The Broken Tango
Chapter 2
Irene Adler's keen eyes looked over the two men standing beside her uncle, as she snapped off the latex gloves protecting her fingers.
The shorter of the two, John Watson, met her eye with a friendly one, intelligent and warm. He was blonde, and stood proudly if not a little stiffly, with a stiffness in the way he used his left arm which suggested an injury to the shoulder. Plus his skin was tanned but not above the wrists.
She deduced he was ex-military, perhaps sent home because of a bullet wound? And had to have come from either Afghanistan or Iraq.
As John stretched his hand out to shake hers, she asked, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"
"I'm sorry, what?" he spluttered.
"I can see from the way you hold yourself that you're ex-military. There's a stiffness in your left arm which would indicate an injury to your shoulder, possibly a gunshot wound. Your skin is tanned, but not below the wrists, which would also tell me that you weren't sunbathing, you were working. So tan, gunshot wound, military bearing must mean one thing: Iraq or Afghanistan?" she explained, with one quirked eyebrow. John glanced from her to Sherlock, and back again while Lestrade fought to contain his laughter.
"You don't have a secret twin sister, do you Sherlock?" he finally asked, the stupefied expression on his face worthy of a photo. Irene clapped her hands together.
"If only I had a camera, the look on your face," she sighed, before turning back to the body. Apart from her initial greeting, she completely ignored Sherlock Holmes.
"So back to business. What can you tell me about the victim?" Lestrade asked, but just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, Irene had already beaten him to it.
"This crime scene was made to look like a suicide, however there are several key points to the contrary. First, the stool which was used has been kicked across the floor. From her position atop it, the victim would have had no way of kicking it with such force as to shove it over the other side of the room. If you look on the floor, there are striations in the wood, where the stool was shoved away. Usually, if there was a suicide the victim would just step off of it. If we follow this theory, more anomalies appear. First there are traces of human skin on the rope knot, however look at the woman's hands," at this Irene held up the corpse's hand, showing the smooth skin. "Too smooth for excess skin to just peel away like this, so we can surmise her attacker was relatively young, seeing as the majority of people who suffer from eczema are adolescent, but what's more is the bruising along her back, and arms, seen just above her clothing. All would have had to have been administered by someone else, due to their positions, and judging by their colour and severity, they are only a few hours old. The victim died at 3:00 this afternoon. Uncle, we need forensics up here to dust for fingerprints and to find, if possible the weapon used to cause these injuries. This attack was frenzied, and as such the murderer was unlikely to have thrown the weapon away with care or have taken it very far," Irene finished her assessment, perfectly aware of the uncomfortable silence in the room, but uncaring as she focussed her eyes on the still hanging corpse.
Suddenly muffled clapping filled the air, and Lestrade, Irene and John all turned to see Sherlock applauding her with a derisive look on his face.
John could have sworn there was an impressed look somewhere there too.
"Very well done, Miss Adler, for an amateur," he drawled. "But perhaps now the obvious is out of the way, you'll let the grown-ups take it from here?"
"I hardly think so, Mr Holmes," Irene replied sweetly, but John could hear the sarcasm in her saccharine tones. "If anything I am more qualified to make these observations than even you are."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as he regarded the young woman with newfound caution. "Oxford or Cambridge?" he asked abruptly, as Lestrade stared at him, but Irene merely looked at him condescendingly.
"Well done, Mr Holmes. The Oxbridge accent does rather give it away. Incidentally it was Oxford," she murmured. "Come on then, astound me with my life story."
Sherlock couldn't help but smile. At last, a sparring partner with an ounce of wit and intelligence. "So Oxford education, I'm guessing either forensics or criminology, considering your insightful knowledge. You've spent time in the military, hence your recognition of John's own bearing, but you also stand with a grace which reflect some training in dance. Incidentally, you are neither Lestrade's biological niece, nor his sister's biological daughter as I have met both her and her husband, and you bear no physical resemblance. So you're adopted, possibly a teenage mother who didn't want you and gave you up at birth. As to your age, I am guessing twenty-three, although how…" he trailed off for a minute, missing the stricken look in Irene's eyes at the mention of her parentage, Lestrade's anger and John's concern. "Got it! You were a child prodigy, weren't you? Got into university at sixteen, graduated at eighteen, went into the military and left recently, however you saw no active service, at least not anywhere like John, so I am guessing RAF or Navy, rather than Army. How did I do?" he finished, with a boyish smile. Irene glared at him, stepping close.
Sherlock looked into her eyes, and saw them shimmering with tears, afire with anger before they darkened. It was like shutters coming down, armour keeping him out of her head. To his surprise, he was visited with a strong urge to tear that armour away, so he could bask in the mind of someone nearly as brilliant as he.
"You are mostly right. I was a child prodigy. I studied Astrophysics for one year at Oxford before switching to Criminology and Forensic Science. I was fast-tracked and graduated at the age of nineteen. I joined the RAF and trained as a fighter pilot, however several issues with discipline and what were deemed reckless acts saw me dishonourably discharged. And you're right, I am adopted," Irene breathed harshly, before turning away from the consulting detective.
"Your mother?" he asked, pressing her so he could prove he was right. Prove he was superior.
"Holmes, enough!" Lestrade snapped, as John watched in silence.
"That is none of your business," Irene muttered, and John saw the telltale signs of her fists clenching. Sherlock was pushing her too fast.
"Sherlock, maybe you should-" he began, but as always his friend ignored him.
"A desire to discard a painful topic only strengthens my hypothesis that you were given up at bi-ARGH!" his hypothesis was cut off by Irene's fist, punching him in the jaw. She was breathing harshly, looking down at the detective as he straightened slowly, meeting her watery eyes.
"My mother didn't give me up. She died," Irene snarled, before collecting herself and walking out the room. An awkward silence fell, only compounded by the corpse swinging like a pendulum in the centre, and the groans of Sherlock as he rotated his jaw experimentally.
"Definitely military, with a right hook like that," he muttered to himself. John shook his head, and wandered outside to find Irene while Lestrade stepped forward with a threatening look on his face.
"That was tactless, Holmes. You have no idea what that girl has been through in her life," he all but snarled in the consulting detective's face. Sherlock Holmes stared back at him, with his piercing eyes, trying to see what he had missed.
"So tell me," he murmured. Lestrade hesitated, as Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "We both know you're going to tell me anyway, at some point."
"Fine," Lestrade muttered through gritted teeth. He stepped away, to the other side of the room as a team of hazmat suit-clad assistants came to take the body down and away. "Her birth parents were killed when she was six, and she was alone. No other family to speak of, so she was put up for adoption. My sister and her husband quickly found out they could not have kids so they adopted her."
"I'm guessing that's not the whole story," Sherlock mused cautiously, his brain now buzzing. He let the body go without question, he really had nothing further to add. Miss Adler had done it quite sufficiently, to his disgust.
"No. The Adlers are quite a moneyed lot. Well-connected and intellectual, and Irene was expected to go along with it. She was frighteningly clever, but she ditched her astrophysics degree, her parents' choice, in favour of criminology and forensics. She joined the RAF against their will too, and they haven't spoken in years. She's here looking for a flat, and I invited her to meet me here. She didn't deserve what you dealt her just because she solved the case before you, Sherlock," Lestrade finished, his voice a little rough. Without another word, he left the room, leaving Sherlock to dwell on all he had just learned.
It certainly seemed Miss Irene Adler had a lot of disregard for authority, as well as a voracious intelligence and a fiery temper. He also sensed there was a lot of pain there, from her parents' premature death, possibly contributing to her refusal to allow her adopted parents to dictate her life.
She was an intriguing character.
Sherlock's lips quirked, as he turned and swept from the room.
