unaffected. "Well, now that the…formalities are over with, shall we proceed with the matter at hand?" His voice was even, but his tone brooked no refusal.
"Very well," Irene said as if she had all the time in the world and no place she had to be. She perched herself atop Sherlock's desk, and crossed her astonishing, porcelain legs and honed in her green catlike eyes on Mycroft.
"There is a man, and I know what he likes. And he knows Moriarty, possibly better than anyone."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "And this man might be?"
Irene shot him a rather bored look. "Come now, don't imagine is that easy. In exchange of the identity of the man…I've several demands."
Mycroft offered a cool smile. "Yes, of course. Let me guess: You want money and protection? How achingly predictable."
"Money and protection is a start, Mr. Holmes. But I'm not playing fair. In fact, I'm not playing at all. If you want the name, if you want to stop Moriarty, then it's going to take a lot more than a check and a security detail."
"I could simply have you arrested and thrown in prison until you agree to cooperate."
Irene laughed. "Oh, as always, Mr. Holmes, you're under the mistaken impression that you're the one in control here. You might be the British Government, but rest assured, there are people much powerful than you playing for much higher stakes. You're not the only one interested in finding Moriarty. I've made a comfortable life for myself in America. No one knows me there, who I was, what I've been. And I like it that way. Still, a girl does long for a bit of home. I want your insipid spies to stay out of my way. And I want £500 million transferred into an untraceable, inaccessible, except for myself, off-shore account. I want to be free to make my way in the world."
Mycroft sighed. "It's a considerably less amount than the last time we met. What brought you to reason?"
"When I lost my camera phone, I had to start fresh. Gathering secrets is tedious business. But I'm equal to the challenge. Besides, American billionaires are much easier to swindle than Englishmen. Oh, I also want a security deal at the ready if and when I do decide to return to London."
Every eye turned to Mycroft. "I'll see that all these things are accomplished as soon as we have the information."
Even John rolled his eyes at that one. Did Mycroft really believe The Woman was going to fall for that? Irene just scoffed. "Don't try to trick me, Mr. Holmes. It doesn't work and it's beneath both us of. Transfer the money into the account, delete all files in every database you have relating to "Irene Adler" and have a private jet on standby, then we'll chat."
Four tedious and rather painful phone calls later, Irene was now feeling much more open. "It's always wonderful doing business with the Holmes boy," she said in a nearly dreamy voice.
"Yes, quite good, now can we get down to business?" Mycroft asked, his patience over with. Irene nodded. "There is a man of no little circumstance, a Colonel in Her Majesty's Navy, and I know what he likes. Better than that, I know his relations. Mr. Holmes, I thought surely you would've put this together," she said casting a dismissive glance on Mycroft. "Colonel Henry Moriarty."
"I know the Colonel quite well," Mycroft said with usual air of self-importance. "He has no family to speak of. His parents are both long deceased and he had a little brother to die in a tragic boating accident…"
Irene rolled her eyes. You're duller than I anticipated. His brother is Jim Moriarty. That tragic boating accident was a farce, a smokescreen, if you will. You see, the Colonel is a quite determined, quite powerful man…much like yourself Mycroft, and he is willing to go to great lengths to protect his little brother. The Colonel is wholly aware of his brothers…diversions. If anyone knows where Jim is hiding out, it's him."
"Moriarty has a brother?" John asked. "Moriarty has an older brother in a position of power that's protecting him…" his voice trailed off when he realized he could've been describing Sherlock. The similarities were becoming beyond disconcerting.
Mycroft stood to his full, looming and rather imposing height. He walked over to the desk and glowered at Irene. "Why should I believe a word you say, Ms. Adler? You're not exactly trustworthy."
Irene just grinned, her blood red lipstick contrasting against the white of her smile. She leaned back on the desk, crossed her legs, and rested her red manicured nails across the smooth wood. "Neither are you, Mr. Holmes. Look at us both. I've got nothing to gain by making myself an enemy of Jim Moriarty. You don't have to believe me, but I know that you already do. After all, surely you can believe the pains one would take to protect their own family."
Irene had Mycroft there. He himself was willing to give in to all her outrageous demands simply to keep Sherlock safe. It was possible the Colonel was the same way.
"We'll look into it," was his reply.
"Excellent, well I've got to dash. Society party with the Buffets or something." Irene's high heels hit the wooden floor with a resounding click. She leaned over Sherlock's chair again and gave him a parting kiss. "Always a pleasure," she whispered, her pupils dilated and her breathing slightly rushed. "Afternoon, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes."
With that, Irene Adler of dubious and questionable memory and trust took her leave. Sherlock watched her go and there was a hint of a grin on his face.
"Ah, The Woman," he muttered mostly to himself.
Mycroft stretched his hands to steady them, as they now itched for a cigarette. "Do you really think it's wise to trust that woman?" he said as he turned to face Sherlock.
"Brother Mine, in days such as these, is it really wise to trust anyone?" Sherlock picked up his violin and bow.
Tori cleared her throat. She'd been largely silent throughout the whole ordeal. "So that was Irene Adler? Interesting."
"Less kind words have been used to describe her," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Colonel Moriarty is a highly respected figure. He plays golf with Prince Charles once a month. He's not a man to be trifled with. I find it hard to believe that a man of his ilk could be involved…"
"Mycroft, the lowest sins often come from the highest thrones. If this Colonel is, in fact, the brother of Jim Moriarty, then this is the first proper we've had since Moriarty's spotlight-seeking transmission."
"No link has ever been found between the two of them," Mycroft continued to protest.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft, how often are links found between the two of us?"
Again, Mycroft had to concede. Anyone who met the two of them separately would never think of putting them together. John certainly hadn't. No one would've ever believed, given their less their cordial treatment of each other, that the Brothers Holmes were actually brothers. But if you spent enough time around them, the similarities in their personalities became all too self-evident.
"The Woman may be a criminal, but she's also a creature of remarkable self-preservation," Sherlock said with just a hint of admiration edging into his voice. A small grin crept onto John's face, he secretly enjoyed the moments when he saw Sherlock's humanity, even though they were few and far in between.
"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Mycroft, giving his brother a pointed look. "The way you talk about her, if I didn't know any better, I'd almost think she was…" Mycroft abruptly ended his sentence, apparently having said too much.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed substantially at his brother. "You'd almost think what, Mycroft?" The violin had stiffened along with Sherlock's shoulders. He held his brother's gaze very directly.
John was confused, what had Mycroft said? Tori looked between the two brothers as if they were playing a game of lawn tennis.
Mycroft crossed his legs and returned his brother's gaze with equal focus. "Almost as if she was…her."
A decided, nearly angry frown crossed Sherlock's features. He looked away for the briefest of moments, then met his brother's gaze again. "I assure you, Brother Mine," his tone cold and distant. "That is certainly not the case."
"I certainly hope so."
John was baffled. Who was "her"? What was Mycroft talking about? Why did Tori look so agitated? There were some things he would never know about Sherlock, he knew that much. But there seemed to be something strange in the air, an oddity that had no name. But it seemed that everyone knew what to designate it, except him.
"Sherlock, that reminds me," Tori said, her voice more clipped than usual. "I should've mentioned it a bit earlier. Um, I'm not the only one that's been threatened."
Sherlock's locked onto his goddaughter's. He didn't have to be a genius to comprehend what she was saying. "Where is she?"
Before Tori could respond, in stepped Mrs. Hudson with her usual "Yoo-hoo." All eyes turned towards the beloved landlady. "Sherlock, dear, there's a Violet Hunter here to see you. She says she knows you."
That was an understatement.
"He's not in," replied Mycroft, his voice sharp and strong. "He will not be in, not to her."
"Mycroft," Sherlock started.
"The audacity of that woman never ceases to amaze me," Mycroft continued.
Sherlock placed his bow on the table with a bang. "Mycroft!" He then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Send her up."
John turned an eye on Sherlock and saw that he looked…agitated. Not annoyed or dismissive, John would've readily recognized those, as they were Sherlock's natural dispositions. But Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the specialist in crimes and criminals, looked agitated.
John looked towards Mycroft for some sort of an explanation, but all he saw on the elder Holmes was a look of anger and resentment. What could possibly be the cause of that?
And who was Violet Hunter? And how did Sherlock know her? How did Mycroft? Why was Tori all of sudden so quiet? What the bloody hell is going on? John wondered and nearly said aloud.
But before his rising confusion could be voiced, the door to 221B opened and a short leather boot appeared, followed by a pair of long, lean legs encased in black silk stockings leading to a dark, stylishly tailored trench coat covering a lean, toned feminine figure, followed by a delicate, swan-like neck that concluded in a porcelain face with defined cheekbones, plump lips and large, intense blue eyes. Topping it off was a mop of chestnut hair with messy bangs.
This, of course, was Violet Hunter. But of course, John had no idea who she was. At least, none yet.
"Aunt Vi," came Tori's gentle greeting. "I didn't expect you hear so early."
"I managed to catch an earlier train, Tori."
Mycroft rose with a start, standing to his full, looming height. "How dare you?" he spat venomously at the young woman who had yet to utter a word. "How dare you show your wretched face? How dare you walk in this room as if—"
"Mycroft, I did not come here with the intention of speaking to you," the young woman said, staring Mycroft down as if she knew his secrets (she did) and was totally unafraid of the fact that he knew hers. With that, she looked away from Mycroft and towards Sherlock, who'd yet to utter a sound since her arrival.
She glanced back at the door, as if unsure of what to do next. John watched eagerly, but had no idea of what to say.
Sherlock sat in his chair, hands placed firmly under his chin. He gave Violet the slightest of glances. It told him everything he needed to know. She was 33 to his 35, unmarried, working as film historian, not that she needed to work. The diamond bracelets, expensive clothes and well-manicured nails informed him that the Hunters had not lost their family fortune. And he knew why she was there.
"Moriarty has threatened you," he stated, it was not a question. He didn't look at her. Instead, he rose from his chair, walked to the end of the room and gazed out the window.
"Yes."
"Has he sent some sort of message?" Sherlock still would not face her.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
Violet hesitated. Her eyes darted around the room. "Must we discuss this so…openly?"
"Still so priggish, Ms. Hunter?" Mycroft asked, condescension dripping from every word.
Sherlock turned around. "John, this is Violet Hunter. Violet, Dr. John Watson. I assume you know who he is."
Violet moved to shake John's hand. "It's nice to meet you Dr. Watson. I've read your blog."
"Have you?" John asked, his interest piqued.
"Yes," she said her eyes fleeting in Sherlock's direction. He still had never looked directly at her.
But he did now. He looked right at her and their blue eyes met. No one said a word. It seemed there was a moment of great impasse. John could've sworn Tori was holding her breath.
He walked over to her, mere inches away and sighed very softly. "What are you doing here?" he asked as if he was truly and completely baffled.
She laughed, ever so slightly. "Shouldn't you know?"
"You know perfectly well I can't think around you. I never could."
"Moriarty—,"
"I know. Why are you here? A phone call would've sufficed."
"It somehow didn't seem right to just ring up, as if we're old friends."
Sherlock nodded as if he understood, which John certainly didn't. The room was silent once again, with Mycroft glowering in the corner, looking downright murderous.
"Is there somewhere we could chat?" she asked.
"Café next door," Sherlock said. "I'll meet you there in a moment.
Violet nodded and with a smile towards Tori and John, she headed back down the stairs.
"Are you utterly out of your senses?" Mycroft asked once the door had shut. "You do recall the circumstances of what happened, do you not?
Sherlock reached for his coat. "Much better than you, Brother Mine." Sherlock would say nothing else. Instead he just grabbed his scarf and bounded down the stairs in his usual quick, urgent pace.
Mycroft sighed and reached into his inner pocket for a cigarette.
"You don't smoke," John said.
"Neither do I see people I never wish to lay eyes on again."
"Who was that, who is Violet Hunter?" John asked.
Mycroft looked at John. "You mean you don't know? I thought in all your years of close confidence, Sherlock would've told you. Of course, he tells no one. Neither do I. It's far too distressing to relate."
"Why, what is she to you?"
"To me, she is nothing more but a memory that I do not often recall to mind. She is a mistake, not of mine, but that I had to pay for. But to Sherlock, I believe the correct term is, 'ex' or something like that."
John couldn't count the times that Sherlock had shocked, bamboozled, amazed and floored him. But this, this was another matter entirely. Sherlock had an…ex? Was such a thing possible?
Most people assumed Sherlock was asexual, celibate or gay. John didn't know which and he didn't entertain notions of finding out. Whatever rocked Sherlock's boat was Sherlock's business. He'd had a hard go convincing people he wasn't gay once he resided at 221B.
John's jaw dropped. "Sherlock has an ex-girlfriend?"
"Ex-fiancée," corrected Tori.
John had barely processed this information when Mycroft's mobile rang. "What is it?" the churlish man said in a churlish tone. The ever unflappable, stoic Iceman seemed thoroughly ruffled by the presence of Violet Hunter, a fact that only intrigued John more. Sherlock had been engaged? To a woman?
"Got to dash," Mycroft said once his call ended. "I'm needed at the office. Ms. Trevor, John, see you very soon. Very, very soon."
That left the best friend and the goddaughter of the most unknowable man in the world alone together. Tori seemed to know what was going on, but John didn't even know where to begin.
Tori, noticing John's eyes boring into her, sighed. "Okay, you've got questions," she said sounding very much like her godfather.
"Yeah, what's going on? Sherlock's ex? Sherlock's ex?"
Tori sighed. "Is it really so inconceivable? He is after all, human. Did you really think he was born devoid of knowledge of the softer passions? Sherlock's a creature of focus; he hones in on what he designates necessary. Love, to Sherlock, is not. But there was a time, a long, long time ago…I wasn't born. The woman you just saw, my Aunt Vi, she went to college with Sherlock and my parents. This was Oxford, when Sherlock was getting his Ph.D. He really has never told you?"
John shook his head adamantly. "I would remember that story, wouldn't I?"
Tori acquiesced that he most likely would. "I can only tell you what I know," she told John. "And you might not like this story. It's long, rather dramatic and I'm afraid we've bigger fish to fry."
"I'm quite interested."
"Very well." Victoria Trevor sat in the seat of Sherlock Holmes, opposite the ever-loyal and extremely trustworthy John Watson. "It started at Oxford."
So what do you think? Love it? Hate it? Should I continue. The next chapter will begin one of the many flashbacks throughout this story. Oh and meet Moriarty's brother. Feedback would be delightful.-Kate.