So I've been thinking, and the conclusion I've drawn is that there simply aren't enough Irene/Moriarty fics around! I think they're a brilliant and unfairly underrated pairing – both of them are sharp, quick-witted and a little bit mad, not to mention eternally lonely, so I'm trying them on for size to see what I can do with them. I hope this isn't dreadful – please let me know if it is – and I hope that you like what I come up with. Just a reminder of the description – bear in mind I'm terrible at writing these! ...
Irene Adler is back in London, indebted to Sherlock for saving her life back in Karachi – when he asks a favour of her, she simply cannot turn him down. But what if that favour involves getting close to and, in turn, spying on an old ally of hers, namely Jim Moriarty? Can the dominatrix take on the consulting criminal and come out on top, or will she too be lured into his web of lies and deceit? Some SHxIA but mainly IAxJM.
NON-REICHENBACH COMPLIANT. Sorry guys, but for the sake of this fic, the heart-shattering fall that had us all sobbing into our pillows that fateful night did not happen and Sherlock and Moriarty are both very much alive and roaming the streets of London.
Warning: This story is rated M for a reason. I've never written smut before and I have no idea if I'm about to start now, but just in case, you have been warned. If I don't, the M-rating will be for language, mentions of the use of illicit substances and general dark themes.
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Irene Adler pushed open the double glass doors that led out onto her balcony and pulled in a deep breath, the cool evening air filling her lungs, the previously muffled sounds of bustling London suddenly sharp and clear. The steady hum of rush-hour traffic resonated from around the perimeter of Hyde Park, the crisp green lawns of which her lavish hotel suite directly overlooked, and a police siren wailed somewhere in the distance. For the briefest of moments, Irene cocked her head and tensed her body, suddenly concerned that the truth of her whereabouts had finally gotten out and fallen on the ears of authority, that they were after her and that she would have to become a fugitive again... but then she relaxed, secure in the knowledge that this was entirely impossible. Irene had taken all the necessary precautions to ensure her safety upon her return to England from her 'travels' – she had done everything in her power to keep off the radar. Her chartered flight from Rio de Janeiro had been arranged courtesy of some old friends of hers, a trio of international Brazilian smugglers who owed her a long-forgotten favour. After arriving at a deserted aircraft hangar in rural Shropshire, she had slipped onto a train, adopted an alias and kept an uncharacteristically low profile. At first Irene had not been able to choose a destination, a safe haven, an area in which she would be able to make a fresh start, but before she had even realised what she was doing, she had found herself purchasing a one-way ticket to King's Cross Station and preparing to re-enter the lively throng of people and places that made up the city of London. She hadn't been able to resist.
Irene's Blackberry vibrated once in her hand. Her brow furrowed and her eyes widened in a combination of confusion and horror as she settled herself down in her chaise longue and dropped it deliberately face-down into her lap, not wanting to look at the screen, even by accident, afraid of what it would say. Nobody knew her mobile number – she had made sure of this. In total honesty, she wasn't completely sure why she bothered keeping a mobile phone. Nobody tried to get in touch with her – nobody knew she was alive – and when she needed to make contact herself, she preferred to use payphones and hotel landlines to avoid creating even semi-permanent connections. Her heart raced in her chest. There was no way that this could be good.
She gritted her teeth and flipped over the phone... then the memory came flooding back. One message, four words – that was all it had been. A single text the day after she had left Karachi, six months ago almost to the day, and in sending it, she had allowed one person to know her mobile number. She hadn't received a reply, had given up hope that he would decide to acknowledge her existence ever again. But she had been wrong. It wasn't the reply she'd been expecting, but it was a reply nonetheless:
Now that you're back in London, I think you'll find you owe me a favour. –SH
Irene lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, her pulse sending rippling vibrations throughout her entire body. How on earth he knew of her return to the bustling capital was one thing, but the fact that he seemed to be calling on her for assistance was quite another. Since when did Sherlock Holmes ask anyone for help, no matter how great his state of desperation? Whatever it was that he needed could only be important, otherwise there was no way he would lower himself to asking for aid, particularly from the likes of her. On the occasion of the penultimate time they had met, he had degraded and humiliated Irene before casting her out on the street and, if her educated and fairly safe guess was correct, refused to speak about her to anyone from then onward. Even after his daring rescue effort in Pakistan, when he had hired a car, driven her to Jinnah International Airport and paid for her ticket to South America, his tone had been clipped and unfriendly and he had done everything in his power to avoid catching her eye. That man was impossible – impossible to read, impossible to make sense of, impossible to even attempt to understand. So she had given up trying. As soon as her plane had touched down in Rio de Janeiro, she had sent him a message merely reading thank you, Mr Holmes and deleted his number, forbidding herself from making contact with her saviour again. For six months, Sherlock had ignored her completely. And now he thought he could waltz back in and work his way under her skin once more? Irene snorted indignantly to herself.
She was just about to lay her head back and allow her mind to get lost in the cacophony of sounds emanating from the city when the hotel phone rang in the lounge area. Frowning, she rose and jogged slowly back inside, her eyes scanning the caller ID on the little screen. The hotel's reception desk. What on earth could they want with her now?
"Hello?" she answered, almost forgetting to feign the nasal American accent she had used since arriving at the hotel. Almost, but not quite.
"Good evening, Miss Smith," said the friendly female receptionist on the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there is a police inspector waiting in the lobby to see you. He says that it's urgent."
"What?" Irene felt her heart rate double in tempo. "What do you mean? Who is it?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, Miss Smith. He's on his way up." And with that, the receptionist put the phone down.
Irene did not even pause to think.
"They've found me," she mumbled, her eyes widening in horror.
She tugged her suitcase out from beneath the vast queen bed and began wildly shoving random items inside it – articles of clothing that were scattered around the room, her purse and make up bag, her little leather-bound diary. Within thirty seconds, about half of her possessions were accounted for and she realised she was out of time and that this would have to do. She zipped the case shut, threw her long charcoal-grey Belstaff around her shoulders to cover her short nightgown and let out a deep breath, momentarily taking in the last view of the gorgeous hotel suite that she would ever get. She sighed and pulled her suitcase with her out onto the balcony, preparing to make her descent. Then she heard the click of a door being opened and wheeled around. This is it, she thought. After all the months she had been running, after all the risks she had taken, after all the stress and emotional trauma, Irene Adler's past had finally caught up with her. Goodbye freedom.
But it was not a burly, calculating police inspector that stepped inside her room. To Irene's immense surprise, she turned to be immediately confronted with the man that had not slipped from her mind at any point during the past six months, the face that had haunted her worst nightmares, not to mention her favourite fantasies, every night since the day she had first seen it. He wore his own magnificent coat that matched hers almost perfectly and an expression of mystification on his striking face – for a moment, they did nothing but drink in the sight of each other. Irene gaped and opened her mouth to speak, but the man standing opposite her started before she had a chance to gather her thoughts, let alone construct proper sentences.
"Going somewhere?" asked Sherlock Holmes sarcastically, raising his eyebrows, a hint of a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. He eyed her suitcase which she had forgotten she was still holding onto.
"Apparently not," Irene said, wheeling it back inside and slamming the glass door shut once more. During the seconds in which she had her back to him, he caught her eye in the reflection of the glass and her heart skipped a beat. Stop behaving like a daft teenager, she internally berated herself before narrowing her eyes and staring him down once more. "So," she began, shrugging back out of her Belstaff and sitting down on the bed. She watched him take in her ensemble – her sheer, mid-thigh-length black nightgown hugged her trim figure and rode up slightly as she extended her legs across the bedspread – and couldn't keep the smile off her face as she watched his pupils dilate. He swallowed hard before returning his eyes to hers. "I wasn't aware that you were training to be a police inspector in your free time."
"Oh, that." He pulled out a police identification card from inside his coat that showed a picture of himself with the caption, Detective Inspector G. Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. "Borrowed it from a friend of mine. I pickpocket him when he gets annoying."
Irene couldn't help but laugh at that one. "You had me worried for a moment back there," she told him, lying down on her side and propping herself up on one elbow. "It's been a while since I've had to climb down a drainpipe. Thank God it was only you – otherwise, with this thing on..." She stroked the fabric of her nightgown. "... anyone on the ground below would quite literally have seen everything." She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head, a small smile playing around her lips. As much as he clearly hated to admit it, Sherlock could not deny the obvious effect Irene had on him – even then, as she sat forward once more and crossed her ankles in front of her, he was lucidly fighting an impulse to drop his gaze from her face to the rest of her body. However, the cold and bitingly sarcastic expression he wore immediately had her convinced that her brain had kicked into self-flattery overdrive. She swallowed. Get a grip, Irene. She smiled radiantly, refusing to take off her mask quite yet.
"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, settling himself in a chintz armchair across from Irene, his tone almost excruciatingly uninterested. His sparkling eyes narrowed and he stared at her hard for a moment before continuing. "Is it safe for you to be here?"
"Why?" she asked, feeling bold. "Are you concerned about me, Mr Holmes?"
"To an extent, yes, Miss Adler." His voice dripped with sarcasm as he spat her name. "I've already had to identify your body once in this lifetime, Irene – I'd rather not have to do it again anytime soon."
She raised her eyebrows and looked at him questioningly, clandestinely hoping that he would accept the silent challenge her glare posed. "I'm as safe as I can be. I entered the country under a false name, as a man of your intelligence can probably guess, checked into the hotel accordingly using credit cards that don't belong to me –"
"Of course," Sherlock cut in coolly. Irene did not miss the subtle roll of his eyes. She paused before continuing.
"Everybody that was threatening me now believes me to be dead," Irene went on, nonchalantly examining the manicured nails on her left hand. "That terrorist cell back in Karachi saw to that. They could hardly tell their leaders that a mysterious man in a bad kaftan jumped in and rescued their damsel in distress at the last minute, could they?"
"I suppose not," said Sherlock quietly, a small, almost approving smile spreading across his face. "So now you're back in London."
"Well observed," Irene murmured, her voice soft and seductive as she stood up and headed toward the lounge area's wet bar. "Can I get you a drink?" she enquired, walking around and leaning in true bartender fashion across the counter on her elbows.
"I'll have whatever you're having." He slowly rose from his seat and joined Irene on the other side of the bar – the patron's side – being sure to keep a suitable distance between them. In light of their history, Irene remained where she stood, maintaining her position of superiority over the world's only consulting detective. She already technically owed him her life; she would not bow down any further to Sherlock Holmes if anything could be done to avoid it. His unexpected appearance in her hotel suite alone was an obvious power play against her, his evident knowledge of her presence in London clearly designed to instil a certain degree of fear – fear of him, fear of what he could do if she were to cross him – in the back of her mind. She would never be rude to him, but if he thought that she would grovel on the carpet and kiss the toes of his boots in a ludicrous expression of her eternal gratitude for his actions in Pakistan, he was going to be extremely disappointed.
She poured two measures of rum – a personal favourite of Irene's since her dealings in South America – into glasses and handed one to Sherlock, almost immediately taking a sip from hers and revelling in the fiery, satisfying sensation that came with it.
"Well, I take it this isn't a social visit," Irene said, curling her fingers around her glass and gazing up at him.
"You know why I'm here." He craned his lean neck and spotted her phone lying atop the bedspread. He nodded toward it. "I sent you a text, I believe."
"Ah yes. I will be honest, Sherlock, dear," she murmured, walking around the bar, being sure to caress his shoulders with her free hand on her way past him. "It wasn't quite the reply I was expecting, especially after six months. You must know it's rude to keep a lady waiting." When she reached the bed, she picked up her phone and re-read his message from earlier. She let out a sardonic peal of laughter before tossing it back down and staring right at him. Since she had turned her back, he had moved forward and sat down in the same chintz armchair as before. "I never thought the day would come when you would come to me for a favour."
"I'm in need of a very special kind of service," he told her, his eyes glinting dangerously. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Sherlock's words began to sink in.
"Oh," she whispered, working hard to keep her astonishment on the inside. He couldn't be serious. There was only one 'special service' Irene offered that he could possibly be referring to, but since when had Sherlock Holmes, the cold, acidic recluse, the virgin, ever shown any interest in anything relating to carnal, empty pleasure? She stared at him, her eyes wide, but he showed no signs of bluffing. His gaze was hard and serious but his markedly relaxed posture betrayed him – consciously or not, he was challenging her, and Irene had never been one to ignore such blatant bait.
"Oh?" he repeated, leaning forward.
"Mr Holmes, I think you've rather..." She stepped forward and put her foot on his chair in the gap between where his knees rested. "... shown your hand there." His eyes softened slightly, curiously, as she lifted her hand and ran it backward through his dark curls before pulling hard. He inhaled sharply. "Lie on the bed," she commanded, straightening up but not stepping back from him. But Sherlock's mouth dropped open, he blinked once, then he laughed.
"Why would I do that?" he asked, clearly trying to keep a scathing smile off his face.
Irene's perfectly shaped eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "You said... I thought..."
"You thought I was coming to you as a client?" he asked, his voice contemptuous. "Oh, no, Irene, I am dreadfully sorry to disappoint you. I'm afraid humiliating and degrading me will have to wait until another day."
Irene's jaw fell slack and she turned on her heel, refusing to show him the flushes of red that were inevitably blossoming across her cheeks. A pang of acrimony struck her somewhere in the depths of her stomach and for a moment she felt like doing nothing more than putting her theory about the potential to cut oneself on his cheekbones in the process of slapping him to the test. She stared at the ceiling and placed her hands on her hips, partly in defiance, partly to stop them from trembling.
"Obviously," she snarled, trying to maintain her dignity. She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. "Well, I don't know what other service you consider me capable of providing, Mr Holmes." His name came out in a sneer, and she abruptly turned in his direction, looking down at him again. He watched her thoughtfully from below – to Irene's surprise, he didn't seem to take any visible satisfaction from humiliating her as he had moments ago. In fact, the way in which his general manner had changed, his brow was furrowed and his elegant fingers were interlaced in his lap suggested that he was feeling somewhat guilty in terms of his treatment of her.
"I've come to you because I know how clever you are, Irene," he said smoothly, quirking an eyebrow. "I need someone with your degree of intelligence, adaptability and stealth... to help me carry out something of a mission."
Irene narrowed her eyes and took a moment to absorb his uncharacteristic bout of... was that flattery?
"A mission," she clarified condescendingly. "Interesting choice of vocabulary. I didn't realise we'd slipped into some sort of crime drama. 'CSI Baker Street', is it?" She smiled, and to her surprise, so did Sherlock.
"Ever the comedienne." He smirked, his face turning mocking. He paused, his interminable eyes boring into her own. Irene felt her mouth go dry, and she swallowed hard, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest. Sherlock bit his lip. "Will you do it?" he asked, leaning toward her.
"I..." Before Irene knew what she was doing, she was crouched down in front of him so that they were level with each other, all thoughts of remaining his superior fleeing from her mind in an instant. Their faces were mere inches apart, and for a moment, Irene forgot how he had looked down on her, how he had embarrassed her with his harsh words – all she could see was the charmingly arrogant, enchantingly beautiful man with the incredible, complex mind that had saved her life from a gang of terrorists in Karachi. She found herself having to fight to remain coherent. She sighed. "What do you need me to do?" she whispered, her gaze drifting across his high cheekbones, his jaw, down to the gentle curve of his mouth.
And then Sherlock leaned forward once again, so close that Irene could faintly smell his cologne, not to mention the smoke of his last cigarette – without thinking, she let her eyes close and inhaled, taking in his intoxicating aroma, cataloguing it in her mind. Their noses touched and his lips ghosted over hers, sending a chill down Irene's spine. Part of her wanted to scoff and scold him for using his addictive personality and seductive manner to manipulate her – as that was obviously what he was doing – but for some reason, she found herself unable to string words together to form sentences.
Irene's eyes snapped open just in time to watch Sherlock murmur his request: "I need you to spy on James Moriarty."
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That's it for now. As any of my regular readers will happily tell you, I'm dreadfully unmotivated as a writer and I tend to post chapters very sporadically. But hey, maybe a good set of reviews will spur me on to continue more quickly? There's no harming in trying ;) thanks for reading, and see you in chapter 2.