Weighing Options

Sherlock did indeed return the next day, though it was around seven at night and he was practically buzzing with excitement. His coat was haphazardly thrown onto the coat tree and he nearly ran over Pan, who eagerly followed him around, hoping for a pat on the had or a scratch behind the ears. Irene was curled up in an armchair cradling a glass of wine and reading something bound in leather. A blanket was spread over her legs and he rushed up, pressing a kiss to her surprised mouth.

"Sherlock?"

"I've got it!" He declared before rushing up the stairs, leaving Irene shocked in her chair. He hadn't shown the faintest hint of romantic or sexual attraction physically since Toby's conception and now this? Taking a few deep slow breaths and then finishing off her wine, she leaned back against the chair and set down the Agatha Christie story she was reading on the side table next to her empty glass. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she sighed and rested her forehead on her blanketed knees. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stifle her affection for him, and this unexpected sign of returned sentiment was only going to make it worse.

Lily heard his thunderous feet on the stairs and sighed as Toby sat up and blinked at her. It was a moment later that Sherlock burst into the room, lifted Toby from bed, and spun him around.

"You are brilliant," he told his son. "You reminded me of that last piece you brilliant boy. Daddy's solved the case!"

Handing his son back to Lily, he dashed out and back down the stairs. She could hear the front door slam shut as he called something to Irene about checking a few things under the microscope in his flat just to be sure.

Toby, now wide awake and curious, pointed at the door.

"Daddy's gone back to his house. We'll ring him in the morning all right?"

Toby pouted and looked up at her.

"I know darling. How about I tell you one more story and then we try for sleep again?"

Toby stuck his thumb in his mouth and nodded. Taking a breath, Lily set him back in his bed and tucked the blanket around him before sitting beside him and beginning her story.

"Once upon a time, there was a little prince. He lived on a very large planet but he was always surrounded by a hundred thousand people who didn't speak the same language as he did. So the little prince did something very brave and tried to understand the other people..."

Lily brought the bottle of wine and a second glass into the sitting room where Irene was curled up in the chair still, forehead on her knees. She poured herself a small amount into the bottom of the glass and then filled Irene's about halfway.

"I know it's not my place, but what did he do down here to make you drain that glass so quickly?"

Irene's head raised up and her eyes flashed at Lily.

"You're right. It's not your place."

Lily held up her hands, one with a wineglass, one with a bottle, in surrender.

"I thought you might want to talk to someone."

"I could use Kate right now," Irene muttered, picking up the glass and sipping from it.

"Kate?"

"She used to work for me. Before Toby. Before Sherlock even."

Irene's gaze became wistful.

"I had no idea that all of this would happen. I was one of the least naive people I knew and I still never thought something like this would happen. I planned on working the way I was until I decided to go elsewhere. I liked having my fingers in all the pies and knowing how to play any key on the grand piano. God, I wish Kate was here."

"Why not phone her?"

Irene's gaze hardened.

"She's dead."

Lily licked her lips and nodded.

"I'll be in my room then. I assume you're staying the night?"

Irene nodded absentmindedly as Lily disappeared into the kitchen.

After leaving Irene and looking in on Toby, Lily climbed the stairs to the top floor of the house. Half of it was an open rooftop surrounded by a waist-high wall and green things sprouted from pots of many shapes and sizes. Roses grew on a trellis near the door, herbs along one wall and an enormous archway-style trellis created a short tunnel under which there was a bench and even more plants. Lily had spent nearly a year at the house with Toby and on her days off, her free time, the hours in the evening after Toby was asleep or the occasional early morning, she had created her own sanctuary on the roof of green things, flowers in pots and on trellises, in makeshift containers, in anything that would hold earth and allow things to grow. It was autumn and it seemed the last warm day had been the one when Toby fell ill and had to be taken to the hospital. It wasn't raining, but the breeze hinted of one soon to come as Lily wondered when the first frost would come and erase her autumn blossoms. The chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies were bright and colorful against the gray sky; a few salvias and calla lilies near the arching trellis seemed to be reaching upwards, hoping to live a few weeks longer.

It was only after a little while out with her flowers and the occasional trace of soft moonlight from a break in the cloud cover, that Lily went back inside, carefully bolted the door, and retreated to her room. Down the hall she could hear Irene's shower water and Pan's nails clicking down the hall towards her room. Patting his head, she lifted him onto the bed and switched off the light, laying down and closing her eyes.

The news announced that both doctors had been found and Sherlock sat on the bed, face in his hands, silent and unmoving.

"Sherlock?"

"Not now Ms. Adler."

So they were back to surnames. Fantastic. She sat beside him and waited. It was a long wait, but part of her job had been timing and she could sit and wait as long as it took.

It ended up taking two hours before his head rose from his hands and when it did, he was looking at her.

"I have reorganized."

"Reorganized what?"

"My mind. John is alive. You are...different. I am also different. These sorts of things need to be cataloged."

It was times like these that she just wanted to pin him down and snog him senseless until the logic fell away and she found the part of him that had kissed her in the shower and had leaned against her warmth all night long, the part of him who had let go and kissed her with passion and feeling that many would claim was impossible for the stony Sherlock Holmes.

"Why do they need to be cataloged?"

He looked at her like she was an idiot.

"Organized minds are important. Maximum data storage and ease of access are key."

Sighing, she nodded.

"So what are you going to do now?"

He glanced at her.

"There are a few members of Moriarty's network that I need to take care of before I can return home."

"So you're going to do that how?"

Swallowing, he forced himself to meet her gaze.

"With your help, Ms. Adler. If you permit it."

Her grin was wicked and she rested a gentle hand on his thigh.

"Tell me what the plan is and I'll tell you if I permit it or not."

"We'll be starting in Moscow."

Standing, she walked to the wardrobe, and Sherlock began to smile despite himself.

"Shall I take that as an acceptance?"

She flashed him a smile over her shoulder.

"I can hardly let you storm Moscow alone. I happen to know a few people of import."

Within four hours they were on a plane under false names and disguised carefully. She was a dusty brunette hidden in a bag-like dress and nurse's shoes, her face hidden by plastic spectacles and he a pale blonde with tweed trousers and fraying braces. They spoke soft, Yorkshire-accented English to each other about dull topics such as the weather and the health of various elderly relatives.

The first night in Russia, they shared the last room in a tourist-trap hotel and woke up to silently check out and lose themselves in the crowds, bags abandoned and disguises altered slightly. Their second night they spent disguised as a rich woman and her lover, their hair colored differently and his manner changed to one of an eager-to-please young man. When the tracked down Moriarty's contact, Sherlock arranged for him to disappear and the same evening he vanished, the pair found themselves in bed together, kissing passionately as Irene's hands curled tightly in his hair and his clutched at her back.

In the morning, they did not speak of it. And when the same thing occurred upon the capture and elimination of the next member of the web, they again did not speak of it. The time after that, Irene rolled over the next morning and remarked,

"Whenever you're ready, we can go further."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

"I'll make a note of it," he said hoarsely.

As time passed, the snog sessions became more frequent and with them came a strange truce. The pair of them still tried to one-up each other, outsmart each other, keep each other on their toes. However, when Sherlock was double-crossed by an informant and ended up with a mild concussion and a graze wound from a bullet, he allowed Irene to see his weakness and to help him. When she broke her wrist diving for a gun, he sat with her to get it set and helped her wash her hair until the hairline fracture had healed. By the time the last member of the web was being located, Sherlock felt a strange anticipation.

"Where is she then?" Irene asked, looking at the computer screen over his shoulder. "We've been to nearly every continent now."

"Canada."

"Canada?"

"Manitoba to be specific."

"That's an entire province."

"I'm narrowing it down."

"And she's the last?"

Sherlock nodded.

"The web will be unraveled. I can return to London and you...it's still not safe for you there."

Frowning a little, she shook her head at him.

"No, I suppose it's not."

"We could construct a new identity for you."

"You already have. The moment I came to speak to you in London, your brother would know. I'd be found out."

She wanted there to be a way. She wanted so desperately to be able to follow him, to attempt to build upon the shaky footing that they had stood upon these months, between hotel rooms and airplanes and ships, between shared beds, the occasional shared shower, the helping hand and the eyes that covered each other' backs in times of danger. She wanted to let him open up, to watch his guard lower over time, more than it already had. She wanted to lower her own protections and to trust him enough to know he wouldn't tear her to pieces all over again. She wanted it more than anything. However, she knew better. She knew Mycroft Holmes's protectiveness over his brother and she knew Sherlock's tendency to shy away from anything that could be considered sentiment. She knew that no matter how much she wanted it, it could not be.

"When is our flight?"

He glanced at the computer screen, then Irene, sitting on the bed, hair wet from her shower, clad in a long jumper and her knickers. She yawned at him.

"I was planning on flying out on the afternoon flight so you could catch up on sleep."

She smirked, amused, as she pulled the blankets over herself.

"And what, you'll stay up all night?"

"It's not as though I'm unaccustomed to it."

"I want my genius well-rested if we're taking down the final piece in the puzzle. If she knows that the other members of Moriarty's network are gone, she'll be more defensive and difficult to take down."

He nodded slowly, accepting her logic.

"I'm sure your presumption has nothing at all to do with the fact that you're accustomed to a bit of intimacy before bed?"

Sultry, she raised an eyebrow.

"Why don't you come over here and determine that for yourself?"

Giving the laptop screen a last glance, he shut it and unbuttoned his shirt, climbing into the bed beside her. He was only halfway done with the buttons when she pulled him down to her level. Accustomed to what Irene liked, he met her lips as she pulled him to her. He was still a beginner in the fine art of snogging, but he was a fairly quick study. He could feel her fingers undoing the final buttons of his shirt. Perhaps they could go further. Perhaps when it was all over and he wouldn't have to worry about the change in dynamics which would undoubtedly occur if he succumbed to his desire to let her teach him the delicate dance that was sex. Perhaps.

Lily heard Toby faintly down the hall at some absurd hour of the morning, but after waiting to see if he would go back to sleep, she found that he was once again quiet and she allowed her eyes to close. She got up late morning, shocked that Toby had allowed her to sleep this late. It was only after she found his crib empty that she began to worry.

"Irene's here, she probably took him out in the garden," she muttered to herself. But when she and Pan went downstairs, they found Sherlock sitting next to his son on the couch, speaking more slowly than usual as he explained the case he was working on. Lily smiled as she made her way to the kitchen where Irene sat in the breakfast nook sipping tea, her hair messily pulled back into a loose bun and wearing a robe. In front of her was a newspaper.

"Sleep well?" Lily asked as she began fixing herself tea.

Irene nodded absentmindedly and turned the page.

"Anything interesting?"

"There's been a robbery and I'm trying to work out how they got away with it. Sherlock's going to give me the clues he gathered after breakfast; I want to see if I can solve it."

"At this rate, Toby will be a detective before he decides to speak regularly."

"And there is nothing wrong with that."

"As long as he gets to be a child."

Irene looked at her sharply.

"We would never neglect to give Toby a childhood."

"I didn't mean—sorry. I'm not quite awake yet."

Irene nodded in response and went back to her paper. Whistling for Pan, Lily put her spoon on the sideboard, grabbed a pear from the basket of fruit on the table and went out into the garden to finish breakfast before realizing that it was beginning to drizzle and asking whether or not Irene and Sherlock were planning on staying with Toby for awhile. Once Irene affirmed that she would stay even if Sherlock got called away, Lily dressed herself, collected Pan's leash and pulled on a jacket and wellies.

Popping in to plant a kiss on Toby's head before she headed out, Lily smiled at Sherlock and her charge.

"Be back in an hour or so, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and returned to telling Toby of his case as Lily slipped out the door.

Iris's Gardening was the only small business gardening shop Lily knew but she loved it. Iris, a sweet older woman who was built very much like how Lily imagined a gnome, knew Lily by now because she stopped in at least once a week and whenever she brought Toby in his pram, Iris would dote on him. Other than Iris, there were three employees—George, the handyman who drove the truck, did repairs, and carried boxes, Iris's daughter Anne who helped with running the cash register and doing the paperwork, and Randy, whose job consisted of sweeping up, restocking smaller items, and running the cash register when Anne wasn't there. All of them were pleasant and usually had a moment or two to chat.

Lily and Iris chatted for a bit and exchanged news about their respective autumn blooms. Lily bought some compost to put over her plants and a packet of lemon balm seeds for the kitchen window herb garden he was cobbling together. As usual, Randy rang up her items and sent her on her way with a token from Iris, this time a little packet of herbs that made a tea Iris swore cured every headache she'd ever had. She was accustomed to receiving a packet of herbs or a few seeds from a dead plant or a clipped recipe that Iris thought she might like.

After Iris's, Lily petered around for a bit, stopping into a few shops, buying a pasty from the store, sharing it with Pan as they watched the pigeons flutter about looking for scraps. It wasn't often that she got much time off from Toby, and though she did love him, the peacefulness of a walk in the rain with her dog and her thoughts for company was a blessing. Only when Pan began to look waterlogged did the pair of them return to the house where Toby and his parents sat in the sitting room, Toby on his mother's lap as she tried to solve the case Sherlock had already solved. Three pairs of eyes sparkled and Lily slipped past them and up the stairs to dry off Pan and take a quick shower.