Up in Smoke

Irene Adler did not knock. It was not in her nature to ask for permission and even the situation they were in did not charge that. She turned the handle of the bathroom door and pushed, meeting the resistance of a lock.

"I said not to bother me." His voice was deep, even through the door.

"It's been eight hours."

"And?"

"I need a shower and the toilet."

"And?"

"Open the door."

There was a long pause before she heard the bolt sliding out of the lock, after which she turned the knob and opened the door to the bathroom. The window was cracked, but the scent of cigarette smoke still lingered in the air.

"Anything?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and Irene flushed away the box-worth of cigarette butts sitting in the toilet bowl before closing the lid and sitting on it.

"You said you needed to use the toilet."

"I lied."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for eight hours. If your brain hasn't processed everything we've seen and heard at least four times over by now, then you're ill. Now are you going to share your conclusions or not?"

"Not, I think."

"Though you seem to be temporarily forgetting this, they are my children too, Sherlock. You've discussed cases with me before and this is far too important for you to keep anything to yourself. Maybe I'll come to a different conclusion."

"Mycroft should be sending the details of which flight they took shortly."

"You neglected to mention that he was narrowing it down for us."

"You didn't ask."

Shaking off her irritation (worry, anger, fear), Irene shimmied out of her stockings and undid the zip at the back of her dress before slipping it off, followed by her undergarments. Clad in only her skin, she passed Sherlock and turned the knobs of the shower.

"You can fill me in while I wash up."

"There's nothing to fill you in on."

"Then you can wash my back."

"I hardly think this is the time."

"Excellent, then use it to tell me what you've deduced."

Sherlock growled a little, clearing his throat and scowling at the shower curtain that Irene had slipped behind. Her outline was visible as she ran water over her hair and began to work shampoo into it.

"Well?"

"She's going north. The missing clothes, the flights she's taking. Canada, perhaps, but very likely the northern portion of the midwestern United States."

"Why?"

"If I knew why, Irene, I would already have relocated our children. Two of the employees we questioned were liars, but neither of them was lying about Lily or the children. One of them probably would have helped her if she asked, but she didn't. She had a plan."

Rinsing shampoo out of her dark locks, the Woman looked out from behind the shower curtain in time to see Sherlock check his mobile again, looking more anxious than she had seen him in a long while. As he turned his head and caught her gaze, the emotion vanished behind a cool exterior. She studied his impassive face for a long moment before returning her attention to washing herself, conditioning her hair, gently scrubbing the dirt and discomfort of travel from her skin. The routine was soothing; it helped her to clear her head. She did not know what was going to happen or why any of the events had occurred as they did but she did know her own body and unlike her companion she understood that taking care of herself ensured that she was in top form.

"Do you know how long she was planning this?"

"How did we not see this coming?"

"Sherlock—"

"We're both intelligent, perceptive, observant individuals. We see her every day. I regularly deduce what she and Toby did throughout the day and how many times Sophia woke her up the previous night. We should have seen this coming."

Irene paused, hearing the tightness, the restrained emotion in Sherlock's voice. Spreading lather over her face to clear the dirt from her pores, she replied, her eyes closed so she did not have to watch Sherlock Holmes hold himself together.

"She's only ordinary, you said. Perhaps we misjudged her. Or perhaps she had help."

"She wouldn't have taken them if she thought they would be hurt. She must have been tricked; Lillian was too trusting at times."

"Or she was cleverer than she let on."

"She had a great deal of literary, historic, and botanical knowledge, but nothing that would help her abduct children."

"Perhaps we're looking at the wrong things."

Irene rinsed her hair, clearing it of conditioner before gently rubbing her skin over once again with a cloth, removing any traces of the travel and with it, the frustration of the case (or as much of it as she could manage.)

"Meaning?"

"What do historians and bibliophiles look to for advice?"

"Of course," Sherlock breathed, rushing from the bathroom to retrieve his laptop from the bag he had neglected, plugging it into the wall and starting it up. As Irene rinsed and dried herself, Sherlock sent out several messages and requests of information before scrolling through a list of titles.

"And?" Irene asked, one towel knotted in her hair, the other draped over one shoulder as she opened her bag to retrieve fresh clothing.

"Based on the library records and ebook purchases and loans she made, they're aiming for Montana. She prepared for all of this—strategy, living off the grid, famous crimes of history, the psychology of crime. Why did I not think of this before, God I'm stupid stupid stupid, the brain's lagging, I should have worked that out by now."

"Emotional interference perhaps?"

"I've compartmentalized."

"Lack of sleep, food, and an excess of stress as well as dehydration do to travel."

"Good, glass of water. The brain works slower when the body is dehydrated, should have thought of that."

When he returned from the bathroom after downing several tall glasses of water, she was dressed casually, comfortably, and very unlike herself.

"Why on earth are you dressed like that?"

"You're an arse."

"How does that effect your choice in clothing?"

"People don't want to tell you things. But the nice lady from Kansas who's looking for her runaway daughter and grandchildren? They want to help her." Irene's voice seamlessly slipped on an American accent.

"You're not old enough to be Lily's mother."

"Give me a few minutes with my makeup and I will be."

"You don't stand like a woman over fifty."

"I don't have to be over fifty. I had her when I was very young."

"And I am?"

"Shutting up and getting all the information from Mycroft that you can."

"We already interviewed the employees."

"An abrasive Englishman and his pretty companion did, giving no reasons why they were looking for a young woman with two children. When the flight attendants return, they can meet a mother searching for her family—much more sympathetic than foreigners with questions."

"I will not sit here and wait for my brother to call."

"Get some sleep then."

"Damn it Irene, these are my children as well. I will not sit here and wait for answers to come and I will not let this case be hampered by the ignorant and the uninterested."

His voice was loud, suddenly, and angry, and if it had been any other situation, they would be playing the game right now, battling for control. But here and now, knowing that any sympathy would be slapped aside, Irene merely looked away, allowing the great detective to pull himself together yet again. She wasn't sure she wanted to witness what would happen when everything he continued to push down came roaring back out.

"Your brother certainly thinks highly of himself."

Sherlock snorted as the cab started to roll. Lily sat Toby on her lap as Irene and Sherlock sat beside each other and shortly after being seated, Toby climbed from Lily's lap to his mother's, where he played with her jewelry for a short time before climbing onto his father's lap and reaching tiny hands into the pockets of his coat, searching for something of interest.

He had extracted Sherlock's magnifying glass, a nicotine patch, and what looked like a lockpick set before the cab pulled up to the address (several blocks from the house) and dropped the group off at a curb. Irene paid the cabbie as Sherlock restocked his pockets and he and Irene walked back to the house on a separate route from Lily and Toby. As they strolled, Irene turned to the detective.

"He asked for you."

"I recall."

There was a moment of silence before Irene spoke again.

"He's not lagging developmentally, he merely chooses to speak only when necessary."

"Obvious."

Irene shot Sherlock a dark look.

"Considering the concern I had about our son having developmental delays, I thought it prudent to say something out loud. I never know if information about Toby is considered important enough to keep in that mind room of yours."

"Palace," Sherlock corrected tightly. "And the next time you attempt to insult my devotion to my offspring, do be more subtle. It's what you're good at, supposedly."

Irene knew that the past few days had been rough on both of them and that they were both tired and sore, but that did not keep her from snapping back.

"If I was more subtle, I doubt you'd notice Mr. Holmes. It's not your area."

"Irrelevant and not my area are two different things."

Irene bit back her response, instead seizing Sherlock's scarf and pulling him to a halt.

"If you want to be an arse, fine. Bury the sentiment you felt with Toby in the hospital, regardless if it's human instinct to be concerned about offspring. Don't attempt to redirect your frustration with yourself onto me; there's plenty of denial locked in your skull to fit in a little more."

"I don't," Sherlock began, but his brain rushed through the conversation, his damnable sentiment and the John Watson that frequently stepped into his head interrupting his train of thought. John's voice offered (useless) advice.

Regardless of how much you block this out, she is the mother of your child and you both went through a scare. Stop being an arse and talk to her like a normal person if you can manage that.

Sherlock shook his head to clear away John's voice, scowling.

"We are both lacking sleep, food, and have been through a stressful time."

She knew it was the closest thing she was getting to an apology, and was shocked when Sherlock gently removed her hands from his scarf and offered her one, looking as though he had swallowed something awful.

More because she knew it had taken him more than he would let on to offer another person anything of his, let alone his hand, Irene took it and they continued walking in silence. Both minds, though connected by a hand clasping another, raced. As unlikely as it seemed, they both were thinking along the same lines—about sentiment.

Perhaps it was the fatigue. Perhaps it was the sentiment embedded in the care of their son, curled up on a hospital bed all together for a night—more than a night, several nights in a row. Perhaps it was the unity of two people against an opposing force, be it disease or Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps it was a mixture of all of these, or none at all. Sherlock's mind was processing, sorting, trying to compartmentalize the new experiences and fit them into his system, frequently pausing to remember that for the first time since he was a small boy, he was holding someone's hand. It was unusual, it was unlike him. It was very likely a fluke.

Irene Adler's brain was desperately trying to process whatever the hell Sherlock was doing. Things were changing, and Sherlock was no longer as predictable as she had come to expect. He was occasionally affectionate, like now, with frequent regressions into his expected standoffish Sherlock-ness. She understood the why, but that did not make dealing with a man attempting to come to terms with his humanity and the emotions that came with it any easier. If they were any semblance of normal, they would talk about it. Sherlock, however, did not discuss emotion and Irene's patience now was wearing thin. Perhaps some other time, though she doubted it.

When they arrived at the house, Irene settled herself into a chair to watch Toby play with blocks. As soon as her body settled into the plush cushions, Irene could feel sleep pulling at her, but forced her eyes to remain open. Sherlock followed her and was nearly in the playroom when his phone rang.

"John? Yes, he's fine. No, nothing serious. Just Mycroft being an ass."

Lily shot him a look, mouthing, 'Not in front of Toby' at him, but he ignored it, waving a dismissive hand at her.

"A what? Tell me."

He nodded for a minute or so.

"No that sounds brilliant. Meet me there."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"John has a case."

It was as though their moments on the walk back to the house had never occurred. Sherlock's face was alight with the gleeful anticipation, a hound with the scent of prey in his nose. And that, Irene thought dryly to herself, is why it will always be this dance between us. No matter how many children he sires or if he allows himself to feel sentiment, he already has a lover more influential than any of that—crime. She will never leave him, never fail to fascinate and she will always be there no matter where he goes or how old he gets.

Sherlock strode purposefully towards the door and pulled on his coat before coming back into the playroom and crouching beside his son. Irene attempted to focus, but her eyelids were heavy and she allowed them to shut, assuring herself it was just for a moment.

"I've got a case. I'll be back tomorrow, all right?"

Toby nodded solemnly at his father who gingerly ran his hand over the boy's head. He recalled his childhood, his father's total lack of understanding of him, and in a flash of fear, he wondered if Toby's life would be that way as well. Sherlock ran his hand over his son's head again, less gingerly this time, rumpling the dark curls that so closely resembled his own. After a moment of hesitation that seemed like an eternity to him (but was no more than two and a half seconds), he stood and turned to Irene, whose eyelids had closed only moments before. Before he could overthink it, before he could think about it at all, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and half-ran out the door, nearly knocking Lily over in the process. Once he had gone, Lily glanced at Irene's face, which relaxed into a smile. Her breathing was slow and even, sleeping deeply for the first time in days. Scooping up Toby, Lily carried him from the playroom.

"Come on Toby, your mummy needs to sleep. Let's go into the sitting room and I'll read you a story."

When Sherlock returned to following night, things became more confusing. He rushed in, kissed Irene, dashed up the stairs to spin Toby around, announcing he was the key to solving it, shouted something about looking at slides in the Baker Street flat, and rushed back out. Biting her tongue to keep from shouting in frustration (Toby was nearly asleep before Sherlock had rushed in and riled him up) Lily told him another story and settled him into bed before returning to the sitting room carrying a bottle of wine.

The conversation with Irene was tense and short, but when Lily left, Irene sat in the sitting room a long while with her glass of wine, just thinking. Sherlock hadn't shown real affection, something other than platonic affection (which for Sherlock, was unusual except for Mrs. Hudson) since the conception of their son. It was so bloody confusing, inconsistent, erratic, everything Sherlock was not. He was methodical, scientific, irritatingly single-minded and it was not like him to change his mind back and forth, to behave one way towards a person and then completely differently. When she showered that night, she closed her eyes and took a few breaths. She would take a few clients, something to make her feel more herself. Discreetly of course, she had a few places she could go to meet clients, one of which she owned under another name. So many problems could be solved with the crack of leather on flesh and impractically high stiletto heels. If she had her way, Sherlock Holmes would be one of them. But until then, her job was always an enjoyable pastime.

The airport employees were just as useless as they had been the day before, though kinder and attempting to be more helpful for the poor Kansas mother. The flight attendants recalled no one who looked like Lily, though they cross-checked through departments and asked around far more than they had from the abrasive foreigners. The tapes Mycroft recovered from the aircraft(s) were focused more towards tracking suspicious movements rather than faces; the quality was low and blurry, making the plane appear as though it was steeped in fog, blurring faces and obscuring useful details. Every passenger they ran came up with nothing new and Sherlock sat in front of his laptop once they returned, scanning through the tapes over and over again until-

"There," his finger hit the screen with a soft click and Irene turned from the papers she had spread out before her on the bed, a painfully bright ray of hope running through her like a live wire.

"What?"

"Lily's height, two children."

"Why didn't anyone see this before?"

"Sophie slept the whole way; the carrier is covered, see?"

"Then how did you know?"

"She got up several times to take a child to the bathroom and if you look," he tapped the screen again, pointing to an object in the small boy's hand, blurry and out of focus, but clearly a plush toy with two long ears.

"His bunny."

"Security blankets are unique and I've had the misfortune of fishing that rabbit out of several undesirable locations. That's it."

Irene was already packing her things.

"I'll make a call. We should have a flight to wherever they're going by morning."

"You have contacts here?"

Irene looked at him archly, the first glimpse of her old self he had seen since the disappearance of their children.

"I have contacts everywhere."

"Helena Regional Airport. I'll tell Mycroft to get all the tapes. If this is where she leaves from, tracking her is going to get a bit more difficult."

"We tracked the spider's web down piece by piece. I think we can handle a nanny."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue.