Chapter 3.
"17 pounds!" spluttered John. He and Sherlock were at the tourist's entrance to Welbeck Abbey. John was appalled at the cost for a self-guided visit through the stately house. The ticket seller's assurances that it was a good value, not least of which because the tour included a stop at Welbeck Brewery, fell on deaf ears. Huffing, Sherlock stepped in front and paid for the two admittances. His willingness to pay (Sherlock being notorious for sticking John with cab fares) shocked John into silence.
The men entered the building. Not surprisingly, all of the closed side doors from the entrance hall were locked. The only path forward was a prescribed one leading through the main rooms.
"So, how do we get to the lower floor?" muttered John.
"We take the stairs," answered Sherlock condescendingly.
"Very funny, Sherlock. Or had you not noticed that there's no way to get to them?"
"There's always a way, John," answered Sherlock. Without another word, he walked into a stone plinth, knocking it and a bust of the 5th Duke of Portland to the ground. Happily, the Duke seemed made of stern stuff, because the statute simply bounced without harm onto a nearby rug. The plinth, however, crashed to the marble floor with a resounding bang, which brought a security guard and the ticket taker running.
"I'm so, so sorry," cried Sherlock, all but bowing and scraping. "I'm afraid that I wasn't watching where I was going. All this beauty here was distracting me."
Not sure where this was headed, John jumped in. "Yes, he's always doing things like this. Dead clumsy." Sherlock shot him a sour look at the observation. "He'd lose his head if it wasn't attached."
"Yes, well, I'll pay, of course. And I'll help clean up this mess," Sherlock bent to reach for the Duke's head. At the same time, he scooped up a piece of the broken plinth. A large cut opened across his palm, which began to bleed copiously onto the marble floor. John, the guard and the ticket taker started in horror.
"Jeez," said John. He snatched Sherlock's scarf from around his neck and began to wrap the hand, ignoring Sherlock's protests.
"I'm a doctor," John said. "I need a clean towel and bandages ASAP."
"No need, it'll stop on its own," Sherlock retorted, swinging his hand out as he spoke. Droplets of blood sprayed out from beneath the scarf, spattering onto the rug. "Oops!"
The Abbey employees jumped as if hit with hot pokers. Promising to return with cleaning materials (for Sherlock and the rug), they scampered off in different directions.
"Thank you!" called Sherlock. As soon as they were out of sight, he went to one of the locked doors. Pulling out a lockpicker's case, he began to work on the keyhole.
"Was that really necessary, cutting your hand?" hissed John.
"Did you have a better idea for distracting the staff?" Sherlock answered.
"What if there's a camera in here?"
"There isn't." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I checked, of course."
The door popped open and the men scooted through it. A staircase was to the right, which they started down.
"What's the plan?" asked John. "If Irene Adler is really behind the threat to reveal the Royal Family's secrets, why would she agree to meet you? And don't say dinner, that doesn't mean anything to me and you know it."
Sherlock smirked. "Dinner is a euphemism, John."
As he connected the dots, John stopped in his tracks. Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his scarf more tightly around his hands, but refused to meet John's eyes.
"You mean…you and she…you really did?"
"Stop sounding like a shocked spinster. As you once said to me, I'm human, not a machine. I may not care a thing about relationships or sex, but that doesn't mean that I'm entirely without experience. I am a scientist, after all. Experimentation and knowledge are my guiding principles."
"Bit of the deep end, though, isn't it? I mean, she is a dominatrix."
Sherlock looked disgusted, and muttered, "Was a dominatrix. And not always, even then." As John opened his mouth to continue, Sherlock held up his uninjured hand. "That's all I'm saying on the subject."
"But-" John interjected.
"No," said Sherlock, and he walked down the remaining flight of stairs.
"Er, Sherlock…" Sherlock paused, looking back at John over his shoulder. "If, um, dinner is the incentive here, should I wait outside?"
"Oh, for God's sake," growled Sherlock. "Shut up and come on." John grinned and followed.
The stairs ended at an archway through to a large, unlit room. Shadows suggested an imposing fireplace in the corner, but the room was otherwise empty. Roofline level windows barely added any illumination, given the overcast day outside. Overall, the effect was tomblike.
"There's no one here," whispered John.
"Why are you whispering?" Sherlock asked from his position in the center of the room. He walked forward, disappearing into the gloom. "There is an entire floor here. Just follow me and try not to make any more noise than necessary—" His voice cut off.
"Sherlock?" John called. No answer. Striding deeper into the room, John realized that hallways extended to three directions. Sherlock didn't appear to be in any of them.
"Sherlock!" John shouted. His voice seemed to echo back at him. Sighing in frustration, John spun in place, looking down each hallway. He chose the one closest to the center of the room, reasoning that Sherlock couldn't have gotten much farther along. There were no windows, so navigation quickly became an exercise in feeling the wall and hoping that nothing was in the way.
Unfortunately, there was—Sherlock. With an oompf, John smacked into his friend.
"Say hello to our guest, John," said Sherlock, tone flat.
"Er, hello?" he ventured. "Do you have a light? If I'm going to meet a dead woman, I generally like to be able to see her."
A flashlight snapped on. "I'm sure she'll feel the same, Dr. Watson."
John stared at the person standing in the circle of light. It wasn't Irene Adler.
"Anthea?" he asked incredulously.
She smiled slightly, then cut her eyes to Sherlock. "She had to relocate to one of the outbuildings. There is maintenance scheduled for the lower wing of the house. It will be filled with builders and cleaners starting Monday."
"Which doesn't explain why you're here," Sherlock answered. "There's a connection between you and the Woman, clearly. But what?" He began to circle Anthea, who raised an eyebrow but didn't move. "Ah…of course. I should have seen it sooner." He stopped in front of Anthea, eyes raking her from head to shoes. "And now for the big question. Does Mycroft know?"
She snapped off the light, plunging them all into darkness. "She's waiting for you in the guesthouse at the western edge of the property." Clicking heels signaled Anthea's departure.
"So, while we're stumbling back through the dark, care to fill me in on the big secret? Why was she here, Sherlock?" John grunted as he bumped into the wall, trying to follow the vanishing sound of Anthea's shoes.
"She's related to the Woman in some fashion. Not a sister, but cousin is likely. She's been working with her for some time."
"She took me to see Irene the first time she rose from the dead. At the Battersea Water facility." John recalled. "I didn't know you knew that."
"I didn't, but I suspected." Sherlock answered. "I saw the car, one of Mycroft's. It could have been any of his minions but in hindsight, Anthea was the obvious choice. It's clear from her earlobes."
John started to question that conclusion, but decided against it. If anyone could find a conspiracy in an earlobe, it was Sherlock. "Is this what Mycroft suspected? That Anthea is what…a double agent?"
"No, and nothing so dramatic. Mycroft picked up on the fact that she was keeping a secret, but I'm sure that's all. In his line of work, secrets can be deadly, so it wasn't something he could ignore. But a connection to a woman he believes to be dead? Mycroft doesn't have the imagination for it."
"How can you be so sure that Mycroft doesn't know about her?" John asked.
"Because I ensured that he wouldn't find out. I organized the Woman's untimely death, at least so far as he knew of it. It wasn't difficult to find the right people to pay off for their willingness to lie to him. What was it he told you? It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him." A smile crept into Sherlock's tone. "Exactly."
"How did you hear that?" John muttered. "You weren't even in the room."
"As I've said before, John, don't try to hide from me at Speedy's. The staff doesn't hesitate to call when something happens that involves me." Sherlock snorted. "Frankly, I was disappointed in Mycroft. Choosing the café below 221 for a private discussion? He's slipping."
The hallway came to an end and the lights snapped on. John blinked hard against the brightness.
"He's not slipping," said Anthea. She looked composed, but her voice betrayed stress. "He trusts Dr. Watson, heaven knows why."
"Hey," John protested. Anthea ignored him, gaze fixed on Sherlock. "And he cares about you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I thought you were smarter than that. Apparently, I was wrong."
"And that's a statement you won't hear from him very often. Can we get on with this? I'm not a fan of being underground." John stepped forward between his two companions.
Anthea glowered for a moment, then her usual look of calm descended. "Take the right door. The alarm on it is disabled. You can follow the outside breezeway to the stone house near the trees. She'll be there."
John nodded. Sherlock didn't move, staring around him at Anthea. John clutched his injured hand and squeezed. "Ow!" Sherlock yanked his hand back. The mood between Anthea and him was broken, as John intended. With a nod, Sherlock followed John out of the room. Anthea spoke softly.
"Sherlock," she called. He stopped and turned back.
"You should know," she said. "Her answer would have been yes."
"What?" asked John.
"Nothing," said Sherlock. "Just nonsense." Anthea smiled sadly as they left the room.
Sherlock nearly stomped down the pathway. John had to walk quickly to keep up. "Nonsense, huh? Seems like it was more than that to me," said John.
"Shut. Up.," bit off Sherlock.
"Sounds as though Dr. Watson is being perceptive, as usual," came a throaty comment. John spun while Sherlock froze in place.
"Ms. Adler," said John wearily.
"You haven't changed at all," Irene observed.
"I can't say the same of you. Last I heard, you were dead," John responded.
"Don't believe everything you hear," she said.
"Especially not from this source," Sherlock added.
Her answering smile mirrored Anthea's melancholy one of a few minutes earlier. Irene was simply dressed, with her hair cut just above her jawline. Diamond studs twinkled at her ears. In her ballet flats, she appeared tiny, several inches shorter than John.
"We should go inside. Tour groups come through here all the time and I wouldn't want to be caught out. It's a nuisance, but I don't plan to make my stay here permanent."
"No, permanent doesn't suit you," snarked Sherlock. Without another word, Irene turned and walked down a cobbled path to a small outbuilding.
"You're going to fill me in on what's going on with you two," John decreed quietly to Sherlock.
"I can't wait. Oh, wait, yes I can," Sherlock retorted. They followed Irene into the stone house. It was a single room, lined with shelving. An old, crumbling wardrobe stood in one corner. The window shutters were closed, but would clearly let in a considerable amount of light when opened. The room also contained an duvet-covered airbed, a small cabinet and a curtain attached haphazardly to the ceiling, behind which stood a portable toilet.
"I love what you've done with the place," said John.
"Yes, well, as I said, it's temporary." Irene directed her comment to John, but her gaze was on Sherlock. Silence filled the room as the two stared at each other, neither moving a muscle or giving an inch. John's eyes swiveled between them. Both seemed to be waiting for something the other wasn't willing to give, or at least wouldn't be the first to offer. He finally broke the stalemate by clearing his throat.
"Sorry, but I believe we have business to discuss? The Queen—remember, Sherlock?"
"Ah, yes. Her Majesty. My ticket home," said Irene.
"She won't become involved in this," said Sherlock. "You've overplayed your hand."
"Actually, I don't expect her involvement to be strictly necessary. I have another ace in the hole."
Sherlock looked at her for several long moments, then smirked. "He won't help you."
"Precedent says he will," Irene shot back.
Sherlock frowned. "Precedent?"
"He'll take action for the things he cares about. In this instance, it's the monarchy and its reputation."
"And the precedent was…?" John interjected.
"What he cares for the most," Irene said softly.
"You're delusional," Sherlock responded.
"When it was his little brother on the line, he was willing to throw the country's interests on the dustbin. Iceman would let England burn if it meant saving you, Sherlock," Irene asserted.
Sherlock simply shook his head. "He was saving himself—as you once said, having his little brother be a major security leak wouldn't be a good career move."
Irene stepped up to him. "And having his personal assistant be one wouldn't be much better," she responded.
"You'd throw Anthea to the wolves to save your hide," John said darkly.
"My hide is doing just fine where it's been, Doctor. I'm not doing this just to be in London again," Irene said.
"Then why are you doing it?" John shot back.
"For the sake of something else that I care about," she said.
"Which is only yourself," Sherlock bit off.
Irene took another step forward, stopping inches away from Sherlock. She ran her fingertips slowly down his shirt, stopping just above his abdomen.
"You don't believe that," she whispered.
Sherlock shrugged. "It's the truth," he said.
"So is this," she answered. Rising to her toes, she brushed her lips across his. He didn't return the kiss, didn't move a muscle. Leaning back, she looked into his eyes then closed hers.
"Lost again," he whispered, then stepped back. John averted his eyes. The only sound in the room was their breathing. Then a voice broke through from outside.
"Despite the extensive space available in the home, the Duke kept these outbuildings for guest use and for occasional storage. Built of ancient stone, they're really quite charming…".
"Sherlock," hissed John. Sherlock stood stock still, looking at the space where Irene had been moments before. Her last words lingered in the air—"I have something you need to know. Find me." She was gone.