Sorry! Again, it took me an insanely long time to update. I was very distracted by school! Thanks, as always to the very supportive people who comment, favorite, subscribe, read, casually peruse, or even accidentally click on my story! You guys rock!
Honestly, my intention in this chapter was to modernize the TLC scene in the canon ASiB... you know the one ;). Well, modernize and elaborate on it, I suppose. So all credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle here. Aswell as the overall premise of the chapter, there are a few specific references to ASiB planted throughout the chapter, for fun mostly.
As always, I hope you enjoy! And always feel free to leave criticism!
The Science of Induction
Sarah closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head, "Sorry what?"
John pressed his lips together in a grim line, "Sarah, I'm sorry… it's just getting too dangerous."
"What, you mean what you do with Sherlock? I've seen the danger, John—I didn't run away then, and I'm not going to run away now."
John shook his head vehemently, "No, no—Sarah, this is different… this is worse. It's just… you have to trust me."
Sarah looked up at John from where she sat, "Okay, then explain it to me. How is it worse?"
"Honestly, the less you know about it, the better."
She stood, looking him square in the eye, "No… you can't just do that. You can't just make that decision for both of us. We can talk about it, like adults, and come to a conclusion."
John shook his head, "This isn't a discussion, Sarah. I get to make the decision, because I was the one on the way to your house tonight when I was captured and strapped to a bomb." He took a calming breath, "And I'm not alive tonight because some brilliant thing Sherlock did, I'm not here tonight because I was particularly resourceful. I'm here, because the mad man who captured me let me and Sherlock go. He let us go because it suited him. And I can't help thinking…"
Sarah looked at her feet, and swallowed. She blinked up at him, and he noticed that she was blinking back tears.
He licked his lips, "…Can't help thinking about what would have happened to you if they picked me up just a few minutes later—after I had arrived at your house. Because I honestly don't know… but I wouldn't have been able to stop it."
Sarah frowned, "I'm not some helpless doll that needs to be protected John."
John's eyes flickered closed for a moment. When he opened them again he responded chillingly, "When it comes to Moriarty, everyone's a helpless doll that needs to be protected. Best hope is to not get noticed by him. And if you stay with me… and Sherlock… you will get noticed."
Sarah never dropped her gaze. And though she remained silent, not being able to find the words to respond, her eyes spoke volumes. Her lips pressed together, looking betrayed, her eyes glossed with a kind of shocked hurt. John swallowed, turning away from her while she was silent—he wasn't sure if he could keep walking if she called after him to stay.
As John walked from her room, he knew that by making the decision for both of them Sarah would feel patronized, by describing the night's events she would feel scared, and by leaving her behind she would feel hurt.
Somehow, John could live with that—after all, if she was feeling patronized, scared, and hurt, it meant she wasn't dead. He slipped on his shoes, pausing only once to glance over his shoulder. She wasn't there.
He reached to open Sarah's front door, and walked through it abandoning the warm yellow light behind him. He closed it behind him, finding himself in the darkness.
He took a breath, and began walking to the only place left to him now: 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock lay on the ground—not quite unconscious, but dazed enough to have difficulty forming thoughts. That was very dazed indeed.
As his senses tuned back into focus he first became aware of the sound of heavy footsteps running away, next that he couldn't seem to smell anything except peppermint and iron, and finally that his vision was filled with the woman's face. Her large eyes seemed to be studying his face very astutely, her brow slightly furrowed with concern. The memory of how Sherlock came to be in this position—lying flat on the ground, teary-eyed, with a faint throbbing sensation on the right side of his face—came back to him in a flash. He sat up in a start.
"Woah, woah…. Easy there Sport. You alright? You took a heck of a hit…" Irene regarded him with an uncertain smile, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.
In wiping away the tears from his face, he found that his nose was bleeding—That explains the 'iron smell'. Luckily, though, his assessment found that his nose hadn't been broken by the blow.
His mind turned to what was in his eyes—it hadn't been a real defensive spray, like pepper spray or mace. The spray hadn't been a continuous stream—more of a quick spurt, and by this time the effects had faded to a dull irritation. Besides, there was still that overwhelming peppermint aroma, "Did you squirt breath spray in my eyes?"
She winced, "Yeah, sorry abut that. We should probably try to flush your eyes out—"
Annoyed, Sherlock forgot to stay in the character of kind, unassuming Robbie Hart, "What do you think you were doing? I don't remember asking for your help."
Irene dropped her hand from his shoulder, and her eyes flashed with indignation, "Funny, I could say the same thing to you. The situation was under control before you went all 'caped crusader.'"
"He was twice your size and he had a weapon." Sherlock scoffed, "Please enlighten me as to what your plan was… Were you going to offer him a doughnut in hopes he'd go away?"
Irene's face was the picture of sarcastic sweetness, "No, actually, I figured I'd scare him away by letting him punch me out-cold!"
"Had I known your plan, I would have blinded you with oral hygiene products," Sherlock retorted.
She shook her head as if he just didn't understand, "You almost got us killed!"
Sherlock looked miffed, "I almost won, actually—until you interfered."
She rose to her feet, mumbling to herself, "Yeah, well, sometimes losing now is the best way to win in the long-run." She turned to the sky. A cold drizzle had begun to fall, misting over the pair in the alleyway. Holding out a hand as if testing for rain, she smiled, apparently amused by some aspect of their situation, "My old man always did say that every winner had to learn what it was like to fall somewhere along the line."
Sherlock looked unimpressed, "Let me guess… so they could 'learn how to get back up again'?" He finished the "inspirational" quotation in a mocking tone.
She turned to him again and gave an amused snort, "Nah, he just said that by falling down you learn how much you don't want to fall next time." She held out her hand to help him up. The small grin that seemed to scarcely ever leave her face played on her lips once again, arranging her features most pleasantly.
He accepted her hand, and eased himself up slowly. A hint of amused sarcasm played in his voice, "Well, wasn't he the philosopher."
She gave a nod and a shrug, "Among other things." She stepped back and looked him up and down, "So, are you okay?" She seemed hurried to leave—Sherlock guessed it had less to do with the coming rain than the fact that she was anxious to cut short any questions he might have about the situation.
Sherlock found himself in a most favorable position—without having to reveal his true identity, he could seek out the information he desired. He didn't stop to wonder why it was important to continue to hide his identity though they were alone and it was no longer necessary to trick her into revealing the location of the video, nor did he stop to wonder why it was important that he gained more information about her as her friend rather than her antagonist. Nevertheless, sometime between meeting her and now he had made the subconscious decision to continue to play under the guise of Robbie Hart until it was absolutely necessary to reveal himself.
"Just curious… mainly as to why an academic such as yourself seems to have such trouble with muggings. In the museum you said that you were robbed last week—this makes twice in a very short period of time. That's quite the coincidence, don't you think?" The drizzle intensified, cooling the atmosphere uncomfortably.
She shrugged, "I guess a black cat must have crossed my path or something. Speaking of cats, you might wanna remember what happened to the curious one." She turned from him speaking over her shoulder, "I appreciate what you did—it took a lotta guts—but please, just go back to your 'quiet life' and try to forget this ever happened."
Sherlock, though, wasn't going to let this opportunity pass. He reached out, gently catching her arm, "Tell me what's going on here."
She turned to him again, this time she looked up at him imploringly, "Look, this is a lot bigger than you think it is. I'm not some damsel in distress—I'm fine. I will be fine—but if you ask too many questions you might turn into someone's loose end. Okay?"
Sherlock shook his head, "No. It isn't." The drizzle was now rain, dousing the shoulders of Sherlock's borrowed jumper.
Irene pulled her arm out of his grip, and backed away, "Sorry, it's going to have to be."
Sherlock sighed—so she wanted to do this the hard way. He let out a groan, and clutched his head, "Oh! I'm dizzy…."
She stopped and looked back at him, the rain running down the sides of her face, "What's wrong? Robbie? Are you okay?"
"I think I could have a concussion. I might have to go to the hospital… I'm sure they'll recommend that I'd fill out a police report… when do you think you'd be available to come to the Yard to make a statement on the affaire?" He blinked his blue eyes innocently at her, his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly in sincerity. He was betting that she would want to avoid a police entanglement at all cost.
She rolled her eyes which subsequently fell on him, annoyed, "Let me guess… I answer your questions and your symptoms go away?"
He grinned impishly, letting his hand drop from his head—suddenly the picture of health, save his bloody nose and his slowly swelling face, "How clever for a social scientist."
She narrowed her eyes and waved her finger at him (the index one… but he had a feeling that if he pushed her a little further, he may get some variation on that front), "Watch it computer-boy!" She rubbed her forehead tiredly, wiping the water from her brow. She leaned back against the alleyway wall, head in hand, "Uggh, you're being impossible…" Her quiet exclamation was punctuated by another increase in rainfall—the water now beat down on them.
Sherlock nodded, "Yes. Now tell me what I don't know." He easily ignored the rain, using his ability to compartmentalize the sensory information of his surroundings. For now, all his attentions were focused on the enigmatic young woman before him. When Irene continued to show hesitation, he tried another tactic, "I'm involved now… don't you think I deserve to know in what I'm involved?"
That seemed to do it. With an exasperated shrug, she finally seemed to give in, "Fine. Come on then. We can at least get out of this rain." She waved her hand indicating that he should follow.
Sherlock took a few steps to arrive at her side, and strolled at her pace out of the alley, "Where?"
"Well we could head back to my place—" she sighed. "Don't get too excited. I'm not flirting with you."
Sherlock sniffed the air indifferently, "The prospect of seeing your flat is hardly something to get excited about."
"True—but like you couldn't help but notice in my office, I'm not all that flat."
Sherlock stopped walking, as if he were suddenly rooted to the spot. He blinked "Sorry, what?"
Irene smiled and kept walking, "Thought I missed that, didn't you?"
Sherlock made a show of sighing heavily and rolling his eyes at her misinterpretation.
Something occurred to Sherlock, and he looked back down the alleyway. The criminal had run away—why? He was sure that Irene hadn't given the man what he wanted… what would have caused him to leave? When Sherlock scanned the alleyway he instantly noticed what wasn't there: the knife the thief had dropped.
"Are you coming or not?" Irene called impatiently.
Sherlock looked back at her, holding her purse and her case in a way to try to save them from getting too wet. He couldn't help but notice how her trouser pocket bulged obviously—as the small pockets of women's trousers tended to—in a way that it hadn't at the museum.
The fact that the shape and size of the bulge was about the shape and size of a pocket knife wasn't so disturbing as the fact that he hadn't noticed it before now.
John opened the door to the flat at 221B. It had been a long day at the surgery, and he was anxious to sit down in his chair with a cup of tea. On his way to the kitchen his eye caught on the smiley-face vandalism on the wall still in need of repair. He sighed heavily… somehow the vandalism brought to mind the phone call he'd received today.
He looked down grimly, only for his eyes to fall on more of Sherlock's mess. Sherlock's mess. Sherlock's vandalism. Sherlock's chemistry set strewn over the kitchen. Sherlock's mysteries. Sherlock's world.
John lived in Sherlock's world now… and of course, it wasn't always easy and it wasn't always safe. But it had always seemed necessary. It had always seemed worthwhile—solving problems, fighting the good fight, helping people. But was John really a necessary part of that anymore? Sherlock hadn't even discussed Moriarty with John since the pool-side incident—save for Adler's case. And Adler was simply another of Moriarty's clients who needed his help for nothing more complicated than blackmailing her boss.
The flat, the cases… Sherlock himself all seemed to be delivering one message: John wasn't really needed… he was just being allowed to tag along whenever he wouldn't get in Sherlock's way—whenever he might be helpful for things like giving Sherlock a boost through a window. When it came to the very important things—like working through the ranks of Moriarty's network of criminals to find the root of it all, Sherlock was proficient on his own.
John had never been overly open or reflective of his own emotions—even to himself. But now he realized that he hadn't necessarily been blaming Sherlock for the fact that he had to leave behind aspects of his "normal life"—like Sarah—he had just been disappointed that there hadn't been room in Sherlock's world for him after he had done so.
Now John found himself caught somewhere between "the real world" and "Sherlock's world"… he didn't really no where to go from here.
Irene and Sherlock exited the cab scurrying though the rain into the refuge of the building.
"Next time I'm going somewhere dry…" Irene brushed off her shoulders sending a cascade of water to the floor of the corridor. She began to ascend the stairs. Irene cast him a look over her shoulder, "We would have gotten a cab to stop a lot sooner if you didn't insist on standing right beside me while I was trying to flag one down."
Sherlock followed her up the stairs, "You would have gotten a cab. I imagine that I would have been left standing in the rain without the story that's owed to me. And I'm not so sure you would have been more successful in acquiring a cab by yourself anyway."
Irene laughed, "Please—between being drenched, bloody, and that "I'm homeless" sweater you're sporting, I don't even think Robert DeNiro would have stopped to pick you up. You're a pretty shabby-lookin' fare, you gotta admit."
About to protest, he glanced down at John's sweater and found that he rather agreed with Irene's description. Sherlock took his foot off the last step and continued to follow Irene part-way down the corridor to her flat, "This seems like a nice building."
Irene nodded, fishing the key from her purse, "Yeah, really nice. Very friendly neighbours." She stuck the key the door.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the myriad of locks, "So it would seem."
Irene smiled, "Well… you can't be too careful. I'm a sucker for sure-locked homes."
Sherlock, who had been examining the carpet outside of her door to get a sense of her comings and goings stiffened, his head snapped up, "Sorry?"
Irene pushed the door open and walked through, "Hm? Oh I was just saying that I like a secure apartment."
Sherlock studied her warily. She looked as if she was innocent of any double-meanings hidden in her statement.
"You know I think I just might have some clothes that might fit you, strangely enough… Come on, you can use my bathroom to clean yourself up."
Sherlock followed her into the flat, where he was lead to the toilet. She stooped at a laundry basket filled with freshly folded clothes just outside the door. She shuffled through it until she found what she was looking for. She presented him with a t-shirt and a hoodie. He looked at it distastefully, "And this is better than what I'm wearing, how?"
"It's dry," she told him flatly, shoving the articles of clothing forward. "How are your pants? I don't think I have anything that'll fit you…"
Sherlock accepted the clothes responding in a disapproving tone, "Irene, we've only just met, the state of my pants aren't really your concern…"
Irene looked like she was torn between being amused and being annoyed, "So, the boy does have a sense of humour. I meant trousers."
"Of course."
Irene pointedly ignored the underlying sarcasm in his last comment, "Anyway, you can use my hairdryer to dry your trousers." She walked into the toilet grabbing two towels and a washcloth from the shelf. She handed him one of the towels and the washcloth, "Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee." After a beat Sherlock added, "Please."
"I'll get a pot going… and then we can talk."
He watched her walk to her own bedroom and then closed the door to the toilet.
A little dryer and much cleaner he wandered out of the toilet. He could hear Irene in the kitchen. She was shuffling about, singing softly to herself. Passing by the sitting room, he hung the damp jumper of his on the arm of her sofa to help it dry. As he was exiting the room, his eye caught on something. There was black a binder sitting on the table, amidst books and journals. She must have brought them home from the museum in her laptop carrying case. On the black binder was one tiny white label, written on with pretty, blue writing: Finding the Golem. He looked up gravely towards the kitchen, in the direction of the woman… And the pieces slowly fall together, don't they Ms. Adler?
The aroma of fresh coffee hit him when he walked into the kitchen. She was standing by the counter, pouring the steaming, dark liquid into two mugs. She cut her song short and glanced up at him, "Hey, Popeye, there's ice on the table for your face. You should probably bring down the swelling before you start getting a hankering for canned spinach."
Sherlock furrowed his brow—he didn't understand half of what she said sometimes. Her tone was never unkind, and he gathered that she generally used pop culture references to try and lighten the mood of a situation. Little did she realize that they were completely lost on him. He lifted the icepack to his face, "Why do you have freshly-laundered men's clothing?" The clothes were quite small on him, but would suit a small man, or a boy, well. They were—as he had said—freshly-laundered, which meant they probably had been worn recently. He knew she didn't have any frequent male visitors… so then why have men's clothing?
She gave a shocked giggle, "You're not allowed to ask me that!" She wasn't insulted—only surprised by the up-front question.
His brow furrowed, "Why not?"
She waved her hand, "It goes against… I don't know… British social conventions…"
"'British social conventions?'" The words left his mouth as if they were encrypted in some obscure code.
"Yes! As in 'it's not conventional to ask really personal questions,'" Irene looked at him as if he were an amusing cultural anomaly.
He shrugged, as he sat down at the table, "Well it hasn't been a very conventional day."
She shook her head, "I'm just not sure you're prepared for some of the possible answers to that question… what if I'm an occasional cross-dresser?"
"Are you an occasional cross-dresser?" Sherlock asked the rhetorical question flatly—he obviously knew the answer.
She laughed, "Only when I watch TV—they're really comfy clothes."
Sherlock removed the icepack to give her his full glare. He was annoyed at her needlessly long production when the clothes turned out to be nothing more than a comfortable alternative to her work-wear, "Are you usually this secretive about nothing?"
She grinned, "Are you usually this nosey about everything? Now, what would you like in your coffee?"
He reapplied the icepack and leaned back in his chair, "Black, two sugars, please."
"'Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss,' comin' right up…" she quoted sing-song as she spooned the sugar into his cup.
He raised his eyebrow at her as she placed the mug in front of him—he recognized that proverb, "When were you in Poland?" Finally recognizing one of her cultural references, he decided he could engage her in polite conversation on the subject.
She stopped, "How—?" She cocked her head to the side, "You give me a blank face at "Robert DeNiro" and "Popeye", yet you know the country of origin of an expression that
I use off-handedly?" She laughed, "You're in a world all by yourself, aren't you?"
He cleared his throat—apparently he knew too much about the wrong aspects of conversation. It was difficult for him to keep track of what it was he should know, and what was unusual for him to know. He looked down at his coffee, "Yes, well, I have very particular interests."
"Like proverbs?" She sat down across from him, cradling her own mug of coffee.
His mouth turned upwards, "A good friend of mine was Polish." A 'good friend' who was now serving a life sentence thanks to Sherlock's efforts.
"Ah…—but you knew I had actually been to Poland, how?"
He nodded to the postcards on the refrigerator, "You seem to be a bit of a world traveler."
Irene glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the fridge, but following her gaze he found that she avoided looking directly at the letters. She looked back at him and tipped her head, "Logical."
His curiosity concerning the postcards piqued once more, he pursued the subject, "It must get lonely… never staying in one place very long."
She looked up at him briefly and then looked back down at her mug, "Um. Yeah. Sometimes. For sure." She looked up again, "But with my chosen field of study I'm always meeting new people, so it's not as bad as it might sound." She took a sip of coffee.
He studied her quietly for a moment—then it dawned on him: why she continuously travelled from place to place, why she never formed long-term attachments, why she was nice to everyone, why she ate all the time, She has—
"Penny for your thoughts?" she interrupted his line of reasoning, holding up a small copper coin as a prop in literality.
When she had caught his attention she slid the American coin over the table to him. He caught it under his hand. Sherlock looked up at her, "Just thinking about your situation."
She shrugged, "Well, you can ask. I did agree to answer your questions after all."
"Who was that man?"
"A crook."
He sat silent.
She shrugged, "Well, I don't know! I didn't really stop to ask his name."
He continued, "Is he the one that robbed you before?"
Irene nodded, "One of the ones, yeah."
Sherlock tried to look surprised, "One of the ones?"
She stood, "Well, I tried to tell you this was bigger than it looked. There's this one guy… um, let's call him Mr. Smith. He keeps hiring these criminals—don't ask me where he gets this scum—to steal something from me."
Sherlock leaned forward over the tabled, dropping the icepack from his face, "Why haven't you gone to the police?"
She leaned against the kitchen counter and gave a sigh, "The thing is, I'm not exactly Bambi in this whole thing either. What they're trying to steal back is some evidence of Mr. Smith engaged in some… uhh… extramarital activities."
"Which you were blackmailing him with," his tone was flat.
"Well… 'blackmail' is kind of a strong word…"
"And the correct one." He sat back in his chair, and Irene avoided his gaze, "But why? Why would you go through all this trouble?"
She shrugged, looking disinclined to answer, "Is that really important?"
He nodded, "Yes, it is."
She rolled her eyes, "It's not all that interesting of a story. A while ago, I got a job working for Mr. Smith as his personal assistant—"
Sherlock interrupted, "A little below your caliber, isn't it?"
She shook her head, "Not really… anthropologists are all the rage these days—it's considered trendy to get a look at the 'big picture', I guess. He's a politician, and he thought getting a multicultural perspective would help his campaign. Besides, the price was right."
"And I'm sure your lack of experience in being someone's personal assistant didn't bother him."
She fixed him with a look, giving him challenging smile, "No, not really. And I suppose you have a theory at why that is."
Sherlock returned her smile humorlessly, "Well, you had to know your physical appearance had something to do with you getting a high-paying job for which you had no real experience."
Irene's smile faded, "I imagine it did have something to do with it. Honestly, I wasn't really involved in the hiring process… Though, I can tell you why I accepted: because I knew I could get the job done."
Sherlock gave a smug sigh, "Never the less, I believe I can see where this is headed… sexual harassment in the work place."
She took in a deep breath, "You think that I have no reason to complain because I walked into it."
"I didn't say that," Sherlock did not condone Ormstein's advances considering his position, but right or wrong romance between bosses and their employees was not unheard of. If the situation boiled down to a misunderstanding… Irene's reaction seemed somewhat extreme.
Her brow furrowed, "Y'know, I'm not gonna do that tired old song and dance about how the world is full of lecherous men who don't take me seriously—because honestly, in my experience, it's not even that true. This was more of the exception than the rule. If there is one thing my experiences have taught me, though, it's that I don't owe anybody anything for how I look." She mumbled bitterly, "Apparently he disagreed with my philosophy when he fired me."
Sherlock sat up a little straighter, "He fired you? You didn't leave?"
She snorted and hopped up to seat herself on the counter, "Well, I've been flirted with before. Yeah, considering he was my married boss it was pretty unprofessional, but I made my disinterest clear. I guess I hurt that conceited, spoiled, bullying rat-bastard's pride when I turned him down, though. And now he gets to use my campaign strategy to win his stupid election. How fair is that?"
He raised his eyebrows, "So, this isn't necessarily about his advances… it's a way of reclaiming your intellectual property. You're taking back what you gave to him—a chance at winning the election." He looked her over, suddenly more than a little impressed.
She shrugged, a sly smile on her face, "Well… I just thought this would be more effective revenge than TP'ing his house."
His lip twitched, in a flicker of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He regarded her steadily, "But revenge was never what you wanted, was it?" He stood, wandering over to the refrigerator, lingering there for a moment, his eyes darting over the words and images—all representing all the people she left behind.
Confusion diffused over her features, "What do you mean?"
He walked towards her, "Even the need for revenge requires you to care strongly, though in a negative way, towards the desired recipient of said vengeance…" He was close now, peering down at her, "'Revenge' as your motivator… it doesn't really add up, does it?"
She met his eyes steadily, though he could tell that she was fighting to maintain her usually natural calm composure—he had hit a nerve. She shook her head slightly, "People aren't like those computers of yours, Robbie—you can't always objectively reduce them down to a series of ones and zeros and expect to be able to see them for who they are. You should be careful when applying the principles of deduction to humans… they often turn out to be more than just their parts "added up.""
Sherlock's head tilted, "What principles, then, do you suggest to apply to humans…? After all, you're the expert."
She shrugged, looking up at him, "A peek at the context of the situation never hurt anyone… big picture and all that. You can't get every piece of information by testing specific hypotheses. Sometimes you have to look at the relationship between the hypotheses."
He snorted, "That sounds a bit like induction… A bit subjective isn't it?"
She smiled, leaning forward slightly, bringing her face even closer to his, "Don't knock it until you've tried it."
Intrigued, he raised an eyebrow, "Well, then… do I get a demonstration? What can you tell about me?"
She looked him up and down. Her nose scrunched up, and she let out a long sigh. She leaned back and crossed her arms, "Absolutely nothing."
"How disappointing," his voice conveyed that that was the exact response he foresaw.
Her tone was cool, "How could I come to any conclusions about you? You haven't been yourself all day."
He blinked in surprise, "Wh—?"
Whatever his reaction might have been was cut short, however, by a loud knock at the door.
Irene tensed, her brow furrowed in concentration, "Wait… what day is it today?"
Whoever had knocked had promptly opened the door, and was now making their way to the kitchen. A woman's voice called to Irene dramatically, "Did you lose track of time doing your research again?"
A short, stout, woman in her sixties entered the room a half a moment later. She dressed loudly, making use of an array of colours, most of which clashed with her light red hair—which was clearly the result of red dye on a white base. Sherlock knew that this must be the retired school teacher who lived across the hall—the sentry for Irene's apartment when Irene wasn't home. Her eyes fell on Sherlock standing very near to where Irene sat. She let out an amused cackle, "Well, well… if that's what research looks like these days, pass me a lab coat and call me a scientist."
Irene hopped down from the kitchen counter top, looking vaguely mortified, "Flora! That's… inappropriate. We were having coffee, and I guess I just forgot that we had planned our weekly dinner for tonight."
Flora rolled her eyes, "Never mind that… who's your gentleman friend?"
"Um, this is Robbie, from work. Robbie, this is Flora, my neighbour. She's teaching me how to cook… one night each week we cook something together. Then eat it. Obviously."
Sherlock smiled at the former educator, extending his hand to her in a gentle handshake, "Pleased to meet you Flora."
"Oh, surely, the pleasure's mine," she grinned at him. She held up a slightly damp woolen article that Sherlock assumed she had collected from the sofa, "I suppose this jumper belongs to you."
Sherlock cleared his throat, as he accepted the piece of clothing, "Um, yes, thank you. It was drying…"
She gave him a knowing look, "Hm."
Irene snorted, catching his attention, "Oh! "The man in the jumper!" That makes so much more sense than "The man in the dress"…"
Sherlock froze—he watched her facial expression change from amusement to thoughtfulness. He could almost read the question on her face… "What man in a jumper would have been around my office about the time Peter Jones asked?"…
It was only a matter of time before she put together that "Robbie Hart" both wore a jumper, and would have probably been in her office fixing her computer around that time. It was only a matter of time before that thought led her to consider how coincidental that the man she had met that same day had just happened to be near-by to intervene in the mugging. That same man to whom she'd explained her morally questionable situation to.
"I need to go," Sherlock walked from the kitchen to the sitting room, pulling off the hoodie and the t-shirt in one shot, pulling on his own (still damp) jumper in one, smooth, continuous action.
Irene trailed after him, seeming to have forgotten all about the jumper, "You can stay for dinner you know… after all you did take a punch for me. I'm pretty sure that merits more than a cup of coffee."
"Thank you… maybe another time, I didn't know it was so late," he turned back to face her—she looked concerned about something. "I won't tell anyone," he assured. "But I recommend that you end it—tonight. Give "Smith" the evidence back… and that will be that. This game you're playing is getting too dangerous."
She shook her head, "It's more complicated than that…"
He drew in a long breath, "It usually is."
She held out her hand, something pinched between her forefinger and thumb, "You forgot this—it's yours."
He held out his hand, and she dropped the tiny object into his palm. He looked down at the tiny copper disk dubiously. It was the American penny.
She laughed, "It's a lucky penny—it might bring you luck in your next 'showdown.' You obviously need it."
"I don't believe in luck," he gave her a look which seemed to scold her for believing in such superstitious nonsense.
"You wouldn't. Well, then, just keep it as a souvenir… a souvenir for a very unconventional day. How about that?" She smiled at his hand enclosed around the coin and he shoved it in his trouser pocket.
He put his hand on the doorknob, ready to exit—but he paused. He needed to know something first. He turned back to look at her once more, "Who do you think I am, then, if not the man I was all day?"
She shrugged, "A man in a world all by himself… A man I would very much like to meet one day."
Without so much as a "good day", he turned from her again, opened the door and walked through. Sherlock had all his answers now, and if she didn't return the video by tomorrow morning, he would confront her, and repossess the video. Then she'd meet the real him, "Careful what you wish for."
Irene Adler watched him go. Not until the door shut did she allow herself to relax. She ran her hand through her hair, "That's what I call close." She stared off into space for a few seconds, thinking about the unusual afternoon shared with the strange man. She gave a lopsided smile at the memory, "Sorry, Flora… I'm going to have to skip our dinner tonight. I have too much to do for tomorrow."
Flora peaked out of the kitchen, giving Irene the impression that she had been listening in on the entire conversation, "What's tomorrow?"
Irene smiled, though the smile made her look more melancholy than happy, "Tomorrow I leave London." She fell silent for a few moments—a silence that not even Flora tried to disturb. She looked up at he neighbour once more, "But first, I need to ask you a favour…"
