Pardon Me Too, Chapter 4.
Through sheer force of personality, Sherlock was able to persuade the tour guide at Welbeck Abbey that he and John had stumbled across the outbuilding and had no idea why it appeared to be inhabited. They left the property quickly afterward.
"Well, that was…er…," John trailed off, apparently at a loss to describe their meeting with Irene Adler with any clarity.
"Yes," said Sherlock. He didn't say another word until they were approaching London's suburbs.
"I'll drop you at home," he said as they neared John's neighborhood.
"Ok…wait, what? This is Mary's car!" John objected.
"Yes, and Mary is resting all day today. She isn't due yet and you can't drive anyway, so you don't need it. I do, hence I will be dropping you at home."
John began to formulate a response, then sighed in resignation. If he forced the issue, Sherlock would probably just circle back and steal the car anyway.
"Fine, but have it back before tomorrow morning. Mary has a doctor's appointment." Sherlock nodded his agreement.
A half hour later, he had parked the car in front of 221B. Dusk was falling, giving the white buildings a gray hue. Overall, the effect was stark and forbidding in an otherwise lovely road. Sherlock slipped into the front door, flipped on the sitting room lights and waited.
"How did you know I'd be here?" Irene's voice came out of the gloom in the kitchen.
"Obvious. This would have been my choice."
"So you're saying your choice would necessarily be my choice?" Irene chided. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.
"Why don't you just tell me what you wanted to back at the Abbey and we can move on."
"I'm not planning to linger here, Sherlock, don't worry," Irene said.
"I'm not worried," declared Sherlock.
"I can tell," Irene responded. "You always hold your hands behind your back when you're not worried."
Sherlock immediately unclasped his hands and swung them forward. Irene smirked.
"I just have two things to tell you," she said.
"What's the first thing?" he asked.
"Joshua Gaines," said Irene.
"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.
"That's the name of the IT genius behind James Moriarty's resurrection. He's an American, based in New York." Irene responded. "Well, I say based. He's actually living in a place that's a step above a pizza box with a group of other prats. Brilliant, though, in his own way. I understand that he managed the broadcast from a laptop."
"I'm sure his mother loves him. What does this mean to me?"
"Nothing beyond appreciation for his work, which I'm sure you don't have. However, the reason why Gaines spread Jim's image far and wide may be of interest." Irene sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair. A memory flickered of another time when she'd sat in the same place, a time before they'd each betrayed the other. Sherlock shook his head slightly to chase it away.
"Which is?"
"Mycroft," Irene answered somberly.
"Sorry, what?"
"The broadcast was a message, but not for you. Well, not entirely for you—obviously, Jim is pulling your chain post-mortem. And in a timely fashion, no less, if I understand correctly what our Kingdom's plans were for you. But mostly it was for Mycroft. A twist on a game Jim played with you years ago."
"The great game," Sherlock said, nodding.
"If you insist. You may not have noticed because you were off jetting to your death, but Mycroft surely has. Five broadcasts, Sherlock. The same image, displayed five times in each neighborhood of London."
"Five pips," Sherlock said.
"Exactly. A warning of death, if I remember my American secret societies correctly."
"And you think it foretold Mycroft's death, why?"
"Because of this," Irene said. She gave a folded note to Sherlock. He opened and read it.
Dear Irene,
Sadly, if you are reading this, the final problem was not resolved in my favor. Your gallant knight may have prevailed and lived while I've died. Corporeally, that is—my influence, however, will never pass from this earth. Poetic, don't you think?
Just a heads up, my dear, that the largest obstacle (and I mean that in every sense) to your return to London will soon be removed. The Iceman Melteth…or will when my last plans are implemented. Oh, I know that he and, if he lived, his brother will have taken on my network and probably think they've dismantled it. Deluded souls…there is always a fly in the ointment or, as I once told Sherlock, a good old-fashioned villain for every fairy tale. My döppelganger will be coming for Mycroft soon, then you can start reading estate ads for your next abode. Don't worry, I'll be sure to give him plenty of warning, but it won't matter. His time is up.
Consider this my recompense for our failed plans to foil the Holmes brothers. Although, it really was your fault that we didn't succeed…next time, try not to get your foot, or your heart, stuck in the door or it will be cut off.
Love,
Jim
"Why are you giving this to me?" Sherlock asked. Irene just smiled sadly and walked toward the door. Sherlock's voice stopped her as her hand reached the door handle.
"Gaines is a tool, not the döppelganger," he said. She shook her head in agreement. "Who is?"
"I don't know. I didn't interact with anyone in Jim's network except a low level courier," Irene answered. "There was a man at our first meeting, though. He scared me without saying a word and, as you know, I don't scare easily. Tall, dark and psychotic. Brown hair, brown eyes, about your height, but with a coiled snake aspect that made Jim look absolutely cuddly."
"OK," Sherlock said. "What was the second thing?"
"What second thing?" she replied without turning. Sherlock watched as her shoulders drew up and her hand tightened on the knob of the sitting room door.
"Don't play games with me. It doesn't work. You said you had two things to tell me. Mycroft was first, I want to know what the second one is."
Irene shook her head. "I've changed my mind. I think I'll keep this one to myself." She still didn't turn around, but also didn't open the door.
"No," said Sherlock. "What about George Smith?"
Irene laughed grimly. "That information was only of use to me to get around any Governmental resistance to my coming home. Since I'm not staying, I'll keep it to myself. You can assure the Royal Family that their secrets are safe with me-again."
"That isn't all, though. Why aren't you going to use the information? Why not stay, now that you're here? Tell me," Sherlock insisted.
"Trust me, that isn't information you want," she said quietly.
"It's about me," Sherlock deduced. "You are a lot of things, but a coward isn't one of them. Why don't you face me and say what you came to say?"
Irene took a deep breath and spun around.
"It's nothing. Just that I'm leaving."
"Because of me," Sherlock offered.
Irene's eyes scanned the space. They finally settled on Sherlock. "Yes," she acknowledged.
"So you came all the way to London, risking retribution from my brother and others, just to warn me about Gaines and the warning he sent. I don't think so. You're not that altruistic."
"You don't know me. It's been years, maybe I've changed," Irene said, smiling.
"No," Sherlock replied. "You have changed, of course. But not in that way." He walked toward her, stopping just inside what would constitute the personal space of most people. Irene blinked, but didn't otherwise show any sign of being intimidated. Sherlock continued.
"You came to London wanting something specific. Having seen me, you no longer wish to stay. That means that you've decided that what you want isn't available. It's possible, of course, that you simply realize that my brother can't be persuaded to look the other way while you settle here, even by me. But that's a conclusion which could have been reached on foreign soil." Sherlock paced around Irene as he spoke, stopping just behind her. He leaned forward, making her exert all her considerable willpower not to step away.
"Could it be that you could only get what you wanted from me?"
Irene sighed wearily. "Stop this, Sherlock. You're like a cat teasing a dying mouse. You know why I came and you know why I'm leaving. Why don't we just say we discussed it and you can let me go."
"I prefer certainty," he responded.
Irene was silent for half a minute. "Fine," she said, resigned. "I can't stay because there's no place for me here. It was foolish to think that there was—not because the Iceman wouldn't let me stay, I could work around that. And I could deal with external threats. Heaven knows that it's always a matter of time in my life before something goes sideways and I fell through the cracks."
"Mixed metaphor," murmured Sherlock. Irene ignored him.
"If you must know, the real reason I can't stay is that I can't stand it," she turned, looking at last into his eyes. "I can't unlove you, Sherlock. I've tried, really I have, but I can't. Yet even if you were ever willing to recognize that you might feel something for me, or at least once did, it wouldn't be enough. And I never settle."
Involuntarily, Sherlock drew in a quick breath. It was now on him to fight the impulse to walk away. I did know that's what she'd say. Why am I so…The word escaped him, as did an appropriate reply.
Irene smiled sadly. "That's what I thought," she said. Moving past Sherlock, she opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. "I think I said this once, but I'll repeat myself anyway." She glanced back. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." Irene left and the quiet in her absence was deafening.
Sherlock stood for a few moments. It would be easiest, possibly even best, to allow the matter to rest there with Irene. He had the note and the information which pointed to a threat for Mycroft, and could proceed to address it without her. Nothing else she said was relevant—he had no interest in a relationship and, if he did, there were other candidates better suited to his lifestyle…Janine and even Molly Hooper would be potential choices. But alone suited him best, as always. He was nodding in satisfaction at these thoughts as he found himself outside, following in Irene's footsteps.
Hearing him on the pavement, she turned. "What do you want?" she asked wearily.
"I have a car, I can give you a ride. Where are you going?"
"Chivalry, Sherlock? Or can you just not stand to know everything, including my next steps?"
He stiffened. What was he doing? He should get into the car, return it to John and Mary and go find Mycroft. Instead, he opened the passenger door and waited.
"My, my. You do have manners. Bravo to your parents for shoving those down your throat, it couldn't have been easy." Irene chuckled.
"Oh, just get in the car," snapped Sherlock. Irene paused for a moment, looking at him closely. Whatever she found in his face was enough to allow her to move forward. She climbed into the passenger seat with a smile.
Once they were seated and had started out on the road, Sherlock acted as though Irene wasn't present. He called Mycroft then, in a nod to the driving laws, put the phone on hands-free. Mycroft's voice crackled over the speaker.
"How was your visit to Welbeck Abbey, brother mine? Enjoy your day as a tourist?" Mycroft said mockingly.
"Oh, I found it very interesting, Mycroft. Very interesting, indeed. In fact, it would be very tempting to keep the information I received from you, given that doing so could lead to your demise. I'd be losing 200 pounds without lifting a finger. Then again, losing weight isn't an issue for me, what must it be like to have food for an enemy?" Sherlock sneered.
"Says the man who refuses food regularly. Which of us is it who has an issue with it, Sherlock?"
Sherlock grimaced, then continued. "I have a nice letter from Jim Moriarty. Very warm—he was thinking of you in his last moments. The broadcasts were a message."
"Ah, yes. Five sets of broadcasts, five pips. So I'm the target then. How interesting." Mycroft was quiet for a while, then asked, "And what about my project? Have you learned anything of interest on it?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel. Finally, he said simply, "Anthea."
Silence greeted this revelation, then Mycroft sighed audibly. Sherlock spoke quickly into the breach.
"It's not what you think, Mycroft. She did nothing to betray you. She was simply acting on…a family connection."
"It's over," Irene interjected. "She won't have any further distractions."
Silence greeted this comment as well, but it had more of a stunned quality.
"Ms. Adler, I presume? I should have known that Sherlock wouldn't be able to leave well enough alone. The temptation to sweep in and rescue a damsel in distress would be too much for him and his knight-in-shining-armor complex. So what kind of extortion from you do we have on our plate today?"
"Nothing," Irene said flatly. "My business here is over." Sherlock shot her a look then returned his attention to the road.
"Pardon me if I find that difficult to believe. My experience of you suggests otherwise," Mycroft responded smoothly. "I am very busy, so if you could just say what you want then-".
The sound of an explosion filled the car. The phone connection was broken.
"Mycroft!" shouted Sherlock.
Irene pressed her hand over her mouth and looked at him, wide-eyed. Sherlock slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the car rocketed forward. Traffic had lessened, but was still too tight to allow for fast travel. Being just blocks away from Mycroft's office at MI5, the sidewalks would be faster.
Sherlock yanked the wheel, pulled to the curb and jumped from the car almost before it had stopped. As he ran off down the road, Irene whispered, "Oh my, God," as she sat and watched him go.