Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to Moonunit, Bekah1218, Lara1786, likingthistoomuch, KayJane16 and simplyshelbs16. Enjoy!
~ BLADE ~
Baker Street Living Room
Moments Later
With a small, sharp nod Sherlock moves back into the parlour. Takes a seat beside Molly.
Not knowing what to do, she nods at him and leans as close as she possibly can.
After a moment she is gratified to feel his free hand reach out and take hers.
She looks up at him and there's something in his eyes that makes her heart flutter like a sparrow in her chest.
He says nothing of it, merely gestures to Mary, who forces Irene rather sharply into a chair by the fire and then takes the blade she was attempting to hide from her. Brings it over to him and shows it to both he and her husband. The knife is wicked-looking, sharp and curved with a matching handle. The workmanship on it is intricate, though it appears to be well used. This is no ceremonial weapon, Molly muses, but a thing made for carnage- And it had hurt her husband.
At the thought she grits her teeth and glares at Adler.
Adler, being Adler blows her a kiss but the gesture seems forced, not playful, as it might have earlier in the evening.
For their parts, the Watsons are sharing a thoughtful look. "It's not real, dear heart," Mary tells John, to which the doctor raises his eyebrows in question.
"How can you be so sure?" he asks, and at this the blond woman smiles.
"Because if this were truly a kukri," Mary says quietly, "Then we wouldn't have caught its owner- Believe me. My father served in Nepal with those men, their reputation is indeed deserved."
Her smiles grows sombre.
"But you already know that, don't you, Irene?" And she turns her attention to the dark-haired woman. "So why don't you tell us what this is really about, hmm?"
And at this both she and Sherlock turn to look at Adler. The sudden movement causes Sherlock to wince in pain, the blood at his cut arm oozing more strongly, rivulets of it sluicing down his arm.
Molly lets out a little cry of pity at the sight of it and he gives her hand a squeeze, trying to comfort her, the silly man, when she should be comforting him.
Rather than say that Molly presses a small kiss to the inside of his wrist.
Sherlock grows still, his eyes becoming unfocused, brows drawn together. He looks like he doesn't know how to respond., something which surprises Molly. He certainly seemed to know how to respond to being kissed when they were upstairs. Not noticing, John bustles over to one of the cabinets, opens it and begins pulling out medical supplies. He works quickly, taking what he needs and then coming back to his patient. Calmly swiping the cut with alcohol- this makes Sherlock wince slightly- before examining the wound.
He's tutting like a mother hen- Interspersed with some rather colourful swearing.
"Don't hold your tongue on account of me," he's telling Adler. "You of all people know I can patch Sherlock up and listen- I've done it before."
He makes a shooing gesture. "Now talk."
And with that he continues to treat Sherlock. Adler acknowledges his words with a curt inclination of her head, but still she doesn't speak. She merely bites her lip, trying to look innocent, Molly thinks, though she finds herself surprised that so wise a manipulator would try a ploy so unlikely to succeed.
After a moment though she seems to realise that this won't work on her audience because she sighs, takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. Sits up straighter.
When she looks at the room at large, her expression is almost bullish.
"You're right," she tells Mary. "I don't believe that the man we just saw is really one of the Gurkha regiment." She gestures to the blade- which tells Molly that this must be her reason for naming that legendary body of soldiers. "The carrying of that is an attempt to suggest as much, but we you're correct- A true Gurkha would not have been so sloppy, or so easily caught."
She purses her lips.
"Then who do you think it was?" Mary prompts. "And why were you attempting to defend them?"
Again Adler seems reluctant, but this time she answers.
Her eyes fixed on the fire, she begins, quietly, to speak.
"You know me, Mary," she begins hesitantly. "You know my methods: I make my way in the world, I cause trouble, and when I do I walk away. That's who I am, that's always been how I've lived. But after…" She clears her throat uncomfortably, "After recent events, after Sebastopol in particular, it occurred to me that perhaps this was not the best way to live.
Perhaps it was not the only way in which I might be happy."
She throws a sad, wry smile at Sherlock.
To Molly's great discomfort, she sees her husband's face heat, but he says not a word.
"The thing about having someone else walk away from, you is- Suddenly you realise how it feels," Adler continues quietly. "Suddenly you realise it feels ghastly."
Though the detective opens his mouth she rushes on before he can speak.
"But that's neither here nor there- What's important is that in the aftermath of Sebastopol, I decided to evaluate my life. My choices," she says. "I travelled as far from that wretched Prince Vronsky as I could and I found myself in India, working as a ladies' companion, of all things. I was taken into the employ of Lord Carnavron-"
"Her Majesty's envoy to India?" Mary interrupts and Adler nods.
Trust Mary to know that, Molly thinks.
But truth be told, Carnavron was known to most suffragists, though not because of his ties to India. His wife, Lady Sophia, had recently caused a massive outcry by pursuing a divorce and the subsequent scandal had allowed the broadsheets much merriment. She was alleging adultery and cruelty as her reasons, something which the stout-hearted British press were having none of: she was well-taken care of, had never had a hand raised to her (by her own admission) and lived a far wealthier life than she might have as a minor gentleman's daughter.
What was she complaining about?
Never mind that she was confined to her quarters no matter the country her husband brought her to, never mind that she was forbidden from communicating with her sisters and her mother- her husband had every right to do such a thing, according to public opinion, no matter the effect it had on his wife. Was this the reason for this night's difficulties? Molly muses. Had Adler, in her role of companion, witnessed Lord Carnavron's behaviour? Might she be considered a witness worthy of pursuit, and was that why someone had been following her?
But then, why attack either she or Sherlock? Why would the interloper seem to be focussed on Mrs. Molly Holmes more than Miss Irene Adler?
It made no sense, at least none that Molly can see.
Judging by Mary Watson's unimpressed expression however, Lord Carnavron is not the reason the spies in the room have conjured for a pursuit of Irene Adler. Not at all. For-
"Oh, you didn't," Mary is saying, something which prompts Adler to glare at her.
"Lady Sophia is a beautiful, intelligent woman," the adventuress bites out. "Of course I bloody did."
"But you were, apparently, trying to lie low," Mary snaps back. "Trying to reassess your life and your priorities, etc, etc, etc."
"Preferring the company of women is not the sort of thing one reassesses," Adler says acidly, for the first time seeming truly annoyed. She stands, begins pacing. She wrings her hands together, mouth twisted in a thin, sharp line. "When one is given the chance to worship a goddess, one becomes a supplicant," she says tartly. Both the Watsons roll their eyes at that. "Besides," Adler continues, "I refuse to apologise for finding my Sophie, or for persuading her to finally leave that bastard she was married off to- There is nothing in the world which would prompt me to do such a thing-"
"Of course there isn't." Mary rolls her eyes and turns to her husband. "And they say it's only men who can't keep it in their trousers," she says dryly. She nods to Sherlock, then to Adler. "Between the two of you, I think you might just disprove every falsehood ever uttered about the sexes and sex, do you know that?"
Sherlock winces, narrows his eyes. "Do not speak so freely of unseemly matters before my wife," he says stiffly, something which causes Adler to snicker and Mary to snort.
"Well, someone needs to talk to her, since it seems you won't," Mrs. Watson fires back.
Trying to keep the peace Molly raises her voice before the bickering can worsen. "I'm sorry," she says, "But I'm afraid you've lost me- What are you implying about Miss Adler and Lady Carnavron? And why might it result in an apparently fake Gurkha officer invading my husband's home?"
At this Sherlock's face flushes and Adler shoots him a ghost of her usual, feline smile. "Shall I tell her, dear-heart?" she asks archly, "Or should you?"
Sherlock clears his throat. Straightens up. Though Watson is still working on his arm, this appears to be the thing that's making him uncomfortable. "Miss Adler has a… preference," he says curtly.
Molly raises her eyebrows at him in question.
"She prefers the company of women," he elaborates, when his wife doesn't speak.
"What has that to do with anything?" Molly asks and at this Adler does laugh because Sherlock's face turns completely puce.
His jaw works but he doesn't say anything.
"What your darling husband is trying- and utterly failing- to say," Adler smirks, "is that when I say I prefer the company of women, I mean I prefer them for my bedsport. I prefer them as my lovers. I even prefer them as my partners, whatever the gossip about your darling Sherlock there might claim."
As she speaks, Sherlock's face goes redder, something which doesn't surprise Molly. She's sure her own can match it. She's heard of such things whispered but she's never had them confirmed by anyone- Much less proudly proclaimed like they're nothing to be ashamed of, which is what Miss Adler is doing here.
And yet, Molly supposes she can understand a little, if Adler is speaking of a, a lover rather than a mere friend or companion. To have watched someone she cared about treated in so cavalier a fashion by her husband as Lady Sophia alleges must have been difficult indeed. It occurs to Molly how she might react, were someone to mistreat Sherlock, and as she does she stiffens, her hand tightening on his-
He hisses in pain and instantly she steps away, dropping his hand and frowning.
Despite John's imprecations, he rises to his feet and goes to her. Takes both her hands in his and squeezes. "Are you terribly shocked?" he asks quietly and she shakes her head.
"I just don't like seeing you hurt, is all," she mutters. "What Miss Adler does on her own time is her own affair."
She sees it again, that frowning, unfocused look, as if he's utterly lost as to what he's supposed to do now- As if his mind has suddenly been drawn to a place from which he can't recall it. Emotion seems to do this to him and as she thinks this she can't help but feel a great swell of affection for him-
Molly's about to ask him if he's alright when there's a loud banging on the door.
They hear shouts, the thudding of loud footsteps on the stairs below- And then Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Force marches into the room, bold as brass, with a warrent for Miss Adler's arrest.
The fact that there's a dead body on the stairs really rather complicated matters, however...