Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character. The true geniuses behind the books and the tv-series deserve all credit.
A/N: As with Sherlock's Woman, scenes in Italics will be flashbacks and/or memories.
Chapter 4: The Vanishing Man
"Are you sitting down?"
Irene smiled fleetingly as she gazed out through the window and pressed the phone to her ear. Baker Street was calm and quiet in the pale afternoon, like any normal day in the big city. She'd missed this familiar air and was glad they had returned once more to a place and a flat she'd lately come to think of as 'home'. She wasn't sure when she'd first realized it, but one day '221 B' and 'home' had become synonymous with each other. The transition had been seamless like water in a stream, yet not without future implications, Irene rather feared. Apart from her flat in Belgravia, she'd never quite felt at home anywhere else before.
"What a cliché way to start a phone call, John. You've been gone three hours. What could he possibly have done?"
There was a beat in which silence greeted her expectant ear, until the man gruffly admitted in a voice close to its breaking point, "He jumped from a bridge."
The woman took pause and sank onto the low couch in the living room as she felt her throat go dry. The world around her slowly faded as she focused on the voice in her ear. "What?"
"He jumped off the Kew Railway Bridge," John explained. "Thirty meters straight down."
"Why?"
There was a deep, telling sigh and no explanation was really needed after that. "To prove a point. He never resurfaced… Donovan sent out a search team within minutes when we realized he wasn't going to reappear. We haven't found him yet. Personally, I'd like to think he's crawled out of the Thames further down and is just messing with us, but… I don't know. Prepare yourself for bad news, is all I called to say. The jump could have killed him, just as we warned that stubborn, know-it-all cock."
The woman leaned back against the soft cushions and exhaled as she tried to clear her jumbled thoughts. They'd been back in London a day, and already the clever mastermind had gotten himself into potentially serious trouble. Irene wasn't sure if she was to be impressed or frightened by his addictive behavior for danger. Either way, her heart was beating irregularly inside her chest and she wasn't quite sure how to calm the unnerving shiver that crawled up her spine like a spider in a web.
Before she had a chance to process the information, however, the pale door to the flat was thrown open with a jolt. Irene jumped in surprise at the sudden motion and gazed up at the man that suddenly stood before her having appeared like a Jack-in-a-box. His dark pants and suit jacket were almost dry, though his shoes still groaned with all the moisture they'd been forced to absorb. Sherlock closed the door carefully and looked at her with pale, twinkling eyes. He seemed giddy as a school boy as he grinned down at her without inhibition.
"I solved it!" the man breathed and his low voice vibrated happily between the walls of 221 B.
On the phone, John solemnly continued, "Logically, we should have found him by now. The river could only have taken him so far…"
Irene slowly wet her lips and tried to focus on the man's gruff voice. "John…"
The detective shuffled from one foot to the other and ruffled his wet locks as he impatiently stared her down. "Would you – please - hang up?"
Unknowing, the voice on the phone kept talking with less and less spirit, like a sun descending on the skies in autumn, "-The search boat is scouring the shores, but nothing so far. This might take a while, but I make no promises."
"He's here," The woman stated simply.
"If we don't find him soon we have to- He's home?" the doctor's voice rose an octave and something akin to kindled fury dripped from his voice. There was nothing but an empty silence for a long moment, before he managed a low, "How…? Never mind. That arsehole! Tell him… Could you tell him I'd really appreciate it if he stopped jumping off high places? I don't think my heart could take another scare like this…"
"I will," the brunette smiled and hung up the phone.
She gazed at the small object in her hand as the detective's joyful voice floated through the room, "Done?"
Distantly, the beautiful woman nodded and slowly rose from her seat to stand before the taller man on weary legs. On the brink of exaltation, much like usual when solving a case, the dark-haired man licked his lips and said, "I'll tell you how I solved it. I-"
He didn't make it further when Irene's hand suddenly slapped him roughly across the cheek. The punch burned his skin and left a sour aftertaste in its wake that seemed unwilling to leave him for awhile. The man touched the tender area on his face and glared down at the slender woman with a perfect blend of confusion and anger.
"What was that for? Trying to cut yourself on my cheekbone?"
Irene released an amused breath that only seemed to disorient him even more. Tiredly, she said, "That was John on the phone. He was worried, you know. Do you have any idea what you're doing to that poor man? You've already jumped off one building… you didn't think this would bring back bad memories?"
"… Oh." Sherlock's face fell as he pondered the revelation. "I didn't. You're right. I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize to me."
The handsome man's smile returned on his strong features as he placed his calloused hands on her lean shoulders and pleaded, "Then can I instead please share my findings with you?"
Irene stepped up onto her toes and tenderly pressed a kiss to the man's full lips. He returned the favor with equal sentiment and swayed closer to her smaller body as if unable to stay away in his elated state of mind. He kissed her like she was a drug or worse, and The woman felt both addictive and addicted to his touch in turn. The woman withdrew suddenly and scrunched up her nose. "You taste weird."
"The Thames isn't the cleanest river," he whispered and his breath barely grazed her cheeks.
The brunette nodded and pulled herself from his embrace. "Go ahead. Tell me."
The curly-haired man was at once focused on the game and the deductions. Any sliver of emotional response to her touch evaporated into thin air as he walked around the woman to dispose his damp jacket on his beloved arm chair.
"The fall from Kew Railway Bridge isn't as long as it appears," he started and his words flowed fast but gentle. "It didn't take much time to deduce anyone could survive, having jumped correctly into the water. When John and Donovan didn't believe me, I had to prove it."
"Of course."
Whether he missed her mocking tone, or simply chose to ignore it, Sherlock pushed on, "I jumped and stayed low until I found a hidden spot to get out. Neither John nor Donovan saw me get out of the river. As no witness would have seen Mr Adair crawl out quite alive and well. I found a shoe print on the banks to prove I was right."
Irene inclined her head slowly and squinted her eyes. "And why did he do it? Based on there being a witness, I suspect it was rather intended as a fake suicide to get away from something."
"And you're right," the man smiled proudly at her.
"But what? And why?" The woman question as she saw 'The look' begin to take form on the man's stellar face. Clearly he thought she was further ahead in her deductions than she actually was, and it ticked her off somewhat. "He was a lord and a politician on the rise, why would he fake his death?"
"It gets better," Sherlock cooed. "I took a train to Richmond-"
"Let me guess: You ran into a certain Ronald Adair?" as the man glared down at her with barely contained irritation of having lost his momentum as storyteller, Irene rolled her eyes. "Sorry, do go on."
With a curt nod, the tall man gratefully proceeded, "Thank you."
His shoes splashed wet and furiously against the pavement, filled with the entire river from the feel of it, as he stepped across the street towards the lone pub ahead. Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside the cozy, little establishment. At four o'clock in the afternoon, the place wasn't exactly filled to the brim, but with a few loyal customers sharing a beer or two across the small booths or by the bar. Clearly most of them were alcoholics or loners by choice. Even the bartender – recently divorced, by the looks of it – had the eyes of an alcoholic on the downfall. His porn mustache didn't do him any justice either.
"… Can I get you anything?" the bartender questioned as Sherlock stepped further inside while dripping on the floor.
The detective threw him a disinterested look and replied, "A towel."
His eyes searched the booths further away and at last caught sight of the expected. Without further ado, he steered his long strides over to the booth in the corner by the painted glass windows and slid into the stall across from the lonely man. The leather seats groaned beneath his soaked attire as if it was in fact being tortured in the Tower of London.
Across from him sat a man in his mid-thirties, with short, rat-colored hair and dark eyes that stared at the detective in wonder and dread. Sherlock recognized the mug from the papers, but even if he hadn't he would have found his victim without a problem. Mr Adair wore a plain tee and sweatpants, an attire not customary for a wealthy, upper class man. The latter fact was evident from his manicured nails and newly trimmed hair, not to mention the Rolex around his left wrist that flashed beneath the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. All in all, to the trained eye, at least, the man didn't blend in with the rest of the crowd in the pub.
"Ronald Adair, I presume," Sherlock said and leaned back against the maroon backrest.
The man moved swiftly as if to rise from his seat, but the detective's words kept him firmly rooted in place, "I wouldn't run if I were you. There's a police car standing on the other end of the street. All I have to do is shout and you'll be revealed to the world again. Not a very good solution for someone who's trying to hide, is it?"
"… How… did you…?" the stunned man managed feebly.
"Oh, you don't know who I am? Sherlock Holmes, world's only consultant detective. The police hired me to find you, Mr Adair. They expected me to help them find a dead body from the bottom of the Thames, but I knew better, of course."
"… How?"
"Read the short notice in the papers last week. Quite telling, I must say," the dark-haired shrugged his eyebrows as if nothing else needed to be said on the matter. "Now, the 'How' we both know. I'm more interested in the 'Why'. If you're desperate enough to jump from a bridge and fake your own death, you evidently are running from something rather interesting."
"Please, Mr Holmes…" Adair's quivering voice did little to appeal to the other man's good will. "Don't tell anyone I'm alive. I beg of you… keep my secret."
The detective grimaced teasingly, and enjoyed the flicker of fear that passed in the pale eyes opposite from him. "I might… if the story is good enough."
"I can't tell you anything," the other man said and his voice trembled like an impending earth quake. His shivering hand raised his pint to his lips and Sherlock barely needed the full second to see the truth himself.
"Addictions." The single word echoed between the two men like a 21-gun salute and changed the tone of their conversation entirely. Ronald Adair noticeably tensed as he set down the glass on the table and swallowed slowly. In that second, the sleazy bartender appeared and dropped a pale towel on the table before Sherlock.
As soon as the man was gone once more, Mr Adair met his company's strong glare. "… It's not what you think."
"Oh, but it is," the other man countered unkindly as he proceeded to wipe his face dry at last. "Addictions. Plural. Clearly drugs and socially unacceptable behavior taking place outside the frames of marriage. And several past scandals somehow all kept secret from the public, am I right? Someone's found the evidence and has decided to blackmail you. That's why you did it."
Mr Adair's face fell as he looked across the quickly shrinking abyss at the consultant detective. "I can't go back… The terms were quite final, Mr Holmes. I'm only here, in Richmond, for another day or two."
Sherlock frowned and tried to contain his joy of finding another twist to the sordid tale. "Then you're leaving England. You're waiting for a new, fake passport, a new identity to take with you overseas… You're not only faking your death, you're disappearing entirely. Oh, this is rather good…! Whatever information they have on you… you're willing to leave your life of being a respected lord, politician and husband behind not to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar."
"It's human, isn't it?" the frightened man asked.
"To act in your own interest? Certainly."
"To be afraid! I'm only following instructions, Mr Holmes," Mr Adair explained and seemed on the brink of a mental collapse should his present company turn on him.
"I see," the man's dark, low voice lingered in the space between the two men and in itself seemed to further expose the truth of the mystery. "The terms for not exposing your scandals were evidently that you agreed to leave everything. You're not simply fleeing out of cowardice. Now that we've established the 'How' and 'Why' for your actions… Tell me 'Who'?"
Mr Adair ran a weary hand across his long face and shook his head weakly as if having been presented before his executioner. The fear in his dark eyes ten-folded as he gazed out the window and seemed to mentally curse himself for talking at all.
"I really can't tell you this…" the lord shut his eyes tight and exhaled slowly. "I can't risk it. They're watching to make sure I leave. I know they are. If I don't follow orders, I'm dead. And so is my wife."
"Ah…" the detective breathed and dropped the damp towel on the table. "So it's someone with a lot of power over people."
"You should watch yourself, Mr Holmes. This could very well be your problem soon enough."
As if this warning was of little consequence to him, Sherlock waved his hand for the other to continue. "Yes, yes… I still need a name, Mr Adair."
Irene eyed the man before her as he sank into his leather arm chair and exhaled heavily. "I'm assuming the good lord didn't offer a name?"
"He didn't know it…" the great man said with a sigh that seemed to reverberate from the bottom of his soul.
"I was wondering…" The woman gracefully walked over to join her partner and sank onto his lap carefully, while he looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. One of her hands traced the outline of his face as she found a comfortable position. His cheek was already quite red from where she'd hit him and she kissed the spot briefly as he feigned pain. "You knew he'd faked his death when you took the case, didn't you?"
"Of course," the detective nodded. "I'd read it in one of the papers this morning."
"Yes, but you'd read- what, exactly?"
Glad to share more of his deductions, Sherlock happily complied with her request as his grin widened, "In the paper from last Wednesday, there was a small notice that caught my eye. A short mention of a very peculiar thing that had happened the day before. Reports suggested that a man had melted on the train to Richmond, for when the vehicle arrived in town there was nothing but a wet seat, not urine, in an otherwise empty carriage. The police thought it was a joke. The truth was rather obvious, though."
Irene couldn't help but smile down at the wondrous man. It was times like this she marveled at the powers his brain contained, and could barely keep from voicing her admiration aloud. "...I see."
"There are only two things I'm not so certain about…" the great man admitted at length and it seemed a hard confession on its own. "Why the police needed a body so desperately, and why someone would blackmail Mr Adair to leave the country. What importance could it have?"
"Coincidence?" the woman suggested as she ran a hand through his damp curls.
The man eyed her pointedly. "What do I say about those?"
She tugged on his dark hair and her face lingered an inch from his where they shared a breath of air. "... The universe is rarely so lazy. So it's connected and part of something bigger. Maybe we'll find out soon enough?"
"I always do," the man confidently said and shifted in the seat. He gently pushed on the woman in his arms and she stood so that he, too, could rise. "If you'll excuse me, I' m going to see my brother,"
Irene frowned up at him. "Why?"
"To tell him I'm home, I know how lonely he gets when I'm away." Neither sentiment, nor genuine affection touched his voice, though it was still a warm tone that lingered between the couple.
"… And?" the woman questioned, not so easily fooled by the man.
"And damage control."
"... You mean because I broke my deal with him?"
"Yes," Sherlock inclined his head and his eyes swirled with thoughts that soon disappeared behind an impassive wall meant to protect one or the both of them. "He'll want to throw you out of the country now."
Irene shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "I figured as much."
"No worries. I'll sort out a solution," the man guaranteed and reached out to squeeze her slender shoulders.
The woman's eyebrows rose flirtatiously as she stepped closer. "Are you trying to impress me, Mr Holmes?"
His indifference melted like ice in the summer as he smiled down at her. "I was under the impression that I didn't need to."
"No, that's true," Irene admitted and her grin widened to mirror his. "But a compliment or a thank you would be well received, either way, am I right?"
"You know me."
"I do…" she cooed.
Sherlock shrugged and once more sentiment vanished from his features as if they'd never been present in the first place. "Besides, it will be a pleasure to ruin Mycroft's plans."
"Thank you."
"Anytime," he leaned down and kissed her cheek briefly before he whispered, "...Save the compliment for later?"
"I was planning to."
"See you later then," her man commented and moved to step around Irene.
With a knowing grin, the woman purred before he could get too far, "Shower first, Sherlock. You stink after that little swim of yours."
He stopped a few paces behind her and glanced down as if realizing the soaked state he was actually in for the first time. He inclined his head in agreement and leaned down to whisper into her ear, his rumbling voice still excited from solving the case. "Care to join me?"
To be continued.