She is a walking reed.
Her long brown hair is like a cloak around her skeletal frame, and people wonder how she manages to stay upright when she walks. The schoolgirls think she is ugly. Her face is bony, her cheeks hollow, and her lips thin as a needle.
Mummy is dead.
She can't get the images of her dead body on the floor or those unseeing, glossy, eyes out of her head.
She remembers everything.
School has been hard today. When she bounds through the front door, calling for mummy, she screams in horror at the scene before her. Daddy is here, too. He tells her to go upstairs.
"Mummy! Mummy wake up! Wake up! Please, mummy!"
The girl throws herself onto her mother's body, her tears falling onto the lifeless cheeks and her hands clutching the limp fingers. She screams for what seems to be hours, holding her mother's cold hands and begging God to save her only friend.
"Please, God! Please!" she whimpers. Her face is a human river: red cheeks, wet eyes, and runny nose. She sniffles ferociously, choking on her sobs.
"What's wrong with mummy?" she yells at her father, who is standing over the scene with clenched fists.
"She's dead," the man responds. At these words, the girl begins to sob harder, her heart is seemingly melting within her and flows in torrents from her eyes.
"Mummy, no! Mummy! Oh mummy, please, don't leave me! Don't leave me, mummy!"
"Go to your room, Irene."
"No, no! No!" she screams, kicking her arms and legs as the man cruelly wrenches the child from her mother's corpse. "What did you do to her? What have you done?" she hollers, tears rolling down her neck and drenching her chest as she tries in vain to assail her father with blows.
When he finally has her in the bedroom, he pins her down to her bed. She shatters his ears with her cries, and, at his wits end, he pommels the child with a blow from his fist. Her blue eyes shake and glimmer violently, tears standing on the lids' edges. Her lip is quivering with fear, and her cheek is already changing color. She gulps down her sobs, and she coughs as they stick in her throat.
"You close that mouth. Do you hear me? Not a word of any of this to anyone, do you understand me?"
She says nothing, does nothing, her limbs and face have been fossilized by his anger, and she wants to wail.
He raises his fist again and she cries out. He yells once more: "I said, do you understand me? Or I swear, I'll kill you, too. Do you hear me?"
The girl's nods are vigorous. The man lowers his fist, releases her, leaves her room, and locks the door. She lays there on the bed, and now that he is gone, she is left to sob to her heart's content. Burying her face in her pillow, she nearly drenches it through. She wears a nightgown to bed.
Where was Poirot now?
Where was God?
Now that Victoria Adler was dead, Edward Crowley has nothing holding him back from sending his pest of a daughter to boarding school. He had tried to convince Victoria to start a life with him apart from the child he never wanted, but she was too attached to the girl.
For three years, he had begged, argued, demanded that she come away with him, and all he had ever wanted was her love. But Irene.
He hated her for it. She wouldn't leave the child for him. He had told her to get rid of it in the first place, and if she had only listened…well, she wouldn't be dead.
And in the heat of their final argument, he had murdered Victoria. Strangled her. And it was all because of his illegitimate daughter Irene Crowley.
To hell with the child. He doesn't want two dead people on his hands, so he will send her to boarding school somewhere out of his sight.
And that is where she goes.
Her father is arrested for murder, but she never sees it happen, for she is far away at the school in Yorkshire. Her aunt becomes her guardian but has no intention of bringing the girl home. Especially not when she has three of her own to raise.
So Irene Crowley wears a school uniform, studies all day, and draws pictures under her covers by the light of a flashlight when everyone sleeps. Her Bible lies under her bed gathering dust; there seems to be no more of a reason to read it anymore.
The showers are her least favorite place. The girls laugh at her slim figure as she runs, wrapped in a towel, toward somewhere she can dress without scrutiny.
She wants to die.
And one morning, she thinks she almost can.
The showers are cold this morning. She sleeps in later than she normally does and finds nothing but stabbing, liquid ice falling from the showerhead with which to wash herself. Her long hair nearly touches the floor, and she stands on her tiptoes to reach for her towel. Somewhere near the door, she hears a click. To her horror, she finds the stall door cracked open.
That is when the laughing starts.
Eliza Munson, a girl not three years older than Irene, has about three other students behind her. There is a camera in Eliza's hand.
"Eliza, no! Please!" Irene screams, covering herself with her towel and lunging for the girl's hands. But Eliza is taller, holding the camera above the eight-year-old's head and laughing hysterically.
"Eliza, please don't! Please! I'm begging you, please!"
Eliza stops a moment and holds a finger to her mouth to hush her friends. Turning to Irene with mischief clouding her dull, grey eyes, she asks, "What did you say?"
Irene blinks back a few tears.
"I said 'please don't.'"
"No, after that…. Say it again."
Irene gulps. Clutching her towel around her, she says, "I'm begging you. Please. Please, Eliza!" She sniffles pathetically, and a few snickers follow from the girls.
But Eliza, pleased at Irene's frantic begging, turns with the camera in her hands and runs out of the showers with her friends, all of them laughing like a pack of hyenas as they go.
Two weeks later, nearly every girl in the school has seen the photographs of the new pupil, Irene Crowley: naked, shivering, and friendless during her morning shower.
"There she goes," every girl whispers, pointing to the little child every time she comes within eyesight. Irene lowers her head, runs like hell, and prays that no one will follow her. But Eliza's voice is louder than the rest.
"Irene!"
...
Boom.
Irene Adler woke suddenly, breathing as though she had just run a marathon. Her face was wet, and she found a few sobs still in her mouth.
"Oh my God," she whispered to herself, looking up at the ceiling of Sherlock's bedroom and trying to convince herself that she was awake in reality. But then…isn't a single dream sometimes more powerful than a thousand realities?
Because she remembered those days at the school: young, small, and alone.
And Eliza.
Oh, God. Eliza.
Eliza: the one who had poked her open sores with a stick for ten years. Those ten years had been hell. God knew things hadn't ended well.
She smirked at this, even as her blue eyes still glistened with tears.
Boom.
There was that noise again. What was it that had woken her? She wondered if Sherlock had jumped suddenly from the bed upstairs; the sound was reminiscent of the one that had woken her a few nights ago.
It sounded like a pack of frightened elephants were charging down the stairs, and the bedroom door burst open a few seconds later. In rushed Sherlock, wearing his long black coat and a suit underneath. His hair was a bit frazzled, but then again, it always kind of was that way.
"What's going on?" she asked, rubbing her face.
"We need to go. Now. Mycroft just called me; he's arranged somewhere for us to be in two hours. Get yourself ready; he's told us to look smart…" he broke off a moment, studying her face.
"Are—were—are you alright?"
"Yes, why?"
"No reason," he blurted.
He stared at her with a confused expression for a moment, she returning his gaze with neither a smile nor a frown.
"Am I allowed to ask where we're going?" she asked, getting out of the bed.
Sherlock grinned mischievously. "Afraid not."
…
"My brother called me this morning; urgent business. That's all I can say. It's something he's planned, apparently," Sherlock said, opening the door of the cab for Irene and getting in behind her.
"And am I not allowed to know what this business is?"
"No, neither am I, it would seem," he replied.
"Fair enough. we've had our share of secrets. Your brother can have his."
He smirked.
"The cabbie knows where to go?" she asked.
"Mycroft ordered him for us, so yes…he does."
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride's duration.
After Sherlock's request to "look smart," Irene had taken a decent amount of time in the bath. She didn't wash her hair for sake of speed, but she curled it and wore it down. Along with her favorite pair of Louboutins, she wore her white sheath dress. It had been a while since she'd worn it, but she felt it was both casual enough and smart enough for anything Mycroft had cooked up.
About ten minutes later, they arrived at a brick building on Harrow Road. Irene was confused. She'd passed this building millions of times, and she knew exactly what it was. And that realization startled her. It was one of the last places Irene had expected they would go.
"Mr. Holmes, is this…?" she asked, her voice dwindled into silence as she realized that Sherlock was ignoring her question. She listened closely as she noticed his mouth moving: he was muttering under his breath, "oh God, no, no, no, not today. Not today, Mycroft. No no no no…" And the no's descended into utter darkness.
He leapt out of the car and toward the door of 317 Harrow Road like a stiff board, Irene following close at his elbow. Mycroft and John were waiting out front for them both. John clasped Sherlock's hand and shook it hard.
"Follow me; I've already arranged everything with Doctor Watson," Mycroft droned. Sherlock's eyes widened at him, and he was about to say something, but Mycroft cocked his head and silenced his brother with a nauseating grimace.
So silently, Sherlock, John, and Irene followed the Ice Man into the building, and they were escorted into a relatively small room with only one window and a few chairs.
"Mycroft, if this is what I think it is, you—" Sherlock began, his breath scorching his brother's face. Mycroft closed his eyes as if bracing himself for the tsunami of the century. Nevertheless, the venomous look in his eye told Sherlock that it was high time to shut up. Sherlock began breathing heavily, refusing to take his eyes from his brother's. Mycroft pointed to two chairs in the front: "Sit down…now."
So Sherlock and Irene sat in the front, Mycroft and John behind them. Irene sat uncomfortably with her legs crossed. She was trying to act as calm as she could, but if today was what she thought it was, her nerves weren't ready for it. Sherlock seemed to be feeling the same, only it was internal. Indeed, his brain was a train wreck.
An old man entered the room, his eyes barely managing to peer over his horn-rimmed spectacles. He held a book in his hand and took his place at the front of the room behind a little speaking platform.
"Afternoon to you all," he said, his voice painfully monotone. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"As you are all aware, we are here today to celebrate the marriage of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler."
Irene's eyes bugged out: she was not aware.
Sherlock remained incredibly still. She nudged him with her arm, but he only looked forward, as though nothing remotely interesting was about to happen that would dramatically change either of their lives. She thought his eyes had fogged over with some deathlike film, but eventually the pupils moved a millimeter, and she was convinced that he was still alive.
"We're doing this today then, are we?" she whispered, turning to him playfully.
He inspected her with annoyance out of the corner of his eye.
"It wasn't my idea," he whispered, never once moving the position of his head.
She inhaled quietly.
"I could say no," she said, teasing.
"So could I."
"But you won't, will you? …I won't," she said after a brief pause.
"I know you won't," Sherlock replied, managing the smallest of grins.
"Oh dear God, I am becoming predictable, aren't I?"
She felt something suddenly pressed into her open palm, and John Watson closed her fingers around the object tightly. She opened her hand and found a man's wedding ring: Sherlock's ring. John winked at her as she turned to gawk at him. Of course, they had to present rings to each other. Leave it to Mycroft to go and buy their wedding rings for them. Mycroft had put a woman's ring into Sherlock's hand, and the detective was mouthing curses at his brother. Mycroft almost had the nerve to kick Sherlock's chair, but he maintained his noble dignity. Hissing at his brother to "shut up!" at barely above a whisper, he returned to his sitting position with a head held high.
The registrar continued after what seemed an endless time of shuffling papers around behind his desk: "On their behalf I would like to welcome our witnesses John Hamish Watson and Mycroft Christopher Carlton Holmes. I'm sure it means a great deal to the affianced that you can be here to share in their happiness on this occasion."
Mycroft was yawning. John stepped on his foot, forcing Mycroft to nod at the registrar and smile painfully. The doctor rolled his eyes.
"This place in which we are now met has been duly sanctioned, according to law, for the
celebration of marriages. You are here to witness the joining in matrimony of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler. If any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, he or she should declare it now."
Silence from every person in the room.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler," the man continued, "before you are joined in matrimony, I have to remind you of the solemn and binding character of the vows you are about to make. Marriage, according to the law of this country, is the union of two people, voluntarily entered into for life, to the exclusion of all others. The purpose of the marriage is that you may always love, care for, and support each other through all the joys and sorrows of life; and that love may be fulfilled in a relationship of permanent and continuing commitment."
Mycroft startled them as he silently slipped his head in between both of theirs and whispered into their ears: "The purpose of the marriage is that you may save England." Then he slipped creepily back into his chair, John nearly mauling his head off with angry glances.
Sherlock's ears were unbearably hot.
If only the registrar knew their reasoning for being "joined in matrimony." Irene tried not to laugh, and Sherlock seemed to understand her thoughts. But maybe there was something more to this than just the fate of England…maybe.
The registrar drawled on: "Today they wish to publicly affirm this commitment and offer each other the security that comes from legally binding vows, sincerely made and faithfully kept. Now I am going to ask each of you in turn to declare that you know of no lawful reason why you should not be married to each other."
Sherlock offered his arm to Irene, and she took it, both of them standing in unison. John Watson was trying not to die with excitement. Mycroft Holmes was trying not to…regurgitate? Was that the right word to use? He had been the one to orchestrate all this, and yet he was currently experiencing something like trauma as he watched the revolting scene take place before his very eyes.
The registrar looked over his glasses at Irene.
"Are you, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, free, lawfully, to marry William Sherlock Scott Holmes?" he asked.
Irene looked up at Sherlock—smug as ever—and without once taking her eyes off him, she answered the registrar's initial question with, "I am."
The old man turned to Sherlock and repeated the question.
"Are you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, free, lawfully, to marry Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler?"
Sherlock was trying to properly gulp down a strange, dusty lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, and after he had finally shoved it down, he replied (almost like a choke), "I am."
He had done it. He was doing it. Something he had sworn he would never do. He was going and…marrying himself off. Marrying himself off? Was that even a term people use? He turned around to briefly look at John and Mycroft. They were starkly different portraits.
The officer continued.
"Now the moment has come for Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Ms. Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler to contract their marriage before you, Mr. Mycroft Christopher Carlton Holmes and John Hamish Watson, their witnesses, family, and friends."
Irene and Sherlock stood facing one another, both of them looking into the other's face. John was now trying his very best not to squeal.
"Now we will present the rings. Mr. Holmes, please do repeat after me," he said. The registrar spoke the first sentence and nodded at Sherlock to repeat it. And he tried…with great difficulty.
"Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, as a token of my—" he broke off. The words were disobediently remaining in his mouth. He didn't know if he could say the rest. Was it even real? He attempted a second time.
"My—"
Irene looked at him. The registrar was looking at him. John was looking at him. Mycroft was looking at his emails.
Sherlock cleared his throat almost in slow motion, trying to bring the words up to his lips. This was more difficult than he had bargained for. He inhaled and swallowed. One more try.
"A token of my…my love…and…affection…and as a symbol of our commitment to each other."
The registrar officer cleared his throat with confused annoyance and had Sherlock repeat the next portion. The poor man did so as well as he could, but every other word made his heart either swell or shrivel inside him, and his lungs were collapsing as he struggled at each inhale. His voice sounded like a whisper coming from the throat of a suffocating man, but nevertheless, he persisted.
"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do take thee, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, to be my…my lawful wedded…" (he swallowed grimly and his eyes closed as if he was about to battle the entire British army) "my lawful wedded wife. I promise to…to love and to care for you…to honour and respect you…and share with you all that I have. May we look forward to our future together with hope and happiness and always remember the…the… ahem" (he cleared his throat yet again) "…the feelings we share for each other on this: our wedding day."
The officer was very confused.
Sherlock took Irene's little shaking pale hand and slipped the ring onto her ring finger. Then the registrar officer spoke to Irene, ordering her to repeat after him next. She was almost surprised at how difficult it was. She didn't stutter, but her insides were falling a thousand kilometers a minute down an icy hill.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes…I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, as a token of all my love and all my affection for you, and as a symbol of the commitment we are making to each other. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, do take thee, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my lawful wedded…my lawful wedded… husband. I promise…I promise that I will love you, and I will care for you. I will honour and respect you. I promise to share with you all that I have. May we look forward to our future together with hope and happiness and may we always remember the feelings that I know we both share for each other on this: our wedding day."
She almost winked at him when she mentioned the feelings "she knew they both share for each other." He was looking quite grim and pale. John wondered if he needed a good smacking to bring him back from wherever it was he had drifted off to.
She delicately slipped the ring onto his finger. As he looked into her face, he found himself desperately wanting to look away: she was wearing that innocent, coquettish grin and making his lip squirm as he tried his very best not to smile. Her eyes were flirting, and he couldn't stop himself from allowing a petite grin to break his tranquil mouth.
The officer continued.
"Now, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler and William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you have both made the declarations prescribed by law and have made your promises to one another in the presence of your witnesses here today. Let us hope that this day will form a special day in your lives to look upon with much love and happiness. It gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married."
At the last syllable of the man's words, Sherlock awkwardly hovered a few moments in front of Irene's face, timidly put his arms around her waist, and, like a feather gently falling to the ground, he delicately let his lips settle on her own. As ever she was, emotional Irene reached up to close her thin fingers around his lapels and pulled him in to intensify the kiss. She let one of her hands wander through his forest of black locks.
Mycroft Holmes, meanwhile, had since pulled himself out of his emails and was now having the greatest coughing spell England had ever seen. He he felt a sudden need to use the restroom and excused himself prematurely to John's utter disgust.
"I suppose this means I've been good then?" Irene asked, the two of them still within close proximity of the other and their noses nearly touching. She was still holding one of his lapels in her frightfully vicelike fingers, and he still had her enveloped in his arms.
"Don't get your hopes up," he quipped.
"Whyever not?" she asked, as he struggled trying to decide whether or not he should kiss her again. She noticed his dilemma and decided for him. He laughed as she did so.
John Watson was admiring with puppy eyes.
"Where has Mr. Mycroft Holmes gone?" asked the officer, startling Sherlock and Irene and interrupting them mid-kiss. They both looked at John for salvation. Neither of them had noticed how Mycroft had hurried from the room.
"He just went out to get some water; I'll get him," John replied, stalking off in haste.
"We still need witnesses for the signing of the register," the officer continued, addressing the couple. Irene slowly let go of Sherlock and he, a bit embarrassed at the officer's interruption, reluctantly put his hands behind his back.
Mycroft came out behind John a few moments later. The doctor was muttering rebukes and Mycroft was nodding and muttering dismissive comments.
"They've got to sign the bloody register."
"I know, Doctor Watson."
"Then what'd you storm off for, then?"
"Fit of coughing; didn't want to ruin the moment."
"Oh, fine…"
The register was signed. Mycroft and John watched on as two of the most complicated people that either of them had ever met signed themselves into marriage. Mycroft noticed, with some calm irritability, that Sherlock was hardly scowling. There went his chest again…feeling all…warm inside.
And as Sherlock set down the pen after the signing of the register, two things that Mycroft Holmes would never have deemed possible had actually occurred: the dominatrix had settled down to marry a man, and his brother had married a woman.