Disclaimer: I must reiterate - not mine.
Chapter Two – A Seaside Resort
Ten minutes later, the wine brings the faintest smudge of colour back into Sherlock's cheeks, and the food seems to have finally worked its way into his bloodstream, because he is looking around the flat now with brightened searching eyes. He is sitting on her sofa now, long legs stretched out, shoes on her coffee table. Irene curls on the sofa beside him, back against the armrest.
"It really is extraordinary." Holmes says softly, almost to himself.
"What is?"
Sherlock tilts his head at her, ice blue eyes examining. "I imagined you'd start a life somewhere abroad. Las Vegas, Moscow, Dubai, somewhere – "
"Exciting?"
"Somewhere where you could exercise your talents."
Irene shrugs. "A large portion of my clientele were fond of international travel. If I started up in business somewhere new it would only be a matter of time before I was recognised. And anyway, I've no desire to build my reputation again from scratch. It isn't a nice ladder to be on the lowest rung of."
"So I understand. And, of course you aren't getting any younger." He says, with a positively vicious detachment. "What is the typical age of retirement for a woman in your profession? Twenty eight? Thirty? That's what that game with our friend Jim was really about, wasn't it? You wanted your pension."
"That – and it amused me." Irene says airily. Stretching out she rests her feet lightly against the black fabric of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock glances briefly at her feet as they make contact, face expressionless. Irene smiles broadly. It's an odd sort of revenge, but it is an immensely satisfying one.
"Still, it isn't exactly as though you had no other alternatives." Sherlock continues, eyes still fixed on her well manicured toes. "You could have travelled almost anywhere in the world, you could have made a new life doing almost anything. And yet you came here. To Worthing."
Irene shrugs. "It's not a bad old place."
"It is the very definition of dull." Sherlock states.
"I like living being near the sea. It's romantic."
Sherlock looks at her as if she's gone mad.
"What, exactly, are you doing here, anyway? You aren't just looking for a place to crash. Certainly not in Worthing." Irene imitates his tone of disdain.
Sherlock's head tilts back, that unexpectedly soft looking mouth of his tightening slightly. He speaks to the ceiling. "Moriarty ran a vast and complex network of criminal conspirators. I intend to destroy it."
Irene's eyebrows climb into her hairline.
"That's – ambitious."
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, as if to indicate that he's surprised she would expect anything less from him.
"And you think I can help you." Irene asks slowly.
"I need information."
"I don't have any information. I've been out of circulation for over a year."
"But you do have contacts. You could approach them, work your way back in. I need an inside man, Irene. I can't do anything without data."
Irene sits up straight, staring at him. "You want me to spy on Moriarty's network?"
"Yes."
There is a long silence. "Do you have any idea how risky that would be?"
"Yes." Sherlock meets her gaze candidly. "If we succeed we both get to go back. To our real lives. To London."
Irene laughs. "You really think you can outwit Moriarty…?"
"Perhaps not. But it hardly matters. Moriarty is dead."
"Dead? "
"Blew out his brains. In front of me, as a matter of fact. I tried not to take it too personally."
Irene takes a moment to register this. Somehow the words Jim Moriarty and dead don't seem like they ought to belong in the same sentence.
"So. Now we only have to outwit his underlings." Sherlock crooks her a half smile. "I think between the two of us we're clever enough for that."
Irene ignores the odd shiver go through her spine at his use of the word we.
"You're insane."
He shrugs. "Perhaps. I have a very high success rate, though."
"Yes, you do seem to be the living embodiment of health and prosperity."
"I'm alive." Sherlock says levelly.
Irene takes a deep breath, tries to think through this, tries to calculate, the benefits, the risks Somehow the thought of Jim Moriarty with his brains blown out keeps intruding. She remembers the last time they met, over tea at the Ritz (both parties agreeing that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing in style.) He had grinned at her all the way through their interview and at the end of it had bowed and, in mock courtly fashion, kissed her hand.
Sherlock is watching her face, closely, brow slightly creased. Waiting for her answer.
"If I do this - you'll be able to make it safe for me, in London?" she asks carefully. "No retribution from anyone?"
"Absolutely. My brother owes me a few favours." Sherlock's mouth quirks bitterly.
Irene considers carefully. If anyone can truly protect her, it certainly is Mycroft Homes. But -
"How do I know I can trust you? You could send me in there and then betray me as soon as you get what you want."
"If Moriarty's associates realise that I am still alive," Sherlock is speaking to the ceiling again, tonelessly. He has expected this question and his answer is rehearsed. "They will murder my friends."
"John?"
Irene watches Sherlock's Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows.
"Yes. And – others. So. You see. You have the power to destroy me at any moment, any time you feel the tiniest bit threatened. All you have to do is open your lips. You may rest assured I will do everything in my power to ensure that you do not find that necessary. "
There is a long silence.
"Very well." She swallows. "Give me – give me a little time to think this over." She gets up.
"All right." says Sherlock. "Sleep on it. I'll take the sofa. And Irene – "
"What?" Irene turns at the door, looking back at him. Sherlock is leaning forward again, pale eyes burning holes into her face. "If you speak to anyone about this – if any harm comes to my friends because you overstep – I will kill you. And I won't do it slowly."
Irene nods, mouth a little dry. She licks her lips. "Goodnight, Mr Holmes."
When Irene wakes the next morning Sherlock Holmes has already left. She makes coffee and toast, and stares at the place on the sofa where he (presumably) slept. She might wonder if the whole of the previous night might have been the product of an overexcited imagination if it weren't for the fact that the cap has been left off her toothpaste, and half her shampoo emptied from the bottle. Sherlock Holmes certainly wasn't shy about taking what he wanted. Irene smiled to herself, running over the conversation from the previous night in her mind.
It had been good, seeing him again. Irene feels that odd unexpected warmth in the pit of her stomach, that tingle of uncertainty that seems always to thicken the air between them, like a heat haze. While Sherlock Holmes is in her life, however briefly, it will not be boring. He might be able to bring her life's work crashing about her ears with one twist of those elegantly sculpted lips - but he most definitely was not boring.
Speaking of which – Irene remembers – she is likely to be late for work if she doesn't hurry.
As with everything else in her life, Irene's newest job is largely a matter of finding the right disguise for the moment. Irene has spent hours in front of the mirror picking out exactly the right look for the job. and now she has it down pat – knee length skirt, more flowing in style than the ones favoured Irene Adler, a floral blouse, modest little hoop earrings, flat shoes. She pins one side of her hair back with a pretty slide and let the rest hang loose down her back. She emerges as Iris Adams, pretty, sweet, a little melancholy. Exactly the kind of employee who would be considered a treasure at Mrs Miliver's Ladies Fashions. It isn't a difficult job. Irene pins a smile to her face and helps middle aged women pick out the correct skirt or hat for their daughter's wedding. It isn't really so different from the sex trade really – a few well placed compliments, an air of courteous control, and the clients are putty in your hands.
Unfortunately, she isn't allowed to carry a whip.
"Iris, darling, you don't mind watching the shop for a little while, do you?" Mrs Milliver calls as she enters. "I just want to go to and do a bit of shopping."
"Of course," Irene said sweetly. "Take as long as you want."
Mrs Milliver's 'shopping trips' are getting longer and more frequent, Irene notes –well, it suits her well enough. She likes having the freedom of the empty shop, no one twittering around her. And today the space is doubly welcome – Sherlock's offer is going to take some consideration. She straightens the ugly ill designed clothes on their hangers, absently missing Kate. If she were here they would have had a laugh about these ridiculous styles – Kate might insist on pulling a few of the worst of them to pieces and running them up into something more presentable on her sewing machine.
But those days are over. She won't see Kate again. Probably she has found a new employer already – or perhaps she has set up in business herself. She had potential. And Irene isn't vain enough to think Kate would cry over her for long.
And what if Sherlock did manage to bring Irene back from the dead? How would Kate react to that? Sentiment, a familiar voice growled in her memory. Irene shook herself mentally. If she was going to take this gamble she wanted to do it with a clear head. It wouldn't do to be undone the same way twice. It would not be because of nostalgia over an old fling. Or because of the chance to open the games again with that long limbed detective with eyes like ice. (Oh, she has been alone too long.)
Thinking about it objectively, then. Irene had no desire to continue life at its current pace for much longer – and, realistically, even if she left her current abode to travel as Sherlock Holmes had apparently expected her to do, it was unlikely she'd find a life that was so satisfying to her as the one she had left. Not with her limited means, and the constant need to be looking over her shoulder….
What Sherlock proposed was breathtakingly dangerous but it was a danger entered into deliberately and with both eyes open – unlike this rabbit like existence, crouching in safe houses and waiting for her secrets to be blown wide open.
And she would have Sherlock Holmes at her back, of course. An ally for once, rather than an adversary, or a smirking knight in shining armour. She would have a chance to play his game - and if they succeeded he would owe her.
It was an interesting prospect.
"Do you do bra fittings?" A stout woman with a hat like a misshapen lamp chop cut into her thoughts. Irenre hadn't noticed she wasn't alone in the shop any more.
Irene gave herself a shake, and fixed her Iris-smile to her face. "Of course, Madam. Follow me."
(She was fooling no one, least of all herself. Of course she would take the deal.)
(The only question was, on whose terms.)