Cold

In Montana, Sherlock and Irene tracked her to a small, local airport, one in a town so small, its only reason for having an airport was to have goods shipped in and out, as well as the mail and occasional family members. Everyone remembered the charming young lady with her two adorable children and were only too happy to direct them to the taxi that she took out of town.

The driver as well, was only too willing to help. For half-fare, he took them to the same place he had dropped her off—a small cottage outside of town with no neighbors for miles. On the gravel driveway, there were tire tracks from four different cars (one pickup truck, a taxi, a tractor, and a small American-made sedan) and the house, except for a few shoe prints in the dust, was empty.

The floors were bare of carpeting, of furniture, of any signs that the house had been inhabited except for footprints in the dust. The cupboards were bare and when Sherlock attempted to run water from the kitchen sink, it came out rust-colored and smelling strongly of earth. The counters were dusty as well, and crumbs from a biscuit which Sherlock diligently collected were the only traces aside from footprints that anyone had been in the house anytime recently. Sherlock paced through the open rooms, examining the dust, the windows and door handles, anything that Lily or his children may have touched. Irene slipped out the door and walked the perimeter of the house, looking for any signs that Toby and Sophia had been nearby. There barest hint that they were alive and she was closer to finding them was all she wanted, and as she expanded her search, something shining in the grass caught her eye.

Kneeling on the dry Montana grass, Irene restrained herself, keeping from touching one of the several hair clips that Lily favored to keep the baby's hair out of her eyes.

"Sherlock!"

Cursing her lack of foresight to being tweezers or one of those little bags Sherlock carried with him, she leaned in closer, inspecting the clip. It was a pale violet color with a plastic flower on the end, a shining plastic gem in the center. It was closed—it had fallen out of Sophia's hair then. Her hair was still so fine, still baby's hair, that it was not uncommon for her to lose a clip from time to time. Sherlock had complained about finding them in his room, where the children were decidedly not allowed, but clearly occasionally found themselves.

The clip still clung to one or two fine dark hairs and Irene again held herself back from touching them—physical proof that her baby had been here. Lifting her head from the precious clue, she called again across the yard, louder this time.

"Sherlock!"

After a moment, she stood, and was about to head towards the house when Sherlock appeared in the doorway and exited the house, purposefully striding towards her.

"I took some measurements. I should be able to calculate how recently they were here based on the weather, and how much dust I found on the floor in comparison to the dust in the footprints."

"Sophia's hair clip fell out here, in the grass." Irene pointed and Sherlock crouched beside her, looking at the clip from multiple angles before picking it up with tweezers and placing it in a little bag.

"I can run some tests on the hair and look for trace evidence. I'll send it to the lab."

"What about the cabbie?"

"He told us everything she told him—she had inherited the house from her grandparents, that she and her children were coming there to look at it and potentially live there. He said she sounded foreign and that the children were very quiet, the little boy was making some strange movements with his hands and he might have been deaf. I've gleaned every detail off of him that I could."

"So what do we do now?"

Sherlock blew air through his nose in a huff, thinking.

"I need to think."

"I'll book a hotel room."

"No, I need a lab and something to help me think. Nicotine or..." he stopped himself, purposefully not looking at Irene.

"Cocaine," she finished for him.

Shaking his head firmly, Sherlock huffed again. When he spoke, the words were hesitant, forced from his mouth.

"I need the rush. Something to make it all clear. I don't have time for human weakness right now and that release...it's like seeing everything through a sharper lens. I need that lens."

Irene nodded shortly.

"What else can you use?"

"There's nothing I can know of."

Biting her lip before responding, Irene looked up at him, eyes serious.

"I can have sex with you."

She rarely said it so bluntly, without her traces of seduction and amusement, and it shocked him more than the actual suggestion, the coarse simplicity with which she suggested the very act that had taken them so long to complete the first time.

"If it comes to that, perhaps. I need fuel now, and a lab." Dismiss the idea for now, focus on the puzzle. Distraction would only hamper the thought processes racing through his mind.

"Should I call the pilot?"

"If you can have a contact on standby to get us to the United States the minute I figure this out, then we should return to London. I have more resources there."

"I can."

They returned to the taxi in silence, a cloud hanging over the pair that promised an oncoming storm.

Clients were booked for later in the week and when Lily came down the next morning and made a remark about Toby's childhood being mussed by detective work, Irene responded with cool sharpness, watching the younger woman recoil and apologize. When Lily turned her back to go, Irene felt her body relax into the familiar feeling of power. The past week had been so out of control that it felt good to have clients in her book, to have the respect and intimidation of another person, even one as easily intimidated as her nanny. Lily—mostly vanilla, fairly certain of her preferences but requiring a strong connection to even think of a relationship with another person—dated a girl in early college, got her heart broken. A boy later, she left him. Nothing overly interesting, would be a passable submissive though she wouldn't enjoy it much.

Days passed quickly and come Wednesday morning, Irene vanished to one of her carefully hidden apartments to prepare. Her wardrobe smelled of polished leather and jasmine and when she opened it, the scent washed over her bathing her in the familiar air of power. The client she had chosen first was one she could warm up on, ease herself back into the Woman's persona. The leather would have to wait. In her closet, lace and velvet waited for her. Stockings in black lace painted her legs and red silk clung to her hips...no not red. Green? Blue? She changed frocks three times before settling on a deep violet dress and heels and sitting at the well-lit mirror. Smokey eyes this time, dark red lips, and french tipped nails all were carefully applied before her bag of tools, carefully chosen, was packed and ready to go. Trenchcoat. Sunglasses. Cab.

The client was...for lack of a better word...boring. She had chosen something easy to start with, but it was too easy. A few gentle strokes with the crop, velvet-lined handcuffs, the barest kiss of the whip and the client was writhing in pleasure before collapsing onto the bed. It was easy. It was boring.

Kate provided aftercare once upon a time but she was dead and Irene lacked the patience. Undoing handcuffs, packing up equipment, she left the client with a long, slow stroke with the crop from neck to navel before clicking out in her heels, calling a cab, riding to somewhere more challenging. She wasn't the only dominatrix in town, just the best, and the best was out to play.

The Rose's Thorn was well-concealed and well-protected. Only those with appointments got in and no client was guaranteed a second appointment. Though not Irene Adler's finest accomplishment, it was a masterpiece of financing, decorating, and staffing. The women were hand-picked, expertly trained and ranked based on skill. There were a few naturals, ones worth training to head up the house when she was away, and it was the best of those naturals that met her at the door with a professional smile.

"Mistress," the younger woman greeted her.

"Louisa," Irene replied coolly. "I take it the Thorn has been cared for in my absence?"

"Records are available for you to view whenever you like, and several of your long-time clients have been asking after you."

"Therese has a client booked this afternoon at three. Inform her I will be taking over."

"Right away, Mistress."

"And until then, I'll be in my office."

"A glass of wine and a plate will be sent up immediately."

Irene nodded, ascended the stairs in the rear of the building, and opened the door to her office. It was good to be back.

Taxi ride. Flight. 221 B Baker Street.

Within his mind palace, he was to all the world, only a body. Unresponsive to anyone who spoke to him, he might have been sleeping with his eyes open. Though she did not mean to, Irene fell asleep on the flight over, the emotional stress hammering exhaustion into her bones. When she awoke, they were landing and Sherlock hadn't moved at all. His legs were crossed still, left over right, and his fingers were steepled under his chin, eyes focused on something only he could see. After bringing him back to alertness, Irene led him to a waiting taxi, where he dropped back into his daze until the cab arrived at St. Bart's, where he went straight to the morgue. Molly Hooper looked surprised to see him and even more so to see Irene. Though she was aware of Irene in the vaguest sense of the word, the Woman was the last person she would expect to see in her morgue.

"Sherlock, you haven't answered your phone for Greg's last three calls."

"Busy."

"He said he really needs you on this one."

"Using your lab."

"Sherlock, he's your friend. The least you could do is return a call."

"I. Am. Busy."

"Am I useless here?" Irene cut in.

"Yes."

"I'll be pursuing other channels then. Text me if you come up with anything."

He made a noncommittal noise in reply and the Woman reached into his coat pocket, pressed several numbers on his phone, and placed it on the table next to where he was measuring out a small amount of powder and adding distilled water to it. The moment it was set down, her hand held his wrist in a vice-like grip, nails digging into his skin.

"You will let me know as soon as you come up with anything."

He met her steely gaze with his own cold one, the hints of sentiment, of anger and frustration, of worry leaking from both of them, each too concerned with controlling it to notice it in the other.

"I will let you know," he responded coolly, and when she released his wrist, there were five crescent wounds in the delicate underside of his wrist, one beginning to ooze blood. When Molly rushed to clean it, Sherlock batted her away.

"Leave them."

Molly retreated and after scanning Sherlock's chosen chemicals and tools, she pulled on a pair of gloves.

"I'll put yours in front of current cases, but I want to know what's going on."

"Someone...very close to me...has disappeared."

That was all she got him to say for the next six hours.

The client she picked up from one of her trainees was exactly what she was looking for—in a position of power and knowledge, familiar enough with the game to know all the rules, and with a high tolerance (and need) for anything and everything she could give. The leather felt right on her skin, and she smiled as Louisa called that the client was waiting downstairs in one of the many rooms. As she hadn't given much notice, she imagined there had been a scramble to put all of her tools of trade into the cupboards where Therese's had been. Despite similarities in equipment, Irene had insisted that each woman working had her own tools and toys, partially to let each woman find things that fit and felt comfortable for her to use, and also to ensure that everyone was responsible for the cleaning, care, and upkeep of their own equipment.

The client had been informed of the change in mistress and judging by how early she was, it was a pleasant surprise. Irene's personal suite was not ready for use, otherwise the client would be sent there, but at this point anything was better than letting Sherlock Holmes diffuse through her mind like ink in water.

"You have been particularly naughty, I'm told."

The client lifted her head, eagerness sparking behind a neutral expression.

"I won't have that in here, will I?"

Meeting her eyes, the client smiled, a challenge to Irene. Pushing the door closed, Irene walked around the bed where the young woman lay, already naked except for a silken robe wrapped around her well-muscled form. As the client shifted, moving to keep an eye on the dominatrix, Irene had already grabbed a wrist, looping silky rope around it before pulling the premade knot tight. The second wrist followed, and then both ankles.

"Now, it seems you've forgotten how things are done here. We are in my house, and in my house, who am I?"

The other woman didn't answer and Irene smiled, her lips blood red. Three strikes with the crop.

"Who am I?" she repeated.

The other woman's lower lip was swelling; she was biting it to keep herself from responding.

Three more blows, two sharp and one like a caress, tugging loose the knot of the robe before striking another, not too hard this time, on her breast.

"Who am I? I am not accustomed to be kept waiting."

Before she had even finished speaking, the client was gasping.

"Mistress."

"And who do you belong to?"

"The Mistress owns me. My pain, my pleasure, my body is the Mistress's to do with as she pleases."

Irene favored her with a slow smile before placing a low, wide candle between her breasts and lighting it, allowing wax to dribble onto her skin. Dipping a finger in the hot wax, she drew a line down the woman's chest, ending just below her navel.

"Now let's start with something simple. Tell me what you've done to earn your time here. Why are you being punished?"

Irene returned to Sr. Bart's lab with a grim smile and found Sherlock, grey and with one eye shut so he could peer through the microscope.

"Has he eaten anything?" she demanded of Molly Hooper, who scowled fiercely and shook her head.

"I haven't been able to make him."

"Any leads?"

Sherlock spoke, voice hoarse,

"Nothing."

"Lucky for you, I have some new information."

"Tell me."

"After you've had something to eat."

"Eating slows the brain."

"You haven't eaten in three days, and I'd be willing to bet you're dehydrated as well; you haven't had a glass of water since the hotel."

"Give me the information."

"Eat something."

Molly appeared at her elbow with a plate holding several meat pies, a cup of soup (unopened, needing heating, too much time) and Sherlock snatched one of the pies, taking a bite.

"I'm eating. Tell me."

"I've gotten some phone records."

"And?"

"She's not going to Montana."

"Where is she going?"

"Somewhere harder to find her in."

"Montana is an enormous stretch of land."

"Montana would notice strangers. She's going to the closest to the Engligh climate you can get within the American border."

"Just tell me."

"Seattle."

"Have you booked the flight?"

"It's in three hours."

"I can finish this in two."

"Finish the pies, I have another errand to run."

He didn't respond as his eye was already fixed over the lens of a microscope, one hand making minute adjustments, the other making a few notes on a scrap of paper.