Chapter Six: The Woman who taught The Woman.

Disclaimer: You know the drill; I'm not making monetary profit off of this, so on and soforth.

Reviews and PMs are always welcomed and given a good home.

Acknowledgments: I have to thank all of the betas for helping me with grammar andpunctuation, brit-picking, suggestions and remindersof what they liked.Sloggingthrough this on my own would have been impossible. TheDubliner, MeiHitokiri, xXMildredXx, thisisforyou,SapphireElric, Sianco, Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos.


Gladys Adler's rooms were spacious. A full sitting room with plenty of space and large windows overlooking a park, bookshelves filled and a few small ornaments here and there.

The lady reading by the window looked very much like Irene, though 55 years her senior. She had the same basic bone structure, same eyes, though Gladys' hair had once been red instead of Irene's dark brown.

She did not notice them until Irene walked over to her, knelt and placed her hand on the elder lady's elbow. Even still, she jumped a bit when Irene spoke, "Glady? It's Irene."

The woman's face lit up. "Of course it is! Where were you yesterday?"

Sherlock watched Irene quickly recover and process a lie, "I was working."

"Oh yes... That's right."

Sherlock began looking at the books on the shelf. They were histories in pristine condition. He estimated that there were around three hundred books on the shelves while Irene sat on the window seat with her grandmother.

"Did Samantha teach you how to be with a woman yet?"

"Yes Glady, a few decades past now," Irene said patiently, still crouching.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I forgot." Gladys looked at Irene apologetically.

Irene smiled as she sat beside her grandmother. "It's okay. How have you been?"

"I've been good dear." She assured before turning to look at Sherlock. "Who is the man you've brought with you? He's not a client is he?"

Sherlock walked over, "I am not a client. My name is Sherlock Holmes and it is a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand to shake hers.

She took it in a firm grasp and turned to Irene. "He's got lovely hands, dear."

Sherlock saw a distinct change in Irene; she was softer with her grandmother. Despite the circumstances, she was the most relaxed he had ever seen her.

"Did you hear about my three girls?" The older woman asked.

"I did. Bella contacted me and I directed her to Mr Holmes."

"It was you? Of course it was you! Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to li-Wait, well no not really. All the information I had on you said you work alone," Sherlock defended.

"And I do. 'Lady K.' Bella as we know her, works for my grandmother," Irene smirked. "I thought you would have figured this all out by now."

"Well I have been just a little bit busy," he retorted.

She smiled. "Well, now you have it."

"Have what?"

"The answer."

"Yes, and now it makes a bit more sense why you're back in England," he replied.

She dipped her head and offered no objection.

"I don't know if I like him," Gladys said, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"Not many people know, it's alright." Sherlock explained.

"Always," Gladys said as she sat back on her window seat, "remember what I told you: men-" and here she gave Sherlock a meaningful look, "-don't want cheap, they only think they want cheap."

"That's it!" Sherlock hissed.

Irene thought about it for a moment before asking, "How?"

"The men, the man, Lady K.-Bella, whatever the blazes her name is, was right, they are not suicides or overdoses, it' is now, almost without a doubt, murder!"

Gladys frowned and whispered to Irene, "I don't think one should be that happy about murder."

"We're not really ones to talk Glady," Irene replied then turned to Sherlock. "I'm still not sure - oh! the killer, he wants something they're not giving him!"

"Yes, and that something will lead us to the killer. Will you be fine to get yourself out of here with this?" He passed her the key-card.

"Mr Holmes, my granddaughter could get herself out of anywhere with nothing but her bare hands and a toothpick," Gladys told him reproachfully.

"Well actually, I've saved her life at least twice."

"Yes, I'll be able to get myself out just fine." Irene responded before either of them could say anything more.

"Thank you for having me," he said to Gladys; to Irene he said, "When you go back to the flat, use my key this time." And tossed her the key.

"That was only once," she said as she caught the key. "Oh and Sherlock, dear, 'Lady K.' knows more than she lets on."

He pulled out his mobile as he walked out the door, "Lestrade, I need a warrant."

Sherlock entered the luxuriously done up room, warrant tucked into his inner jacket pocket. "Lady K," he addressed the figure sitting on the uncomfortable but expensive chair.

"Good news, Mr Holmes?"

"In a manner of speaking. I need their list of clients."

Her brows puckered together. "Mr Holmes, I thought I made it clear to you that I was not able to do that. It is not a matter of if I want to or not. There is no list, the clients wish to remain anonymous and so they do, we have taken every measure to ensure their continued anonymity. We give them options for meeting places, they choose one and a time, the woman goes to meet them and that is that."

"But it isn't just that, people talk, they always talk. There's no way Zoe or Arden or Maria or any of the other women under your employ didn't recognize who they were sleeping with. But also, you have phone records Bella, yes I know your real name; here's a hint, do not trust the Woman, she plays the game better than most. You went to her for help and she directed you to me. In seeking my help you intentionally left out important information so that you could say you did not break the confidence of these Johns. And I'm going to give you a way out of that. I have more important things to do than work out amateurs who think they know the game."

He pulled the warrant out with a flourish.

"What's that?" Lady K. asked.

"A warrant for all the information you have on your clients."

She sighed as she realized there was no way around it now.

"Fine, follow me then." She rose from the chair and took him into a room that was a bit less showy than the previous one. The room was small with a glass desk and chair being the only furniture, a laptop, printer and telephone the only other things in the room.

She went over to the laptop and clicked around. The printer started whirring and buzzing and spitting out pages with specially formed dribbles of ink to make numbers and letters, letters that made words and names. She scooped up the papers and handed them over.

"That's the most frequent clients they had in the past three months."

He scanned over the list.

"Thank you," he said, folding up the list and exiting.

He took a taxi home and had to keep telling the driver to hurry. He opened the door with his spare key. He took the stairs two at a time and was about to go over to his laptop when he saw Irene sitting on the floor n front of the fire place with the book her grandmother had given her. He suddenly thought of beautiful. Not a beautiful object or thing. The intangible beauty. It wasn't how the winter sunset was coming through the South-West window and washing her in deep golden red, it wasn't the sound of the pages as she turned them, her eyes feasting upon the words, nor was it the way her body was in a state of alert relaxation. He studied her a moment longer and wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Irene Adler that got to him. It was similar to how John affected him. He didn't want John to ever stop being there. Even if John just kept on existing that would be enough. He had found a friend in ex-military doctor John Watson, something he had let go the idea of having when he was seven years old.

You don't have time for this. He told himself once more. The truth, and he knew it was the truth, was that he didn't want to have time for it.

Sherlock completed the journey over to the laptop and brought up the phone number tracing software John had gotten them so that they didn't need to rely on Scotland Yard just to find out who had called them.

He started putting the unknown numbers in and was at least coming up with names. He was jotting them down when he heard the unmistakable creak of the third stair followed by the scent of burning tobacco.

"Irene. Get in the bedroom and be quiet no matter what you hear," Sherlock instructed, looking around the room for signs of her belongings, anything that would show she had been there.

Nothing. It was all in the bedroom. Irene got to the bedroom and shut the door just in time.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, "You've been a bit busy."

"Yes, and I still am." Sherlock replied pointedly.

"I need you to stop."

Sherlock paused to look at his brother, "You want me to stop?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes. I want you to stop. Now."

"You and I both know the probability of that is very low."

Mycroft sighed. "Have I ever asked you for a favour before?"

Sherlock glared at his brother, "Yes."

"Well let's say that I haven't, and I won't mention that you've been running around the city with Irene Adler. Here's a hint: never corner a woman."

Sherlock hissed at his own blunder; he'd gotten over-confident and fucked up with Lady K.

"Give the numbers to me," Mycroft said, hand out expectantly. Sherlock made a disgusted sound and passed them over. Mycroft coldly tore the papers up and hid them in his pocket.

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked as he inspected one of the fungi on the windowsill, making a show of not looking or being interested in what his brother did.

"Tell Ms Adler I send my regards." He smiled, and when Mycroft smiled it looked as though he had never properly learnt how to do it.

He pulled out his cigarette case and plucked one out before handing it over to Sherlock.
Sherlock put the cigarette to his mouth and lit it as his brother turned around and walked down the stairs. Sherlock heard him bid Mrs Hudson a good day. It didn't matter that Mycroft had destroyed the papers; Sherlock had already seen all he needed to.

"Well, that was unexpected." Irene said as she came out of the bedroom.

"I hope you didn't intend on staying in London." He allowed himself a moment to think on what John would have to say about him smoking.

"You're not going to drop the case, are you?"

He exhaled evenly. "You already know the answer."

"To be honest I didn't think it likely I would be able to stay, though I did hope to," she sat across from where he was standing, watching the smoke curl up to join the smoky aura around him.

Sherlock dialed one of the numbers he had traced, and then another, and the one after that, all the way down the list he had memorized in his head when Lady K. had first handed it over to him. He told them all the same thing. "This is Sherlock Holmes, I know about the murders, the forced injections full of a fatal amount of narcotics. Turn yourself into Scotland Yard by 7p.m. tonight or I will announce to the papers that you're the killer."

Most of the recipients of this message met it with outrage or threats of their own. He told them once more to be there before hanging up.

Next he called Lestrade and told him to be ready in a few hours.

He let Irene speak to Lady K about everything; by the end of the conversation Lady K was now only Bella, the position she had held being passed onto someone else.

"I'm thinking Russia," Irene said to Sherlock after she got off the phone. He had picked up an épée and was practicing his strikes.

"I don't need to know where you are going."

"But I want you to." She laughed and continued reading the book her grandmother had given her. Sherlock checked his footing and took a practice lunge.

"Do you want a partner?" she asked him after a length of time.

"Swords are by the bookcase," he said. She padded over and picked up a foil to use against his épée. She attacked him directly, automatically bringing her sword up and the other hand tucked behind her body. They went back and forth for half an hour, working up a sweat and trying to judge each other's next strike to allow themselves time to dance out of the way. Sherlock started pushing a bit harder, driving Irene into the hallway and up the second flight of stairs towards John's room.

She parried his next blow and sent him back down the stairs with a few quick lunges downward.

He pushed back with ferocity and a grin. He was forcing her gradually up the stairs. But she kept sending him back down. Their eyes always darting back to the others, tension tight between them but not uncomfortable. They had reached the top of the second flight and turned the fight around; now Irene had her back to the stairs and was bearing down on him, pressing him into the door leading to John's room. He saw the opening as she was aiming for his kidney. He brought his épée up to her neck, resting against her dark hair, right next to her carotid artery. She moved towards him, ignoring the blade, eyes fastened on his as she slipped under his arm, his weapon now down her back. He felt the heat swell in him as she brushed her lips to his. They both smelt of effort and steel. When she met him for another kiss she could taste the salt and cigarette.

"Not yet," he whispered as he spun her around and walked back downstairs. As he had done so many times before, he pushed his physical desire down and shoved his emotional desires into the back of his mind.

They leaned the swords against the one armchair, Sherlock broke open a history book John had bought him for the holidays, The Tragedy of the Italia With the Rescuers to the Red Tent, by Giudici and Davide.

Irene picked up from where she had left off before Mycroft had shown up.

"That is a history." Sherlock commented, looking at the book she held. He had been trying to figure it out, the binding was older, but the text was handwritten, and the binding wasn't that old.

"My grandmother gave it to me just before I left. Shr used them as journals, she would find a history she liked and replace the pages, then write her own history."

Sherlock smiled, rewriting history.

He put the book down and rose from the chair. Irene didn't need to ask where he was going. "Can I use your shower?"

Sherlock looked amused. "You would have anyway, why ask?"

"I thought it would be polite."

"Mmm yes, I suppose it is."


Please do let me know what you think! This is my favorite chapter, and I hope one of yours also!

Sneak Peek:

"I can place you at each crime scene, your car drives by that lake every weekend when you go to visit your uncle. He gave you that tie, didn't he? Don't bother with an answer because we already know I'm right. You took Zoe Malone there thinking no one would find the body. You left Maria Fisher in the hotel room because, well, you're unimaginative and watch too much television."

Sneak Peak Two;

He left the police to deal with it now. His job was done. He walked out to a blustery four a.m. London.
As he walked back to his home he was not surprised to get a call from Mycroft.

"What have you done?" Were the words of greeting. Mycroft did not bellow or roar, he didn't even sound surprised. He sounded disappointed.

"My job."