I'm so sorry this took so long! I kinda got scared from the reviews you gave me and I didn't want to disappoint. So sorry hehehe.
—oOo—
1999
Rosamund watches through the scope of her sniper as this nineteen-year old girl named Irene Adler looks down at the man lying unconscious below her. The young dominatrix looks on in curiosity and wonder, frowning at the syringe in her hand as if she's disappointed at something. Slowly, this girl crouches down and places a hand on the bare chest of Seth Melville—her target.
'What on Earth is she doing?' she asks herself as she watches the girl circle around the man plenty of times, placing her hand here and there. 'Is she checking his vitals?' She watches the girl look down at the syringe once more—this time more closely and raises a brow at something Rosamund could not see.
Sighing and quick on her feet, she jumps up from her position, knowing that tonight is not the night another criminal's blood would shed on her hands. She grabs her black leather suitcase and carefully places her guns and her beloved sniper rifle inside the case.
Going towards the window where she was watching, she opens up the window and so anyone would only see a dark-haired twenty-four-year old girl wearing a white sleeveless notched shirt and black high-waist trousers that go until her ankles, and some black four-inch gladiator heels—just a normal average person who looks good.
She goes two floors down the hotel and reaches the corridor that connects to the other hotel building—precisely where her target is right now. She looks through the window of the corridor to see the teenager taking photographs of her target with a camera. [1]
'What the hell?'
—oOo—
PRESENT TIME
'What the hell?' Mary thinks as she watches her settle down in her friend's flat as if it is quite a normal occurrence. From what she can see, perhaps it might be since Sherlock doesn't seem perturbed with a ghost in his flat.
"Who named her?" Irene asks John, continuing to tease Mary.
"I did," Mary replies, daring Irene to continue.
"Rosamund Mary," Irene says and it takes a lot for Mary not to flinch at the sound of her voice saying her name. "Doesn't it mean Rose of the World?" she continues. "It's very beautiful."
John narrows his eyes at Irene, thinking that Irene is being sarcastic. "I know it is," he says, wrapping an arm around Mary and squeezes her forearm as a reassurance or as if he wants to say that Mary's past as Rosamund Mary is as beautiful as her present Mary Morstan life.
Mary smiles, looking at John who smiles back at her.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupts, "everything is wonderful and shiny and new. Now, that we've settled that, shall we go back to the matter at hand?"
"What matter at hand?" Mary asks him but she already knows the answer.
Sherlock looks at Irene in the eye. "You're in London."
—oOo—
1999
She continues to watch as this young girl smirk devilishly as she continues to photograph the humiliated Seth Melville. But her curiosity towards the young dominatrix peaks when the latter does something rather alarming.
Irene Adler goes to what only could be Seth Melville's briefcase and opening it with ease.
'How did she know his briefcase's code number?' Mary asks bewildered before feeling a sort of panic at watching Irene Adler take file after file and taking photographs of some of them on her camera one-by-one.
With that, she leaves her spot in the connecting corridor and practically brisk walks (with grace and dignity) towards Room 913 [2].
She quickly manages to hide at the corner of the corridor, just as Irene Adler walks out of the said room. She is wearing a black tight shirt with a low but modest neckline and a dark red tight skirt which hugs her figure that goes until her knees, as well as tights which Rosamund was pretty sure is part of her lingerie.
She walks casually behind Irene, who whips out a black Nokia phone and dials a number.
Rosamund stops, standing beside her new target of curiosity as they both wait for the elevator to go down to their floor. She is exhilarated at the thought that Irene Adler has no idea who is standing beside her—an assassin who is targeting her for information.
If the files on Seth Melville's case are important enough to be brought everywhere, including at a dominatrix's place, the teenager beside her must not be holding such information in her camera.
Ding.
The elevator door opens to reveal that it is empty. 'Perfect,' Rosamund thinks as they both enter.
"Hello? James, dear?" Irene asks.
Rosamund notes that her voice is still high-pitched and young but will probably go lower, considering the tone of her voice and the smoothness of its vibration.
"I've got it," she says.
Rosamund tries not to look suspicious at the meaning of the conversation and its relevance to what she had witnessed in Room 913.
Irene smirks and chuckles. "I know. Dinner?... Really? Might be fun... I've got it covered. Don't worry... Alright, I'll see you at 8."
Just as she hangs up the phone, the doors of the elevator opens and both of them go out of the hotel with Rosamund stealing glances at the teenager. Irene, however, seems to be nonchalant and actually seems fine—too fine—for a nineteen-year old dominatrix.
She's still too young to be doing those things, she thinks, not for the first time.
Then again, Rosamund herself thinks that she is too young to be killing anyone either... but people like Melville should be killed; that's why there are people like her—an assassin.
The raven-haired dominatrix enters a black car before Rosamund can do anything and she watches as the car drives off to the London streets. She turns back once more to look at the hotel behind her before she sighs, going back inside to finish her job and making sure that both she and Irene would not be traced with the disappearance of Seth Melville.
Preparing herself with a shower cap so none of her hair would fall from her head, some gloves so none of her fingerprints would be taken, and one of the clothes she stole from a rack just standing in the hallway with shoes larger than she would have worn, she enters back to Room 913.
It was hard to dress up a devious naked man and not be disgusted... but she is still a professional and this is all part of the job. Somehow, seeing a bloodied man is far easier than seeing a naked man with tied hands, a collar, and a blindfold. After dressing up the man in the same way she had observed him, placing the blindfold and ropes on the bedside table neatly, she grabs his case and is pleased to find out that he owns a gun with a silencer inside.
Making Seth Melville sit up to the side of the bed, facing the window, his eyes slightly open up and he hums, blinking once more, his head dropping. He's highly drugged up, Rosamund observes.
"Seth," she whispers soothingly and she hates it so much. He hums in reply. "Will you hold this for me, dear?" He hums once more, nodding and smiling giddily.
Placing the gun in his hands, thankfully, Seth holds it perfectly but doesn't seem to be aware of what he is doing. Rosamund, then, guides his hand and arms so the gun would be shooting the side of his temples.
"Seth, sweetie?" she whispers once more and he hums, grinning at her. "I want you to squeeze your fingers closer together. Can you do that for me?" she asks and he nods. "Come on, you can do it."
Seth smiles and she immediately steps back as the bullet comes out of the gun and into his head. The man immediately drops from his position, slightly sideways, with his hands and the position of the gun perfect. People would think that this is merely a suicide. Judging from his odd behaviour and once people dig up his belongings, one could only assume Seth Melville had killed himself from pressure with people from the underground.
With that, Rosamund takes her things, packs up everything she used in the killing of Seth Melville, brings it with her to be burned later in a secluded area, and finally leave the hotel.
Going back to Vauxhall Bridge at midnight, Mary finally takes the envelope well-hidden from prying eyes and smirking at the heavy amount of cash inside.
However, her mind falls back to the young dominatrix earlier. Why would she drug up that man? Why does she need all the information in his case? She must not have those information. She shouldn't have known those information in the first place. Who is she?
—oOo—
PRESENT TIME
"Yes," Irene simply replies.
Sherlock sighs in frustration, his eyes briefly going up to the ceiling as if he's praying to the gods on why he is being punished. "I told you to stay in Switzerland," Sherlock replies. [3]
"What did I tell you, dear? No one tells me what to do," she says.
"It was safer, there."
"Don't you know me at all?"
"Switzerland was the best country for your survival," he says, lowly and with a deeper voice than usual—a telltale sign that Sherlock is highly not amused.
"A country of silence and cows? No, I don't think I fit in," she tells him.
"Precisely why it's the perfect country for you to be in," Sherlock grumbles in frustration. "So, who's after you?"
Irene tilts her head at him. "Is that a question, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock grits his teeth. "Yes."
"You know I hate questions."
"Tell me who's after you."
"Too demanding, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. "I would like to know who's after you."
"Say please?"
"Nice try."
Irene pouts mockingly. "Pity," she says before smirking once more. "Well, I would like you to explain something first."
"You talk first. You're my client."
Irene chuckles. "I wonder when that would go the other way around."
John rolls his eyes once more but Mary tilts her head at the comment.
"Talk," Sherlock says.
"Explain. Something. First," Irene says, oddly firmly but not in her usual dominating manner but in the most human form of being so angry and livid that you cannot help but do what she asks before she starts to kill you.
"What?" he finally asks softly.
Mary looks at this oddly because Sherlock never talks to anyone this way, bar Mrs Hudson and herself... She shouldn't be surprised. Irene never gets this angry either... Goodness, what had changed in the past six years?!
"You have a sister," Irene states.
—oOo—
1999
For a few weeks, Rosamund has been trying ways to find the teenage dominatrix, Irene Adler. For some reason, the nineteen-year old is really good at hiding since she seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth.
Perhaps she is only hiding from her? Was she suspicious in the way they had met? Of course not, one thing Rosamund is sure about herself is that she is good at hiding who she really is if she wants to... and she wants to.
So far, she had killed a lot of people since Seth Melville and she had made a lot of cash, living peacefully in a small flat in London, laying low and killing bad men when she is summoned through skip codes she sees on sight.
But finally... finally, she sees it.
THE WOMAN
KNOW WHEN YOU ARE BEATEN
.
Home ... Sessions ... Contact ... Join
.
Some are born to rule.
Some are forced to serve.
When you worship at the feet of THE WOMAN,
You'll be in the presence of your GODDESS.
You'll whimper, You'll cry, You'll feel every blow
— physically and mentally.
You will know when you are beaten.
Next page
[4]
Rosamund raises a brow at the photograph of the nineteen-year old girl she had been stalking for the past few weeks. She is a rising dominatrix in the making and she doesn't seem to be hiding herself. Although, not everyone spends their time on the computer anyways so perhaps people rich enough to have a computer and have plenty of time to browse for a dominatrix. A good place to find clients, indeed.
Interested, Rosamund takes the mouse of her computer and lets the arrow hover over Contact before pressing, after she types her first name as Amanda and her last name as simply A, she types in one of her fake accounts which she will deactivate in three days.
Miss Adler,
My name is Amanda, and I do hope
you would not mind me not saying my
last name, do you?
A friend had recommended for me to
consult you and I am rather interested
in what you have to offer.
Hopefully, I can offer all I can.
Ever Yours,
Amanda A.
And then she waits, and by three days, she would delete all info about this once more.
—oOo—
PRESENT
"What do you know about her?" Sherlock asks.
"So it's true. She really is your sister?" Irene asks with a hint amount of surprise in her eyes.
"It depends. Who are we talking about?" he asks. "Anyone could pretend to be my little sister."
"Not just anyone," she replies with emphasis at the last word.
Sherlock straightens up at the accursed indefinite pronoun, still not liking everything that had happened around that word. Neither does her husband as he stiffens up beside her.
Mary grabs John's hand immediately, reminding him that she is very much alive and that her death, a story for later, is greatly exaggerated. She feels him squeeze her hands in reply, and she looks at him briefly, catching him staring at her with so much love in his eyes that she wants to vomit from a heavy weight on her chest.
Why does he have to be so perfect? she asks herself once more.
"What—do—you—know—about—her?" Sherlock asks, leaning forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs.
Irene moves from her comfortable position on John's armchair, and mimics Sherlock's sitting position—a staring contest Mary and John do not want to be a part of.
"Tell me everything about your sister," she says.
"No."
"Tell me, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock sighs, leaning back on his armchair, crossing his legs and placing his hands on the arms of his chair.
"If we are to work together, Miss Adler, I have to know everything to know on why you need me."
Oh, so it's back to Mr Holmes and Miss Adler now, are they? she thinks, not really understanding the dynamics between Sherlock and Irene. Two people she had learned to understand for years but still failing to fully comprehend—especially now that they are in the same room together. She would never have thought to be in this situation in her entire life.
"Who says I need you?"
"Why would you be here in person?" he asks. Her smile drops slightly. "Clearly, if this was not anything so important, you would have sent a note or a small email or something."
"Can't I just visit London—my homeland?" she asks.
"You're American," Sherlock replies. [5]
Irene raises her head, leaning back on John's armchair once more, crossing her legs and twisting so one side of her hip is raised and the other is buried on the armchair. Mary would think it was uncomfortable but probably not for Irene. Her hands rest on the side of the armchair—giving the impression that John's ugly old armchair look like a throne—a rare show since Sherlock's armchair is usually what resembles the true throne of the flat.
Looking at both raven-haired brilliant minds, it seems like two rival kingdoms ruled by a King and a Queen are negotiating with one another through their royal leaders. And here they are, two blonde royal subjects—two faithful knights and their daughter, ignored from the world of royalty.
"Who happens to grow up in England," Irene counters, bringing Mary back to reality. "I'm only American at birth, dear."
"Yet that's not enough to risk your life to come here," he adds.
"Maybe I'm secretly patriotic?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.
"Why do you want to know about my sister?" Sherlock asks.
"Because she's the one who has contacted me."
—oOo—
[1] I almost wrote "phone" but we all know the flip phone or the usual Nokia phone was the common phone at this time. Camera phones were practically nonexistent at this point. If they were, they were probably hella expensive.
[2] I is the ninth letter of the alphabet. M is the thirteenth number in the alphabet.
[3] I recently went to Europe, hence the long absence, and I saw a place there called "Haus Adler."
[4] Actual thing written on Irene's page.
[5] It is canon that Irene Adler, even in ASiB (a deleted scene), was from America.