"There are two things you should not discuss," Sherlock said once they were in the car, moving through the London traffic. "The circumstances that led her to work for me and her divorce."
John gave him a surprised look and nodded. Whilst Sherlock suspected that John had enough tact not to broach either subject, one never knew with fans. Irene's retirement from the stage had been fairly quiet because he had ensured it be so. It had cost quite a bit of money and required Cheryl's specialised skills more than once. It had also involved some serious negotiation with Jim in the form of holding his two most valuable Irish lieutenants hostage for nearly two weeks and routinely sending him updates and photographs of their condition until he acquiesced to the demands.
Her divorce, on the other hand, had been irritatingly highly publicised. It had come just over a year after she'd begun working for him. Sherlock had hoped that she'd have been safely out of the spotlight by then, but the tabloids still adored her even now.
"Of course," John agreed and Sherlock smiled. He supposed he should have requested that John wear one of his new suits, although – surprisingly – he preferred the doctor in his typical jumpers. The suits looked stunning on him, of course. Anything Pierre made looked stunning. But there was something so quintessentially John about the way the doctor was dressed today, in a knitted off-white jumper and a pair of smart black jeans. He'd made a stab at formality with a pair of muted black leather dress shoes. On anyone else, Sherlock might have found the combination odd. On John, it worked.
He smiled to himself; he always did appreciate when people looked good.
When they pulled up in front of 51 Buckingham Gate, Sherlock grinned at the expression on his doctor's face. It was so rare for him to see that pleasantly shocked look anymore. He could recall a time when Gabriel had worn it often, but those days were long past and his young associate had adjusted to the finer things in life. Others close to Sherlock – Charles, Irene – had lived with luxury all their lives and had never considered it out of the ordinary. Nor had Sherlock, of course, but he did enjoy seeing the appreciation in other people.
They were admitted to the suite via its private entrance by Irene's valet, Alexander, who greeted them with a respectful nod and led them into the sitting room before offering them tea. Sherlock accepted as a matter of course but noted that John seemed surprised to be waited on. Sherlock tried to imagine Irene making tea herself for her guests and he found the image made the edges of lips twitch into a smile.
Alexander served them tea with cucumber sandwiches and small pastries. John thanked the man and received a flicker of a smile in return and a brief nod. The valet had worked for Irene as long as Sherlock had known her and rarely spoke, but his body language and attitude suggested contentment with his job and he was fiercely loyal to the woman whom he served.
Sherlock nodded a thanks to the younger man as well and sipped his tea. Irene would make him wait, but not out of any sort of contrariness or indolence. He'd known her to be ready in under five minutes when she was really needed.
He watched John taking in the room with obvious wonder. It reminded him of David's expression on Christmas morning at the Buckinghamshire house. It was fascinating that a thirty-eight year old man could have the same awestruck expression as a five year old boy. On anyone else, it would have looked childish. On John, it looked sincere and appreciative.
He heard a faint noise from down the corridor in the three-bedroom suite and pushed himself easily to his feet, straightening his jacket. Cued by his movement, John stood as well. A moment later, Irene glided in and smiled warmly at him, her dark blue eyes lighting up.
"Sherlock," she greeted and he stepped toward her, exchanging light kisses against each cheek.
"Irene," he replied. "May I say that you look absolutely stunning?"
Her smile deepened and he could see the glow of appreciation in her eyes; she did enjoy compliments about her appearance. He wasn't one to begrudge her that vanity – he was more than guilty about being proud of his own looks and of knowing that he was particularly attractive.
"You do know what I like to hear," she said with a wry twitch of her lips. Sherlock grinned, kissing her cheek lightly again before turning to John, who had fallen back on his military training to deal with his astonishment. He was standing straight, his shoulders squared, his bearing confident without being stiff or taut.
"Irene, I would like you to meet Doctor John Watson, recently returned to London from service in Her Majesty's forces in Afghanistan. John, Ms. Irene Adler."
Given her attire, Irene clearly hadn't been expecting unknown company; her pink silk kimono was wrapped loosely, her auburn hair was piled on her head. Wisps of fallen hair framed her face. But she took in her visitor's presence with aplomb and stepped forward to shake his hand.
Sherlock caught a moment of stunned hesitation from John but he recovered quickly so that the slight was barely noticeable.
"Doctor Watson, such a pleasure to meet you. I do so love a man in uniform."
At this, John grinned.
"If I'd known that, ma'am, I would have dressed appropriately."
Irene folded her arms loosely, her slender fingers resting on her biceps, tanned skin against dark silk. She sent an amused glance Sherlock's way.
"Sherlock is usually so diligent about ensuring proper dress for any situation," she murmured.
"Yes," John agreed with a smile in his voice. "He is."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and Irene's smile widened. He sighed, shaking his head.
"I trust everything here is to your satisfaction?" he asked.
"For now," Irene replied. "Although the flight from Dublin was as tedious as it always is. I so much prefer the civility of travelling by train." She paused for small dramatic sigh. "Fewer crying babies or screaming children, fewer travellers who cannot figure out the simplest of regulations. Really, you need a company jet, Sherlock."
"So you always tell me," he murmured. "I did arrange for Mycroft's jet to fly you home. It was unavoidably in use today. No amount of coffee import restrictions could change that."
Irene's eyes glinted mischievously.
"Yes, I did hear about that," she commented. "How is your beloved brother?"
"Mycroft is Mycroft," Sherlock replied shortly. "He will always be Mycroft."
He completely ignored John rolling his eyes but Irene caught it and arched a perfectly shaped brow at the doctor.
"Have you have the pleasure of meeting Mycroft Holmes, Doctor?"
John hesitated a moment.
"Call me John, please," he replied. "And yes, I suppose you could say I have had that pleasure."
At this, Sherlock grinned. It was a dubious pleasure indeed. He made a mental note to introduce John to Sibyl – his mother was a far more likeable person and he strongly suspected she would like John. John would like her, of course; Sherlock could not actually remember meeting anyone who disliked his mother.
"You sent your new doctor to deal with your brother, Sherlock?" Irene asked, tsking disapprovingly. "A weighty assignment for so new an employee."
Sherlock shook his head.
"In Gabriel's absence, I have been dealing with Mycroft," he said and Irene raised both of her eyebrows in surprise at this. "John was simply there when Angela needed to meet with me. Mycroft found it necessary to accompany her."
Irene sighed and looked back at John.
"Mycroft and Angela at the same time? It's just as well that you are a former soldier, John. On their own, they are formidable people. Together?" She gave a light shrug and Sherlock repressed a roll of his eyes. Irene was no less intimidating than his brother or sister-in-law. Most of Sherlock's irritation with Mycroft stemmed from the overbearing attitude of an older brother. He strongly suspected that, had he been saddled with Irene Adler as a sibling, he would have felt the same way.
"They were both very pleasant to me," John said.
Irene smiled knowingly at him.
"Very diplomatic, Doctor," she said. "I imagine years listening to the instructions and opinions from superior officers has taught you quite a bit about tact."
John said nothing but gave her a blandly pleasant smile and Sherlock twitched his eyebrows up. The doctor was a better actor than he had previously believed. Irene was right: he would be accustomed to smoothing over his thoughts regarding his orders. Sherlock frowned slightly at this realisation, then decided he was far more adept at reading body language than any military office. He had not missed anything significant about John's behaviour.
"And I see you are taking his education very seriously," Irene commented, turning her gaze to Sherlock. He gave a slight noncommittal shrug. John would not replace Gabriel – that would take far too long and be entirely pointless – but it was beneficial for him to have some idea of what Sherlock's business entailed. It made it easier for him to anticipate what sort of patients he would have.
"I do hope you're not implying that you're part of John's education," he commented and Irene raised her eyebrows. "This is not a business visit for him. John is a fan of your work."
Irene's expression softened back into a genuine smile and she returned her gaze to John, who was actually blushing slightly.
"Oh, that is lovely," she said. "It is always wonderful to meet a fan."
Sherlock knew that wasn't entirely true; she certainly didn't enjoy meeting the ones who pestered her and asked incessant questions. She enjoyed meeting the ones like John, who could maintain dignity.
"He had the opportunity to see you perform live before you retired. An experience I am sorely lacking, I should point out."
Irene flashed him an amused look.
"Private performances are not enough, Sherlock?" she asked and he smirked at her. She returned her gaze to John. "Do you remember the show?"
"Of course I do," John replied in surprise. "The Tsarina's Slippers."
Irene's face lit up completely, transforming her from merely stunning to utterly radiant. John's eyes widened somewhat but Sherlock smiled. The doctor could not have given a better answer.
"That was my favourite," Irene said. "Such a wonderful, amazing cast. I've never worked with a better company in my life. Please tell me you saw us on an evening when I was performing with David Mackett."
John nodded, still looking stunned.
"Yes," he said, and Irene's smile grew more.
"He was brilliant. Oh, I'm delighted you remember that and that you saw him as well. He is one of the most talented singers I've ever worked with and an entirely enchanting person. His understudy was amazing, of course, but David – there's no comparison. I do miss him. I hope you enjoyed it."
John's eyes widened again.
"Of course I did," he said. "It was… phenomenal. That was the first time I'd ever been to a piece of proper theatre – I mean, something that wasn't a local performance or a school play or something."
"You are lucky here in London," Irene said. "So many opportunities. It's what brought me from Ireland in the first place."
John grinned.
"Lucky for us," he amended and Irene looked pleased. The sound of Sherlock's phone was momentarily startling, a small electronic trill interrupting the flow of conversation. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, sparing a quick glance at the number.
"Excuse me," he said and Irene nodded, unconcerned. She waved John into a chair as Sherlock strode down the hallway and into one of the two empty bedrooms in the suite. He could hear the sound of them chatting from the sitting room but he was far enough that they would not hear him if he kept his voice low.
"Un moment," he said and settled into one of the wingback chairs near the windows. "Yes, Charles?"
The familiar French voice overlaid the background murmur of two English voices, one of them tinted by a faint Dublin accent. Sherlock focussed his attention on what Charles was saying, nodding along to himself as his French lieutenant spoke. To anyone listening – and Sherlock was always aware of the possibility that Jim was listening – it was a rather dull report about finishing with the lawyers regarding buying a piece of disputed property from the French government. He could hear the genuine relief in Charles' voice. He had no more enjoyed dealing with the lawyers than Sherlock had. Less, probably, since he'd had to meet with them far more frequently.
But there were one or two mentions of Greece, oblique and indirect, worked into the conversation in such a way that they seemed to belong there. There was a mention of property in Lyon, too. Sherlock filed this all away for future reference; Charles would fill him in fully when he arrived on Monday. There hadn't been enough time for anything significant to occur, but Agent St. Jean was making some progress.
He was glad he hadn't been wrong about her. She was going to be extremely useful. And most likely problematic in her own way, but her contributions would outweigh any inconveniences. She was an intelligent woman. She knew when she could not win.
"Thank you," Sherlock said when Charles had finished with his report. "Excellent work."
Charles gave a small, dry chuckle that came through the phone as little more than a huff. Sherlock leaned his head back slightly against the chair and felt a smile twitching on his lips.
"I will see you Monday," Charles said.
"Yes, you will," Sherlock agreed. He rung off and sat in silence for a moment before John and Irene's voices drifted back in. He heard Irene's low laughter combined with John's chuckle and the smile twitched back onto his lips.
He closed his eyes, feeling oddly lightheaded for a moment. Turning his attention inward and examining himself, he could find no indications that he was getting ill. He almost never became ill – staying healthy was really just a case of mind over matter. There were no unexplained aches in his muscles, no warning soreness in his throat, no telltale headache.
He wrote it off as not having eaten yet and pushed himself back to his feet. He sat in the silence of the guest bedroom for several minutes, letting John and Irene enjoy their conversation. He was reluctant to pull John from something from which he was obviously taking pleasure.
Eventually he returned to the living room to collect John; he still had work to complete, after all. John looked happy to have had the opportunity to meet one of his idols more than he looked disappointed by the prospect of leaving. Irene bid them each a warm good-bye and Alexander saw them out the door. John was still grinning brightly, his brown eyes gleaming, when they got into the waiting car and pulled away from the hotel.
A/N: I took some artistic liberties with the performance of "The Tsarina's Slippers". It wasn't actually performed in the UK until 2004 but I imagine John went to see it in the late 90s (1998 or 1999). Of course, the 2004 performance wasn't starring Irene Adler... ;)
The kimono Irene is wearing can be found here: tiny. cc/ idher (only I imagine it in darker pink).
