Author's note:

Sherlock is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

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Epilogue

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One year later…

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"Sherlock, you can't conduct Yard surveys at your leisure," John protested.

"I'll abstain if only the Yard knew to nominate the right people."

Lestrade rubbed his tired face. Here they go again.

They were on the trail of a City banker strongly suspected of being complicit in the murder of his mistress. At least Sherlock had come to this conclusion, with this speed and this tact of his own. And the only way to approach the damn banker was to take bait into his net. An agent with all possible recommendations had been sent on a mission to infiltrate, but Sherlock had immediately imposed veto as soon as she set foot in the office, causing muscular verbal exchange.

"Do you only pay attention to your target, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked learnedly. "Trader of the City, Victorian residence in Chelsea. Three-piece tailored suit, virgin wool shirt with back cuffs and cufflinks in brass, half Windsor knot tie, silk pouch, leather shoes. His car must be in his image, probably a Jaguar. Our man is rich, but he's not a show-off, or a gambler. He knows what he wants. This isn't the type to be seduced by his secretary or the first business student, the identity of his mistress confirms this. No offense to your skills, agent Scott, but you're definitely not his type of woman."

Agent Scott pursed her lips to the insult and Lestrade gave up to discuss. When Sherlock made this kind of demonstration, he had learned to be silent.

"Okay," he complied, "in this case, what's his type of woman?"

Sherlock leaned against the seat.

"Obvious, Lestrade. We need a woman who looks like him. Racy woman, elegant. Woman strong enough to resist him…"

The rest of the room waited for him to continue, but Sherlock had suddenly stopped.

"Sherlock?" John hesitated.

He had stopped in the middle of the description, as if a sudden idea had come to his mind.

"Oh…," he let escape.

Then he suddenly pulled out his mobile phone and, without paying attention to others, dialed a number. John had the feeling that he knew who he contacted. And the voice that answered only confirmed this impression.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Adler," Sherlock bowed.

Lestrade looked immediately at him with a long face. Irene Adler? He wasn't serious…

"What do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"I am currently with the Detective Inspector Lestrade, we're on a case, and I thought about your collaboration."

"Oh, you want to include me in your investigations? Very generous of you. Well, the thing can be done. When do you need me?"

"Honestly? Now."

He heard Irene suppress a laugh.

"I'm afraid I'm a little busy, dear… Down!"

The whip immediately slammed into the handset, a groan arose. Loud enough to be heard by all the other people in the room. Donovan's face twisted in both amazement and disgust.

"In what way would consist my collaboration?" Irene continued imperturbably.

"A simple infiltration. Shoeing a fish, if you prefer."

"I am now, you must have guessed, in the middle of an appointment. My collaboration should really be immediate?"

"Tie him up. Gag him if necessary. Your participation won't last more than two hours, just enough to get his attention. Then you'll restart where you left off."

"You really know the art of talking to women," John sighed, raising his eyebrows wearily.

"Isn't he?" Irene, who had heard, smiled.

She hesitated a moment, then agreed.

"That's OK. Give me time to prepare. Do I need underwear?"

"As you wish."

"Very well. I'll be in Mr. Lestrade office in half an hour."

Sherlock hung up without a word, and then looked up at the commissary whose expression varied between annoyance and bewilderment.

"You asked for my help," Sherlock argued without disassemble, "I bring you my help. You can still send the agent Scott if you feel like it, but I doubt that your suspect will be sensitive to her charms."

"Because you think he will be more receptive to those of your girlfriend?" The commissary hissed.

John had a smile at that. "Girlfriend" was certainly the less accurate term to define Irene's situation toward Sherlock.

After calving the first terrorist cell, Irene had acquired the status of a witness, with all the protection which it was responsible. So she had repatriated her life in London, and helped by an almost mother-in-law who had been informed by a very complaisant Mycroft, she had found for her and Misha a new home in Kensington, and took up again with the least compromising of her former clients. The case of Buckingham had been her lesson. Sherlock was remained at Baker Street, but they met regularly. It was the best compromise they could reach. As intimate as they may be, John doubted that they could take one day the initiative of settling under the same roof. Sherlock still had difficulties with Misha, but only time could fix it. However, he was careful to treat Irene obligingly.

So he had to keep facing the reflection of the commissary, giving him in reply a caustic smile.

"I'll let you be the judge of that," he quipped, reducing commissary into silence.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, closed the file in front of him and rubbed his eyes. Wait was now all they could do.

"How is Misha, otherwise?"

John had to restrain himself from laughing. Misha was doing very well, thank you, even if he had more tendency to look like his father. He recently won fame with his nurse pouring a mixture of glue and soap in her handbag, to "see what it was." Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at the news, saying that anyway, this handbag was hideous, and adding that it was unfortunate that Misha hadn't added a corrosive element to the mix. The little boy went into primary school next year, and John began to worry for his future classmates.

True to her promise and her terrifying punctuality, Irene came into Lestrade office thirty minutes later, brought by an agent who was obviously delighted. She greeted the round, dazzling mastery and sensuality in a black sheath dress. Commissary's jaws hushed when he saw her.

"Commissary, let me introduce you to Irene Adler," Sherlock introduced. "She also recently offered her services to MI6."

He didn't mention the kind of service, but with this endorsement, the commissary made no further comment. MI6 was worth all the CV of the world. Even Donovan had to hide her previously sceptical air, and Lestrade did what he could not to sigh before the half-lie of the consulting detective.

Irene walked into the room and unceremoniously took place in an armchair. Her elegance and superiority filled the whole room.

"Well," she said. "Mr. Holmes, I'll be required to ask you to be concise. I put my client locked up, but I wouldn't have to make him wait too long, the poor fellow suffers from claustrophobia. I promised him the cane if he was wise, but I would rather avoid incidents."

She said this as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Sherlock couldn't repress a smile. He promised them a grip woman, they had one under their eyes.

She crossed her legs, feeling the eyes of the commissary on her.

"Can you now tell me what do you want from me?" She asked.

Lestrade, who had hitherto remained silent, looked at his superior, seeking his verdict.

"Well, Lestrade," the commissary grew impatient, "tell her what her mission does involve!"

He looked at Sherlock with defeated shoulders. Sherlock looked at him with all the peace of the world. Irene looked at him calmly, waiting for details. The commissary looked at Irene. Commissioner Donovan looked at the commissary with disapproval. And John, arms crossed, looked at everyone, renouncing to show any reaction. Another case with the Yard…

Lestrade then decided to make a resume of the file.

"Survey for murder," he began then. "Our suspect is a trader of the City. Unfortunately, if we have strong presumption against him, we have nothing to charge him. The mission, basically, is to infiltrate his inner circle and open wide your eyes and ears."

"I see… Pillow talk?"

"We don't ask you to go so far."

"Oh, but it's an assumption that you have fully considered, Inspector Lestrade," Irene whispered.

She stood up.

"Well, I must hurry; I've got someone waiting for me."

She walked to the door, and Sherlock got up to follow her.

"Wait!" Lestrade stopped them. "At least take the time to know who you'll meet."

"It won't be necessary," Irene said, imperial, as she opened the office door. "I'll get myself my own opinion. Give the address to Mr. Holmes, who'll communicate it to me."

Then she left the office, nonchalant, Sherlock at her side. John looked away, hesitated, then grabbed his coat and left the office in turn.

He joined them, and they went away.

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Author's notes:

It's a strange feeling when a work ends. Especially when it's the first one. It's like a journey that ends after exploring an unknown country. We come back, head full of memories and emotions.

Thank you all. I enjoyed every week, every update, every comment, every subscription, every favorite. Thank you very much for your support, which has been very valuable.

I hope to see you at the next fanfiction. :)

Popaliloup

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