After finally managing to convince the manager of the whole production that Lara cannot truly perform for a few weeks, John walks back to the corridor of the dressing room where he left some actresses in the hands of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes and their frustratingly huge amount of alien bickering.
He ponders over this in his head. Sherlock could not have known that it was Irene Adler's case they were being given. The tickets were given at a perfect time—when there is no time to search more about the play. Irene Adler had done her work beautifully. John rolls his eyes, of course, she would want a grand entrance, and what could be an even grander entrance than suddenly showing up in a Broadway musical as a supporting actress.
Deciding not to get in the dressing room as to not deal with another round of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler showdown, he leans back on the wall beside the door. Just as his back hits the wall, the door to the dressing room opens and out comes Irene Adler.
She walks out with one of her signature smirks and glances at John before passing him by and walking out. After a long moment, Sherlock walks out as well and follows her without even looking at John. The detective seems to be quick on his feet—quicker than usual—and John manages to walk alongside him (run, more like).
"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asks, watching Irene Adler stride in the distance directly in front of them, walking out of the secret backstage door of the theatre as to not be huddled by her fans—which, judging from the applause earlier, she would have.
Sherlock keeps quiet.
"Sherlock," John tries once more, glancing at the detective whose eyes are fixated in front of him and at the same time, very distant.
John looks at what Sherlock is looking and his eyes are fixated on the door.
"Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock finally snaps.
"What's going on?" John asks once more.
"Case," Sherlock replies.
"I know that but—"
"It seems middle age is not suiting you well, John, if it's keeping you from thinking like a perfectly sound human being."
John sighs in annoyance. "Sherlock, you tell me what the bloody hell is going on or I'll punch your lights out."
Sherlock stops by the door at this, glancing at John, before opening the door to let them both out and finally slowing to his usual pace. "The woman is being tracked down."
"By a stalker, you said," John starts quietly, looking at Irene who is hailing a cab at the opposite side of the street.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "In a way."
"In a way?"
"You can't expect us to talk about her case when there are other people around, can you?" Sherlock snaps with a sigh afterwards.
John decides not to comment on how condescending the bastard sounds. "So basically, you two were talking in riddles again."
"Hardly. It was an obvious conversation."
"Well, I'm not a dark-haired dangerous sociopath, am I?" John replies, annoyed.
Sherlock decides to ignore John. "She is being tracked down but not by a stalker, or at least, not by the kind of stalker you are thinking."
"Powerful government, then?"
"All governments are tracking her down," Sherlock says with a hint of—
Is that pride I'm seeing? John thinks.
"But not just governments—agencies, terrorist groups, parts of Moriarty's old web, although the last part may be less likely since I've taken them down when I left for two years by faking my—" Sherlock stops at John's glare. "Either way, we know that the probable leader of the said group is male—which narrows places down."
"Why the hell would she live such a difficult life?" John mutters under his breath.
"For fun," Sherlock comments, making John realise he had said the thing out loud.
"Fun?" John tries to ask but realises that Irene is a sociopath so he really shouldn't be surprised by her choice of fun.
"What's fun?" Irene asks when they finally approach her and enters the cab with her. It was a misfortune that John had to sit between her and Sherlock.
"Broadway," John says to save himself the pain.
"Theatre is always fun. There are lots of things you can do on stage," Irene says.
"What sort of things?" John asks before thinking.
"Should I make a list?" Irene asks.
"No, er—no," John replies, clearing his throat. "How come you've—"
"John, are you really going to continue this horrible attempt of chatting?" Sherlock butts in, glaring at John who glares back.
"I don't think I'm complaining," Irene replies with a raised brow, leaning forward so Sherlock would see her.
"Horrible?" John asks. "We barely even started."
"And it would be an even greater gift if you did not continue at all," Sherlock replies.
"Why?" Irene Adler asks cooly.
"Why what?" Sherlock finally addresses her, leaning back and looking out of the window with a sigh.
Irene decides to lean back on her seat as well and addresses John—who is looking at Sherlock curiously—by placing a hand on his arm. "What was your question again, Doctor Watson?"
"How come you've gone to Broadway?" John asks.
"Dear God," Sherlock sulks.
John and Irene ignore him and continue to torture the detective by continuing to talk.
"I like to be on stage," Irene says with a small smile John had never seen before. "I've always loved the stage."
"Attention?" John asks.
Irene raises a brow. "Entertainment," she replies. "Some people say something unlocks within a person when they go through theatre."
"And did something unlock in you when you're up there?" John asks.
"It's not always the actors and actresses that get unlocked. It is always the audience," she answers with a small gleam in her eye.
Even in the theatre, she wants to take control, of course, John thinks, almost rolling his eyes at himself for his stupidity.
"You said you've always loved the stage."
"I have."
"A trained actress since youth, then?" John asks.
Irene raises a brow at John. Unbeknownst to them, Sherlock had smirked slightly at John's deduction.
Irene nods. "And trained singer," Irene adds in a way John can only describe as proud.
"Why didn't you take that as your initial career?" John asks.
Irene raises a brow at him. "Taking information about me, are you, Doctor Watson?" She smirks.
"We're just having a perfectly normal conversation," John replies.
"Are we?"
John, to be perfectly honest, will probably never trust Irene. In a sense that he will never be sure of her motives and he will never know if she is plotting something behind her back as she had done before. What marvels him is the fact that he cannot trust Sherlock when it concerns her either—look at the trouble Sherlock had almost brought to the nation because of his blindness towards her. John shakes his head at the thought...
Sherlock Holmes blinded by Irene Adler.
She really did beat him, didn't she?
Irene, in turn, may never trust John either—or not wholly. She can always trust his dedication and loyalty to Sherlock, and she will always trust that the army doctor will always choose Sherlock over her. It could prove useful in the future... if ever... She shakes her head at the thought. She can never trust John Watson about her but she can always trust the doctor about him. John Watson will be a good ally in her own motives.
Sherlock resents both of these two because he believes they are chatting to make him feel bad. He shakes his head at the horror of John and the woman teaming up against him. The woman will be relentless in her teasing. The irritation will rise up to a maximum if it ever comes to that point.
"We're here," the driver says after ten minutes of silence—unless you count the typing on the keyboard of a phone silent. John had shaken his head plenty of times, thinking he is in a cab ride with two teenagers.
After Irene pays for the cab ride (since John left his wallet in the hotel he and Sherlock were staying—and he had probably not changed his pounds to dollars yet—and Sherlock did not have a smaller bill for the cab driver to give enough change), John gets out of the cab to see a modest looking flat in a quiet street.
Irene walks up to the small gate and opens it for the two men to enter.
"Brooklyn Heights," Sherlock tells no one, looking at the brownstone terrace houses.
John hums in reply as they all walk up the steps to the door of the house. Irene opens the door and John raises a brow at the simplicity of the place—in perfect contrast to her flat back in Belgravia. It's still the same composition inside—light, white, beige, and mostly made of wood. Still, it's much more—homey could only be the right term—than her flat in London.
"Please... Make yourself at home," Irene tells them both, going to the kitchen as soon as she had removed her boots—boots with less heels than she usually wears, John just notices—and coat on the coatrack beside the door. Both John and Sherlock watch her move from one door to the next and hear her go around her flat.
Sherlock ignores the fact that he still notices the fact that she has admirably high arches, or the fact that she walks noiselessly as she takes a step with the balls of her feet first rather than a heel... as if she is tip-toeing—trained dancer, he will never forget. Sherlock shakes his head.
'Will never forget?' he scoffs to himself.
Without another word to John, Sherlock walks through the small corridor and into the first door nearest to them—the living room. Once more, John crashes on the back of Sherlock who had abruptly stopped by the doorway to assess the place.
? ? ?
Still nothing, Sherlock thinks to himself with a small growl of annoyance.
With that, Sherlock moves to go to the white couch in the middle of the room and drops on it immediately, crossing his legs, and seems to be waiting patiently.
John, on the other hand, decides to go through the room and look at the books on the shelves—surprised to see some normal-looking books like classic novels with a few romance novels in between books about theatre and music, before chastising himself. Irene would have had to bring someone inside her flat at some point—whether a friend or something else—she had to look the part of a normal citizen residing in New York.
Irene walks in once more wearing simple black jeans—which still manage to hug her shapely legs perfectly—and a dark green silk blouse that seems to match Sherlock's own dark green silk shirt. The two morons probably had not noticed Irene's subconscious choice of clothing. Her hair which was already let down, is much tamer than a few minutes ago, showing off her locks in a much more pleasing manner.
"So, who's after you?" Sherlock finally breaks the silence just as she enters the room, mirroring his own words from years ago.
She stays on one side by the doorway but not leaning on it, simply looking at the two men in her living room but she doesn't answer quickly. She pauses by the doorway for a few more moments, looking at Sherlock briefly, before slowly moving towards the fireplace in front of the couch—directly in front of Sherlock—and crossing her arms in her subtle form of defence and hiding of vulnerability.
"Your stalker—who's after you?" Sherlock asks once more.
Her voice starts off quietly. "There are plenty of people who—"
"Yes, but you said 'he,'" Sherlock points out. "You already confirmed the culprit to be male."
Irene sighs and walks towards the window. John would have laughed at how dramatic she is being but held his tongue at the uncharacteristically solemn look upon her features.
He decides to continue to stay quiet, sitting down on the armchair in the corner of the room which John suspects could only be the place where Irene spends her time reading—judging from the easy access to the bookshelf as well as the placement of the lamp. He continues to watch the two and is determined not to interrupt unless needed.
"It has been almost a year since I decided to stay here in Brooklyn Heights," Irene starts. John notices that Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at that. "It's the longest stay I've ever had since... since London," she says the last word almost dreamily. "It had been a tame process. Before staying here," she continues, "I've jumped from one country to the next. It became much more random and the stays became shorter after a few years of slow migration. I had thought people were tracking me down again... Since then, I had basically lived as a gypsy."
John snorts at that. Irene is now playing the role of Gypsy Rose Lee and to hear her admitting that she had lived as a gypsy herself. What was it she had said all those years ago?
"D'you know the big problem
with a disguise, Mr Holmes?
However hard you try
it's always a self-portrait."
"That type of living started after—" Irene smirks and pauses, making John attentive and Sherlock raise his brow—"after Montenegro."
John manages to witness Sherlock blink once and the detective's attentiveness slacker for a moment but it was quickly replaced by the usual mask of indifference Sherlock had probably perfected since he was born. For now, he files the information away for later.
"I've walked away and had been cautious on my whereabouts for some time before I noticed that there had been a decrease of immediate threat on being chased down." Sherlock opens his mouth at this but Irene cuts him off, "Yes, Mister Holmes, I had been very thorough on whether I was being chased."
"Had you?" Sherlock asks.
"Yes," she replies almost glaringly. John couldn't see what Irene's face is doing right now but he almost laughs at the short amount of wariness upon Sherlock's face. "Anyway, the news of my death had been spreading widely and as I said, there had been a decrease of immediate threat on the exaggeration of my supposed demise. Slowly, the stays got longer and longer until I had reached New York." She gestures around her flat at the mention of the city. "The name Irene Adler is officially dead in the minds of the chasers. I knew I was off the radar. I officially became Lara Nor—Lara Wolfe."
"But?" Sherlock asks, trying not to show his discomfort at the last part of her explanation.
"But something happened."
"He made contact, you said," Sherlock says.
"Yes," Irene says in a forced tone and doesn't continue.
"Care to elaborate?" John encourages the sociopath softly to talk to the other sociopath in the room.
I'm probably a sociopath myself if I'm letting myself deal with all this shit, John thinks to himself.
"I assume this he had made first contact and is now the sole reason of the ignition of you being chased down once more," Sherlock replies.
"Yes."
"How did he contact you?"
—oOo—
PREVIOUS
"Alright! That was a good run, everybody! A good run! Technical Team, you, guys, are getting better but I can still hear and see some delays on the lights and sounds. I don't want any embarrassing delays on the next runs, are we clear? Good. Orchestra, well done, beautiful playing, but can you lower it down a bit. You're over-powering the actors voices. At one point, Ms Combe, Ms Gold, and Ms Legrand [1] were yelling their parts and I started fearing for their vocal chords. Are we clear? Yes, good, thank you."
As they listen to the stage manager and several of the crew talk about the mistakes in the run, one of the crew quietly runs towards Irene.
"Ms Wolfe?" she whispers.
"Yes, what is it?" Irene asks in a whisper.
"There's a phone call for you," she replies.
"Alright," Irene says, raising her hand to take the phone.
"No, it's er—it's on the landline," the girl says meekly.
Irene blinks a few times before standing up from the seats in the audience after a small nod of permission from the production manager and heading towards the back of the theatre to take the phone call.
"Hello?" she asks.
"Good evening, Miss Adler."
—oOo—
PRESENT
"Ever since then, many had grown suspicious and word of my survival went around like a cancer... which is impressive, knowing that it's only been a few days—barely half a week, really."
"When did he made contact?" Sherlock decides to ask.
"Three days ago," Irene replies.
"And you didn't contact us sooner because...?" Sherlock asks in a slightly accusing tone if John was to be honest.
"Because I had other things to handle first."
John narrows his eyes. "You always handle yourself first," he says, making Irene turn away from the window and towards him. John would say that she almost looks hurt from his comment.
"Some things are to be handled first before I could make the first move."
John nods. "Like finding a body to fake your death," he replies, slightly glancing at Sherlock.
Irene turns away once more to look outside of the window. "Yes... Something like that."
"So who is he?" Sherlock asks impatiently.
"It's your sibling."
Sherlock looks up at that in a way John could only describe as alert.
"Eurus?" John asks, straightening up on his seat in alarm.
"She said 'he,' John," Sherlock reminds him.
John shakes his head from his stupidity. "Oh, right, of course."
"Yes, I was informed about your long-lost sister," Irene continues.
"Mycroft told you about her?" John asks.
"Yes," Irene replies before sighing, "it seems a lot was discovered from your... predicament with your sister."
John pales. "That phone call..."
"So who loves you?
I'm assuming it's not a long list."
"Irene Adler."
It was my fault. Mycroft was there, and I blabbed about her. I was the one who let Mycroft know about her, John thinks to himself.
"...with Molly—" John continues to whisper but stops upon Sherlock's glare at the reminder of that horrible phone call.
He looks at Irene who is looking back at him calculatingly before sighing and saying, "Because you told Mycroft, I've been exposed." She turns to look at Sherlock, finally looking at him in the eye. "I'm hiring you to find out who's after me."
"I thought Mycroft was the one after you?" John asks.
"Mycroft was the ignition—the hairspray to the spark," Sherlock says, finally talking. John looks at him oddly. "Mycroft had already known you were alive," he informs, finally addressing Irene again.
Irene's eyes widen for a fraction but easily masked once more. "Since when?" she asks quietly.
"Most likely for a very long time."
"Why now?"
Sherlock turns his head to look at the window. "Eurus," he whispers to himself but everyone else hears him. John straightens up at that and Irene surprisingly looks like she is confused for the first time since John had met her. Sherlock, ignoring the reaction of the other two, stands up from the couch and fixes his collar. "We have to go back to London."
"I hired you for this case," Irene says.
"I said we have to go back to London," Sherlock says, walking towards Irene and removing almost all space between them.
They look at each other for almost forever as Irene's jaw clench uncharacteristically. Is it John's imagination or is Irene Adler much more open with her emotions nowadays?
She moves back away from him. "How long?" she asks.
"Leaves in eight hours. Pack up everything and be quick," Sherlock says, turning towards the door.
"You cannot just order me around," Irene says stoically, standing her ground.
"I am not ordering you around," Sherlock says, still not turning.
"Yes, you are," Irene says. John supposes that if Irene Adler was a perfectly normal human being, she would be ripping Sherlock to shreds in anger. "You cannot attempt to control my life this way."
At that, Sherlock turns around almost as if someone had punched him in the face. "I never—"
"—which is why I had already booked my own flight earlier and cancelled the one you gave me," she replies. "I leave in three hours."
With that, she walks towards the door, passing by Sherlock whose eyes had followed her movement, looking at her almost in admiration if it wasn't for the bewildered and slightly irritated look in his eye.
"Er," John starts, standing up, "when did you—were you rescheduling our flight in the cab earlier?"
Sherlock doesn't answer him but simply walks through the doorway and leaves Irene's flat.
John was lucky to manage to chase after him and enter the cab before Sherlock leaves him to his own again. God knows what would happen to him being left alone in America without his wallet.
—oOo—
[1] In Gypsy the Musical, the characters Tessie Tura, Mazeppa, and Electra sing the song "You Gotta Get a Gimmick." In the West End Production of Gypsy in 2015 (the same one Lara plays Gypsy Rose Lee), the characters are placed by Anita Louise Combe, Louise Gold, and Julie Legrand respectively.