Announcement of Birth
On the 11th January, to Doctor John H. Watson and his wife Mary
– A beautiful daughter, Esme Grace.
Doctor and Mrs Watson would like to assure family and friends that the child is in perfect health and that a christening service will be announced imminently.
The winter weather was cold and unyielding as Sherlock Holmes made his way slowly down from the street corner into Cavendish Place. It had been snowing hard all night, but Watson's invitation had been very specific – come rain, shine, wind, blizzard or hailstorm, Holmes was to be at the family home at five o'clock on the dot, and woe betide him if he was not there.
The exact nature of the occasion had not been stated, but Holmes had his suspicions. It was early February, and Holmes had spent much of the last month and a half popping in and out of the Watsons' house in order to visit his newborn Goddaughter. His presence was always welcomed; indeed, Watson had more than once stated that he and Mary would have another baby far sooner if they'd thought it would bring Holmes from the shadow of his rooms as often as it had. Though he would never have said so, Holmes was really quite taken with little Esme, and he was secretly chuffed that his casual suggestion of a name for the baby was the one they decided to pick.
The seven months since the return from India had brought Holmes twelve minor cases and five lasting more than a month. It was unusual, Watson had thought, for Holmes to accept without question or encouragement every case which came his way. This was proof more than any that the detective was trying to keep himself permanently occupied, lest his mind wander into territory best forgotten.
Not thirty seconds before the dull clang of the bell in St Steven's Tower would signal five o'clock, Holmes leapt up the steps at the front of the house and knocked smartly on the door. Almost immediately, it swung open on its hinges and Doctor Watson stood in his midst – holding a pocket watch aloft, wearing a black jacket and an amused smile.
"You're early," he said.
Holmes smiled at his friend as he stepped through the doorframe and shook Watson by the hand. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the banister for safekeeping.
"Fashionably."
"Upstairs," Watson told him, taking to the first step with his friend right behind him. His leg had long-since healed, but he still limped occasionally. "I hope you're hungry..."
The second door to the right on the first floor of the Watsons' townhouse led to their oversized drawing room – once luxuriously furnished, though the mahogany fittings had dulled and polished floorboards covered over with carpeting for the benefit of toddling infants. Watson allowed Holmes a few seconds to make it level with him, and gave a two-handed push to the door.
It had been on the train to India all those months ago that the idea had come to Watson – the trick to throwing Holmes a birthday celebration he could not deduce and avoid was to hold it so far away from his birthday that the idea would never cross his mind. So once enough time had passed that he and Mary could think of anything besides their parental duties, they had put their heads together and begun to plan. Watson had been in charge of guests, and here he had struggled. Though Sherlock Holmes had many acquaintances and trusted connections, Watson was not keen to issue invitations to the collection of backstreet gypsy fortune tellers, vagrant city children and unstable tugboat captains whose names he had found on scraps of paper scattered around 221b, nor would he know how to go about tracking them down. Mary had had more success with catering - with the help of Mrs Hudson and the family's own cook Elizabeth, a fine spread had been laid on - sandwiches and rolls with a dozen different fillings, jam buns, sausages on sticks, an enormous sticky chocolate cake dusted with icing sugar and, of course, several bowls of black olives among other plates of delicious party treats. With food prepared and guests cordially invited, the Watsons had transformed their drawing room into a palace of streamers, bunting and paper chains; oh so beautiful, and identical to a scene straight out of Holmes' worst nightmare.
Plans had been laid out meticulously down to the last detail: Watson would answer the door to Holmes at five o'clock sharp, bringing him upstairs to the drawing room where he would be expecting to find Mary, Tilly, Rose and Esme waiting for him, followed by a magnificent supper. Instead, Mary, Tilly, Rose and Esme would be waiting with twenty five honoured guests, all gathered in the drawing room with the sole intention of wishing him, Sherlock Holmes, many happy returns. When the detective entered the room, a cry of 'Surprise' would goup, and thus would begin the party.
Doctor Watson was a realist, and he knew Holmes incredibly well; therefore realising that he would be suspicious of the invitation for supper, and that it would not take him long to work out what was afoot. In the event, as he pushed on the wood of the door and allowed the detective to pass through the door before him, it had never once occurred to Watson that the detective might actually be totally and completely surprised...
No sooner had the cry gone up and before he could fully take in the two-dozen beaming faces around him, Holmes' had jumped quite out of his skin; his revolver drawn from his pocket and three shots fired through the glass of the drawing room window. As screams rent the air, Watson made a grab for the weapon, only to have an elbow thrust in his face – a result of his friend's reflex reaction to panic.
"Holmes!" Watson clamped both hands over his face, blood dripping profusely from between his fingers. "Holmes for God's sake – you broke my dose!"
Holmes still held the revolver aloft, though it finally appeared to have dawned upon him that this was intended to be a pleasant surprise rather than an attack. He gazed around the room at the shell-shocked guests which included Mary of course (who was crouched to the ground with her body shielding her three children from the gunshots), and Mrs Hudson. There was little surprise on the face of the latter; she had, after all, been Holmes' landlady for many years.
Really, Holmes considered, Watson should have known better by now than to try and catch him by surprise. On the other hand, (and this Holmes considered a staggering feat) they had actually managed it! And that was worthy of congratulations indeed. It would be reward enough for their achievement if he played along...
And so, as the guests around the room (the majority being used to Holmes and his peculiar conduct) began to recover themselves, Holmes himself fixed a pleasant smile to his face and began to mill amongst them, shaking hands and accepting well-wishes.
Whilst Watson was excused to clean himself up, the party began. A string quartet struck up a lively tune and the guests crowded around the food table, helping themselves to the eatables as befitted the nature of a party.
"I take it you were surprised..." Holmes turned away from shaking hands with Mary's mother to find Watson waiting for him. "Many happy returns of the day, old chap." They shook hands, Holmes avoiding staring too long at the blood still seeping steadily from the doctor's swollen nose despite his best efforts with a handkerchief. "I'm to pass on a message from Mycroft, who would like to convey his apologies for not being here tonight – he's rather tied up at present."
Before Holmes could answer, a tall man with eyebrows several shades darker than his greying hair approached, and Watson waved him over.
"Holmes, this is Mr Graham Hudson. Mr Hudson, I don't believe you've been formally introduced – this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Delighted." Mr Graham Hudson offered Holmes a hand which he shook with a gracious inclination of the head. "Strange isn't it: years you have occupied residence at 221 Baker Street, and I have heard so much of you from my wife, but not once have I had the pleasure of your acquaintance!"
After he had exchanged a few words with Watson, Hudson moved off once more and Holmes (who of course had put two and two together) leaned in and spoke to Watson in an incredulous whisper.
"Mrs Hudson has a husband?"
"Yes, Holmes." Watson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Only Sherlock Holmes would not have thought of what Mrs Hudson's life was like outside of her duties as his landlady – as to whether or not she had children or how long she had been married."General consensus is that women holding the title of 'Mrs' come with a husband attached..."
At just after eight o'clock, when it was almost pitch dark outside and lamps had been lit so as to preserve the atmosphere inside the house, Watson sidled up alongside Mary. He had removed his jacket some hours ago, held a glass of brut vintage champagne in his hand and a small ball of cotton wool stuffed up each nostril in an attempt to stem the bleeding. The doctor wrapped his free arm around his wife's waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
"How are you?"
"Wonderful." Mary smiled and nodded towards the open fireplace. Several armchairs had been left out for the comfort of the guests, and in one sat Holmes, baby Esme on his knee. Though he held her like a bomb due to imminently explode, nobody could deny that the baby and the detective shared a bond and understanding like no other. Watson smiled to himself as he watched Holmes offer Esme his finger, and the baby grab a hold of it.
"I never thought he would be so good with her," Mary murmured, stifling a laugh as the baby hiccoughed and Holmes himself jumped, startled.
"He's full of surprises," Watson agreed. Whereas most people would mollycoddle and coo over such a small child, Holmes never spoke to Esme as such; instead he spoke to her as if she were an adult fully capable of understanding his language and mannerisms. Watson looked back to his wife with a smile. She was so beautiful like this, he thought, when the day was almost over and her hair beginning to fall out of its arrangement around cheeks flushed with fatigue.
"I love you..."
"I love you." Mary blushed becomingly, smiling and touching her husband's cheek.
Watson sighed and relaxed as he felt his wife's head come down to rest on his shoulder. He was perfectly content – he was amongst friends, he had a wife and children who loved him, and for once in his life Sherlock Holmes was behaving himself!
The doctor's sharp eye was caught by a young fair-haired maid – one of the dozen or so milling through the guests with covered silver trays laden with vol-au-vents. She wore the same demure pale grey dress, white apron and cap worn by the others, but Watson did not recognise her. That said, there was something strangely familiar about her; perhaps it was the way she walked, or the way her bright blue eyes blinked around at the guests, as though she were studying them each in turn.
"Mary," Watson said, tapping his wife's arm and indicating the young woman as she removed the lid from the tray and offered its contents to Mrs Hudson and her husband. "Who's the girl with the blonde hair? I don't recognise her..."
"Oh she responded to the advertisement Elizabeth sent out," Mary said matter-of-factly. "We were on the lookout for volunteer staffing for this evening, and Miss Campbell was one of the first."
Watson's eyes snapped wide open as he stared intently at Mary.
"What was that name?"
"Miss Campbell," Mary repeated. "Miss Delilah Beverley Campbell. She's an American, I believe; highly qualified. I shall be sorry to let her go once the evening's over..."
"Yes," Watson said slowly. "Yes, I expect her résumé was rather impressive..." He felt the hint of a wry smile gathering on his lips, and had to struggle to straighten his face. "Rather too impressive, even!"
Watson watched, pokerfaced, as Miss D. B Campbell approached Holmes' corner by the fireplace and offered him the tray. The detective glanced her way long enough to decline her offer of refreshment before looking back to the baby. Then, he looked back to the maid and stared intently, as if his brain did not believe what his eyes were seeing.
On cue, or so it seemed, Watson crossed the room to Holmes and held his arms out to take the baby from him.
"Give her to me, Holmes." Watson eyed his friend meaningfully. "Is there somewhere else you need to be..?"
Holmes did not answer; merely surrendered Esme to her father, stood up and looked to the door where Miss Campbell had just exited, holding her empty tray for refilling.
Quietly, and with a feeling in his gut which felt something like excitement, Holmes slipped through the now darkened corridors of the Watson's house, down a flight of stairs to the bottom hallway and through the door to the servant's quarters which would lead him to the kitchen. On the opposite side of the kitchen there was a large pantry concealed behind an oak door, and Holmes arrived in the room just in time to see the flash of grey fabric disappearing behind it before the door slammed shut and his view was obscured.
Holmes looked around him at the poorly lit kitchen, and at last saw what he had been looking for – a rusty key on the tabletop which would fit the lock on the pantry door. He snatched it up and approached the door, lifting the latch and slipping inside. Miss Campbell was bent over the table, arranging more vol-au-vents on her tray, but she froze as she heard the detective behind her clearing his throat for attention.
"I like what you've done with your hair," Holmes said, turning the key in the lock and dropping it into his waistcoat pocket. "Though I must confess, I prefer it darker..."
With a sigh, Miss Campbell pulled off the white cap and wig she wore, allowing her natural chocolate curls to spill out from underneath.
"Better?"
"Much." Holmes kept his distance, but allowed one corner of his mouth to come up in a sardonic half-smile. "Where was it this time? Paris? New York? Somewhere warm judging by the suntan..."
"Rome," said Irene, flopping down into one of the wooden chairs around the pantry table and propping her feet up onto another. "I'm exhausted – it's been a strenuous evening!"
"Your own doing, naturally," Holmes said, noticing there was a chair vacant next to Irene, and lowering himself onto it. "Why you seem incapable of knocking on my front door and announcing yourself is beyond me!"
"Oh, well I like to keep you guessing," she grinned, taking up one of the remaining jam buns from the platter on the table and biting into it. "I'd hate for my visits to become boring for you..."
"Boring, you say?" Holmes considered, smiling slightly. "Never."
Barely seconds more had passed before they had both surged forward in their chairs and had begun kissing, wrapped tightly in each other's arms...
The first time it happened, the circumstances were more coincidental than strictly planned out. It was mid-October and Holmes was at the Palace Hotel in Westminster accompanied by Inspector Lestrade and a number of his cronies, intent upon making the arrest which would procure another commendation for Lestrade, and a night of restful sleep for Holmes.
When the assailant (a Sherpa bellboy stationed on the fifth floor of the hotel) had been detained, Holmes was making his way back through the entrance hall to depart when his eye was caught by a figure in a pink ruffled dress being led to the elevator and thus, apparently, to her room. There was only one woman in the world who would step out in a dress like that; only one Holmes knew anyhow...
He had turned on his heel and sprinted up the corridor, to find the elevator had left without him. He took the stairs three at a time, pausing to conceal himself in an alcove around the corner from the elevator doors and peered around, unseen. The elevator was facing away from him, and he could only see the back of the figure as she exited the elevator and began to walk away from him down the corridor. Holmes breath hitched in his chest as the cogs of his mind began to whir. Was it her? It couldn't be, she was long gone. But what if it was? Well what if it was – she was nothing to him now; just a memory. But could he really pass up the opportunity? Of course he could. Would he? Grimly, Holmes knew then that he could not leave the hotel until he had found out.
Concentrating hard now, Holmes watched the figure as the concierge led her down the corridor of rooms. Which room would she go into? Holmes was at the wrong angle entirely to count doors, so instead he counted their footsteps as they moved away from the elevator. Twenty one. Once the figure had disappeared inside the room door and the concierge back in the elevator to make his descent, Holmes left his hiding place and drew level with the elevator. Then he began to walk at a smart pace down the corridor.
Twenty one paces left him level with the door of room number 17c. Holmes took a deep breath and sniffed the air. Parisian perfume. How typical. He was tempted to knock on the door until he realised Irene (if indeed it was Irene in the room, and of this he was fairly certain) would glance through the peephole, recognise him and refuse to answer. One thing was certain, and that was Irene would not take to his appearance kindly! Holmes needed another plan, and it was not long before one came to him. Silently, he backed away from door 17c and returned to the opposite end of the corridor.
Some two or three minutes later, Irene Adler heard a knock on the door of her hotel room and looked 'round. She was not expecting visitors. Who could it be? Irene peered through the peephole, sighing and pulling the door open when she saw it was a concierge clad in the customary red and gold uniform of all Palace Hotel employees.
"Can I help you with anything?" She asked.
"That depends," came the answer, "on how helpful you intend upon being!"
Before the colour had a chance to drain from Irene's cheeks, the 'concierge' had a foot in the doorway. It did not stop her from attempting to slam it, however, and Holmes (for it was he) yelped in pain as the heavy wood compacted his foot into the doorframe.
"You found me then." She left him to hop and limp in the doorway, returning into the room to begin unpacking her suitcase.
"That wasn't my intention..." Holmes made it into the room and discarded the red jacket he had stolen from the laundry room at the end of the corridor.
"If that wasn't your intention, then why are you here?"
"I might ask you the same question," Holmes said factiously. "I happen to live in London. You on the other hand..."
"I'm a busy woman, Sherlock," she sighed. "So why don't you save us both some time and just tell me straight up - What is it you want?"
"I was simply following a lead," Holmes explained with just a hint of malice. "Curious as I was to see if it was really you I had seen. Naturally I shall be departing imminently now my suspicions have been confirmed." He raised one eyebrow, never breaking her gaze. "Unless of course you have other plans..."
He was mocking her, she knew. And yet part of her still wondered whether or not once more could hurt. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied look from his face, and all at once knew exactly how she could do it. Holmes barely had time to react before he found his hands pinned ungraciously behind his back and Irene's whole body weight lifting him from his feet. They tumbled to the floor in a heap, and Holmes felt rather than saw her lean in to claim his lips.
And so it was that one chance meeting in room 17c of a London hotel led to a series of further liaisons between sleuth and seductress - once after they met 'by chance' in the Portobello market; once as Holmes was making his way back from an especially brutal night's boxing at the Punch Bowl; once more as a pressing case took Holmes to northern Somerset as he boarded a train; and so the list went on. Just the one time could have been construed as accidental. By the second and third time it happened, Holmes for one was unconvinced. After the third visit, Irene gave up making excuses for her appearances, having realised that the truth rang too loudly for any false reason to mask it. It was a scenario to suit them both – an ongoing tryst which could never be confused with a relationship. They did not fight or argue. They did not exchange compliments, pleasantries or words of affection because they were so apparent that there was no need to say them at all. Just what he was doing meddling once again with Irene Adler, setting himself up once again, Holmes was not entirely sure. All that he did know was that he never, ever wanted it to end.
An involuntary shiver down his spine brought Holmes back from his reminiscing with a bump. Irene had climbed onto his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist, and was kissing his neck. He loved it when Irene kissed his neck...
"Seven months and counting," Irene murmured, nipping at the skin behind Holmes' ear and delighting in the soft groan it produced. "How much longer do you want to keep this up, Sherlock?"
"I told you before," Holmes said, "I can hold out just as long as you can, Irene..." He let his hand wander up into her soft curls, breathing in her smell and knowing he was home.
"We'll see." Irene pressed herself into him so they sat chest-to-chest. "But what happens if you're right?"
"Mmhmm?"
"What will you do," Irene asked, "if I leave today..." She raked her nails painfully slowly down his chest, feeling the defined muscles through his shirt. "...and I never come back? You'll be at a totally loose-end!"
"That, I feel, will never be a problem, Miss Adler." Holmes' hands came down over her shoulders and back, pulling her lips down towards his.
"And why not?"
"Because you'll come back," Holmes said resolutely, staring the beautiful creature in his lap straight in the eye.
"This could be the last time," she teased. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because you'll miss me."
Irene broke into a huge smile as she leaned in to kiss him once more.
"Sadly," she said, "Yes..."
THE END
She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you
She can ask for the truth but she'll never believe you
And she'll take what you give her as long as it's free
Yes she steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.
Oh, she takes care of herself
She can wait if she wants
She's ahead of her time
Oh, and she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind.
She's frequently kind, and she's suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool
And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you
But she's always a woman to me
Billy Joel, She's Always a Woman
Author's Note: I'm really anxious about this...it's the final chapter so this is it guys! D: I just would like to say a huge, mahoosive THANK YOU to everybody who has followed, read and reviewed this story! The feedback I've had from you guys has been amazing - so much more than I could ever have hoped for, and I'm beyond jazzed that we made it to 400 reviews before the story's end! :D As always, reviews and comments concerning this final installment would be appreciated so very much..I'm desperate to know if it's up to scratch. Hope you all were happy with the ending - I couldn't bear to leave them alone...they're meant for each other in some way, even if a normal relationship is SO not the way to go! :L
As for the song lyrics at the end, if you don't already know the song, go listen to it now! It reflects Irene so well (in my humble opinion), and I've been listening to it so much when inspiration for Irene's dirty deeds runs low! ;)
It's been a journey guys...thanks so much for sharing it with me! :D M xxx
