Sherlock went back to his room to warn Irene and found her fully dressed, her hair twisted up into a messy bun and most of the river muck wiped from her skin. She was packing the little weekend bag she'd brought with her, shoving clothes into it with complete disregard for neatness.
"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked stupidly. He mentally cursed and tried again, "Where will you go?"
"Penny in the air," Irene sighed, clicking the bag closed and turning to smile crookedly at Sherlock. "Where do you think I'll go?"
It surprised him to realize he didn't know. "On the run, perhaps-"
Irene laughed and crossed the room, slipping her arms around his waist. "No, silly." She leaned up and kissed him softly. "You remember I once said to you that I loved James Moriarty? I lied." She dropped her voice to a whisper, her mouth brushing his ear as she spoke. "I love him still." She stepped back, her eyes flashing and her lips curled. "And now the penny drops."
And it did drop; plummeted, in fact. It was a suspicion Sherlock had been struggling with for days. Irene's little hunt for Moriarty amounted to nothing more than a wild goose chase. "Why?" he asked, knowing she'd get his meaning.
"For fun. Why else?" Irene clicked open a compact and examined herself, turning this way and that in the mirror. "James felt like playing a game." She looked at him from over the mirror. "It has been fun, hasn't it?"
Sherlock's mouth felt dry. "The memories-"
"Dear lord," Irene laughed, "you still don't get it. Sherlock, darling, those memories served exactly one purpose: getting you into the game. James doesn't want them." She shrugged. "Why should he? A man like that hardly needs to blackmail the Minister." Giggling, she looked back at the mirror and dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. "By the way, I've drugged you again. Slow-acting, this time, so you should start feeling the effects...about now, I imagine."
The dryness in his mouth had gotten worse, and his head was pounding. Sherlock blinked heavily. "You-"
Irene gave him a pitying look. She clicked the compact closed and crossed over to him, helping him down to the floor. "Shush now," she said sweetly, stroking his hair. He made to speak again and she pressed her finger to his lips. "No, no, shh, shh, shh." She touched his cheek, her eyes soft. "I have enjoyed this little game of ours," she admitted. "But all good things must come to an end, isn't that right? Sleep now, dearest. That's it." Gently, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Good bye, Sherlock. And sweet dreams." She stood. The sound of her heels was muffled by the fog that closed around him.
He slept.
X
He woke up to find John kneeling at his side. "He's awake," John said, glancing over his shoulder. Sherlock followed his gaze groggily and groaned at the sight of Mycroft standing in the middle of his room, an expression of clear distaste tugging at his features.
Mycroft didn't stop his scan of the bedroom as he stated dully, "I suppose Irene's absence means you let her get away."
Sherlock didn't answer. He looked up at John's face, instead, reading it like a book. John was still angry, although there was a flicker of relief behind his eyes.
Taking Sherlock's silence for what it was, Mycroft nodded to himself. "And one can presume she took the memories with her."
"One can presume incorrectly," Sherlock said, his voice rough. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. "The memories are in a safe place. You'll get them when I'm able to stand."
Mycroft raised his eyebrow delicately. "She didn't take the memories?"
Ignoring him, Sherlock looked at John, who- despite his anger- was still at Sherlock's side, watching Sherlock with the same expression he would no doubt wear whilst examining patients at St. Mungo's. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, surprising both John and himself. He cleared his throat, shot a look at Mycroft, and lowered his voice. "It was never a matter of trust, John. I just didn't want you to get hurt."
John searched his face and then nodded once, solemnly. "Apology accepted," he said with a hint of a smile. "But do me a favor, mate, and stop trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark." The hint of a smile turned into the real thing as he added, "If you haven't noticed, that usually leads to one or both of us being rendered unconscious."
They laughed together, the sort of laugh that Sherlock never shared with anyone who wasn't John.
Sighing impatiently, Mycroft made his way through the rummage and to the door. "I need to send a few owls. I'll be back in fifteen, and then you will take me to retrieve the memories." He didn't wait for a response but simply stepped out and clicked the door closed behind him.
John stood and helped Sherlock slowly to his feet. "So," he said awkwardly. "You and Irene."
"Inconsequential," Sherlock said quickly. "She was acting on Moriarty's orders." Before John could barrage him with pity, he asked, "And how're things with you and...whichever girl you're seeing now?"
"Jeanette," John laughed. "We broke up. Apparently she was tired of me writing to her about you." To Sherlock's confused expression, he explained, "You've been so distant lately...I had to talk to somebody."
"Ah." Sherlock rubbed at his hair sheepishly. "I am sorry, John. I presume this is the worst birthday you've had in quite some time."
John nodded, grinning. "Possibly the worst ever."
"Then let me make it up to you. After we're done with Mycroft, let's get dinner. I know a place..." He trailed off, uncomfortably aware of how socially stunted he was. "That is, if you're not still angry with me."
"I'm pretty much perpetually angry with you," John said, shaking his head and smiling. "You're the most infuriating person I've ever met. I'll still have dinner with you, though."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. "Good."
"But," John added, poking Sherlock in the arm, "you're paying. And you're singing 'Happy Birthday' to me."
"Absolutely not," Sherlock scoffed. Didn't stop him from envisioning the notes on his violin, though.
X
"I talked to Arcadia this morning in the common room," John said around a mouthful of beans. It was the morning before Christmas break, and Sherlock was spending it scanning the Prophet for signs of Moriarty.
"Mm," Sherlock responded absently. He took a sip of coffee.
"She said she's making great progress with that potion you gave her to work on." John dragged a piece of toast across his plate, scooping up the extra sauce. "Reckons she'll be done with it after break and ready to work on the counter-potion."
Sherlock licked his finger, turned the page. "How marvelous," he drawled.
Any stroppy remark from John was cut short by the sudden approach of an owl. It swooped in front of them, dropping a postcard on Sherlock's newspaper.
"Oi!" John grumbled, waving the bird away from his food. He scowled at it, then turned his attention to the postcard. "What's that?"
"Not sure." Sherlock picked it up. The picture on the front was of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. He turned it over and immediately recognized the handwriting. Irene.
Thinking of you, xoxo, it said. It wasn't signed. Beneath the words was the faint outline of a red kiss-print.
Sherlock turned the card back over and looked at the bridge, his brow furrowed. Then he folded the card and tucked it into his pocket. John had long since lost interest, busy as he was picking feathers out of his meal and pulling disgusted faces. Should he tell John about the postcard?
Holding a sopping feather between his forefinger and thumbed, John looked up at Sherlock. "So? What was it?"
"Old client," Sherlock lied. He smiled at John and took another long sip from his coffee. He'd never actually promised to start telling John the truth, had he? And some things were best left in the dark.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this foray into Sherlock's POV! The next book in this series is 'The Hounds of the Burrow', which I'm looking forward to immensely.