A/N: I apologise in advance for this chapter. I feel a bit like Steven Moffat, writing something like this. It's a long one, it was hard to write and equally hard to edit. It's a chapter that is difficult for me to put out to you lovely, devoted readers. I know many of you were anticipating something much different for this chapter, but I do hope you will still follow along, as I'm so pleased with where things are going.
The remainder of the story has been plotted. The climax is being drafted. Good news: I am almost finished writing this entire novel (can we call it that?). Chapter thirty-one is already complete, as is thirty-two.
Never fear: I will not be abandoning this fic.
That said, here's chapter thirty.
Enjoy :)
"Please just go in to see him."
Irene Crowley is staring at the wall, her back to the door. She pulls and twists her fingers angrily. She bites her lip with what seems to be an irrepressible hunger to draw blood. She feels her aunt's hand settle gently on her shoulder, compelling her to turn and follow.
"Don't make me, aunt," Irene replies, cracking her knuckles. She looks out of the open window at the meadow below: a mockery of the chaos in her head.
"He hasn't seen you in nearly twenty years, Irene. You need to see him. Please, dear girl. I'll go with you."
"I'm not a girl, aunt. I'm a woman. Don't touch me. If I want to go, then I will. Until then, just leave me alone."
"He doesn't have long—"
"I said," she stormily replies, turning to meet her aunt's gaze with fire in her icy blue eyes, "if I want to go, then I will. Now get out. I want to be alone."
"Irene—"
"Oh, for goodness sake, just get out! Why the hell did I even come?"
She nearly slams into the window as she bangs her hands down upon the sill. The salty sea air floating through is nauseating, even now. She hears aunt's footsteps retreating out of the room, closing the door behind her. Irene lets out a sigh that flies on the wings of her misery. Her eyes are watery against her will.
Alone in the sitting room, she paces back and forth between the window and the door.
She reads the new message from Kate that's just come in. It puts a lump in her stomach: "You've a session in two and a half hours."
She punches the reply "I know" into the text box, sending what she hopes will be the last message of the day. She has to be back in London in two hours; the client who waits will most likely get less than what she bargained for.
The Woman is desolate today.
A long, low, stomach-turning groan sounds from one of the rooms down the hall. It's taking him now, she thinks to herself. Hearing his voice in that tone makes a shudder fall out of her own mouth. Hearing his voice in that tone makes her remember the events of years gone by.
Mother's dead body.
His unbridled rage.
Her own black eyes and blue arms.
The decade of blackmail and literal hell that was Eliza Munson.
Those lonely years in Yorkshire.
Her lust for acceptance.
The insatiable cravings of the carnal.
The men she could control.
The women she could manipulate.
The stories people told of her.
Who she had become…well, that is a little comfort.
The voice down the hall echoes and rattles the shaky walls of the old house. She clenches her teeth when the sound reaches her ears again. Oh, Lord God! Make it stop, please!
"Why doesn't she come? Oh God, make her come! For the love of God, let me see my daughter before I die!" he was screaming now. She turned toward the closed door, her breaths quivering as she has seldom heard them quiver.
This is new: she scares herself.
"Let her come!" he moans on, "Oh, why doesn't she come? Irene! Irene, please! Please, if you can hear me! If you can hear me, then come! For the love of God, come!"
She throws open the door, unable to continue bearing his disgusting, intermittent, hoarse pleas. Heels clicking violently against the old, hard wood, she sucks in her breath as she walks down the narrow hall. This place feels like an asylum.
She stands in the doorway of his bedroom; she's not seen him in nineteen years…she's not seen him since that fateful day when she had stumbled upon his crime as an eight-year-old child.
He ought to be a relatively young man still, but not so. It looks as though he's aged a hundred years. He's a skeleton with a canvas stretched over the bones that surge with cancer.
As she stares at him, it seems as though the devil has only just come to light a little fire beneath her soul. She wants to scream, to cry, to run, and to hide in a place where nothing matters and nothing ever will.
The man beholds his daughter; when he had last had his hands on her as an eight-year-old girl, she was feeble, breakable, and fragile. Now, a young woman in her late twenties meets his gaze, and if he were to touch her now, he would find a hard, weather-beaten, immovable grindstone. Her jaw is set, her eyes vicious, her lips thin and red like a crimson wound.
It reminds him of her too much and he can't help it when he cries out.
"Victoria!" he shakily gasps, his eyes bulging with terror and fear. "Victoria, oh my God! Victoria! Oh, Victoria!" he begins yelling, covering his face and sopping eyes with shaking, bony hands.
"Don't you speak her name. Don't you DARE speak her name!" Irene humidly seethes, her nostrils flare and her fists ball up. Her eyes are sacks of water ready to burst. "Not in front of me! I'll not hear you speak the name of my mother in front of me! Don't you dare!"
Her voice deepens as the water in her eyes grows heavier.
"Irene! Irene—!" he says, opening his hands beseechingly to his only child.
"What is it?" she demands, throwing her hands in the air. "What do you want to say to me? What do you want to say before you die? What is it you want to tell me that you couldn't have done five days ago? Five months ago? Five years ago? I waited for you!" she yells, her throat catching on fire and her eyes officially spilling over with tears. The droplets fall like shooting stars from the heavens.
"I waited—waited every day for ten long, insufferable years at that miserable school for the only man who ever really mattered to me!" She puts her hand to her mouth to keep a sob shut up in her throat. "But no—not one letter. Not one request to see me. I was—no, I AM—convinced that you hate me."
"Irene—" he says, through a veil of tears.
"No," she said, shaking her head miserably at him. "I'm not your daughter. I've changed my name; I am Irene Adler. I am my mother's child. I will never be yours! Never! Because you—you—"
The words are lodged in the back of her mouth, and she can't continue. She inhales, sounding like a broken engine, and manages to get the last out.
"Because you didn't want me."
She spits it out, holding her hand to her forehead and weeping bitterly with her arm on the wall to support herself.
"Irene—" he tries again, his voice shakes.
"All I wanted was to love you! I only ever wanted you to love me! You—"
She can no longer speak. The convulsive nature of the sobs is making communication impossible, and the words remain unspoken, seeming to clog her airways. Her hand is over her face; she wants to stop crying, but she can't. Her mouth is open, and long, loud sobs fall out.
"Irene—Irene, please—" she hears her father beg.
"No, no…" she says through gritted teeth. She inhales till she can no longer breathe in, and pushes every bit of overwhelming sentiment down into her chest. But it won't stay put, and she keeps crying into her hands. Rogue mascara burns her eyes, and she wipes them aggressively.
She gasps in surprise as her aunt enters the room, aghast at the state of her niece.
"I can't do this—" she breathes. "I'm so sorry, aunt. I'm so sorry—I can't. I never will. Forgive me…I…I can't," she whispers before hurdling past her and hurrying from the room. She can't bear to look into her father's face again, so she runs back down the long, narrow hall toward the door.
She can hear him moaning and bawling all the way, but she also moans and sobs in equal magnitude. She doesn't have time for him. She doesn't have time to mourn. She doesn't have time for anything anymore.
She is so much better; so much more than anything her father had expected of her. She has to be back in London to fix her hair, paint her lips, line her eyes, bare her luscious figure, and eagerly anticipate another night of lying in the bed she has made for her life.
She furiously smacks an invisible whip across the door post as she storms out of the house.
Aunt's petty voice breaks her determined reverie. She almost screams with rage when she feels the woman's hand on her arm.
"Oh, Irene!" her aunt implores, catching her before she exits through the front door. Irene turns with mascara dripping down her face from the tears she had so vilely shed only moments before.
"What did he say to you?"
Irene says nothing, only staring at her aunt as violent emotions tug demandingly at her heart.
"What did he say to you? Irene? Why don't you answer me? What did he say to you?"
…
"What did she say to you?"
Sherlock's voice cut the memory in half. The elevator opened, and she saw her husband standing to the side, having waited for her the entire time. The water in her eyes fell backwards after a few quick blinks, and she washed her brain of the old anxieties, fears, and snapshots that made up her remembrance of the day her father died.
The present was what mattered now. Don't let the past make you slouch, dear girl.
"Well," she huffed, "that's done." Taking long, determined strides down the hall, Irene began marching back towards the exit from whence they had come thirty minutes earlier. Sherlock fell in stride beside her.
"What did my sister say to you?" he asked again.
"Nothing of importance," she replied. "And besides, even if I wanted to tell you, you know I couldn't."
"It's not as if she would know."
"Doesn't your family have enough secrets as is? You don't want to go adding another, Mr. Holmes," she said, raising her eyebrows reprovingly at him. "Besides, knowing her, she would probably find out one way or another. But I will say that your sister," she declared, "is one of the most charming women I have ever met. I should have come to see her sooner. She has such a frightening way of doing everything. It's wickedly attractive. I like her very much. She's a lovely sister-in-law."
"I'm glad you think so."
"And you don't?"
"I'm not sure," he concluded, surveying her face as she continued to walk quickly down the long, cold, echoing corridor.
"You look pale," he said, offering his arm (which she greedily accepted).
"It's almost the first day of winter; you'd expect it, wouldn't you, Mr. Holmes?"
"Except for the fact that it's warm in here."
"Warm? In Sherrinford?" she asked. "No, I don't think so. I'm frightfully cold." She straightened the collar of her coat…the coat that was identical to his own. Seeing her straighten the collar provoked Sherlock's lips into a quick smirk.
They were escorted back onto the beach, where the helicopter was waiting for them, parked on the sand. Sherlock was silently deducing a million things in his mind as he looked at his wife. Her face was placid enough, but something was amiss.
Damn his sister.
He would have it out, but he wasn't sure how. His wife was keen on keeping things hidden, but he was convinced of his own wit, too.
The helicopter ride was silent and brief, the cab ride through London equally soundless and quick, and by the time they were back in Baker Street, things felt odd between them. Irene looked utterly exhausted, but was still her usual sardonic self.
Throwing off her coat, she flopped down laboriously onto the sofa, throwing her hands over her face and closing her eyes. Sherlock thought she bore a frightening resemblance to the sleeping young woman in Fuseli's The Nightmare. She was even wearing a white dress, which made the realization all too odd.
"I'll be returning to Sherrinford tomorrow to discuss the second half of our agreement with my sister. She promised me information in exchange to see you. At least now I'll have an upper hand over Moriarty."
She didn't say anything, but her chest softly rose and fell. If it hadn't been for that, he would have honestly considered checking to see if she were alive. She looked almost ill.
"I hope you realize how much I despise it when you keep things hidden from me?" he asked, sitting in his armchair by the fire and crossing his legs. His fingertips flew to their position below his nose.
"Is that what I do?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"It is now, at least. You may as well tell me what you and Eurus spoke about. I'm to find out eventually, so why not tell me now?" he asked; it looked like he was peering at her over a pair of invisible spectacles.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said, letting it out in a sigh. "You've no idea how naughty you can be. Just this once, you'll not persuade me into misbehaving. I've made a promise to your sister that I'm afraid I mean to keep. Now be a good boy and let me get some sleep. I'm exhausted. If you're bored in my absence, then I can find something for you to do."
He picked at his upper lip with his pinky finger, ignoring his wife's suggestion. She seemed to take no notice of his silence, which was something else he noted as strange.
Eventually, she fell asleep on the settee. He settled back into his chair and put his arms at his sides; he even let his head fall backwards and closed his eyes.
His phone destroyed his attempts at resting, and he retrieved it from his pocket after it buzzed a few times. It was Lestrade:
Any new leads?
He sighed, decided he had nothing he wanted to say to the inspector at the moment, so he ignored the text accordingly. Boredom was beginning to set in. He ventured into his bedroom to find a new book to dive into, as he had just finished The Man Who Was Thursday. It had ended a bit more "mythically" than he had supposed it would, but the entire notion and silliness of the story was…quite brilliant, to say the least. He would have to tell Mycroft how much he had enjoyed it. Well, once Mycroft came out of his coma.
Settling on a little old book, The Abolition of Man, he returned to the sitting room to read. Something very few people knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he was a man with literary interest. And artistic interest. He didn't express it as often as he should have, but complex narratives and odd images stimulated his mind, especially when he was standing on the edge of the never-ending crevice that was boredom.
The Abolition of Man was a set of grossly philosophical arguments by the great C.S. Lewis, and Sherlock had always been intrigued by the man's curious (although strangely plausible) notions. The first few pages were already proving astounding.
Once again, Sherlock's mobile danced in his pocket, and with a frustrated sigh, he drew it out to find John Watson calling him. He decided to answer in his bedroom for fear of being overheard.
"Hello?" Sherlock asked, a little agitated. John must have sensed it in his voice.
"Yeah, Sherlock, are you coming? Have you forgotten we're meeting Craig at his place this afternoon? Are you even back from Sherrinford yet?"
Sherlock's consciousness was dramatically disturbed. How could I have forgotten?
"Ohhh, good God have I forgotten? Damn it, are you there already?"
"Yeah, I've…I've been here for the last…twenty minutes. Are you okay? I mean, you don't normally…you know, forget things like this. How did this morning go?"
"I don't know. And that's what's driving me mad. I must have forgotten our meeting with Craig. I'm on my way. I'll be down there as soon as I can get a cab."
"Erm…okay. D'you—d'you need anything? I mean with Irene. Is she…how is she doing?" John's voice was incredibly shaky, as though he were afraid of offending. He probably was. "Did everything work out with her and…you know…your sister?"
"I don't know what to make of her, John. We can discuss it when I get down there. Just give me ten minutes. I won't be long."
"Maybe…" John stopped a moment. "Maybe…I dunno. Maybe you shouldn't leave her. We can always do this…another time."
Sherlock hesitated before speaking.
"No, she's fine. She's asleep right now. Don't worry, John. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Okay…yeah, fine. I'll see…erm…see you then."
Sherlock hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket.
Returning into the sitting room, he found Irene sitting up on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders and her hair falling messily down her back. Her lips were pursed.
"Leaving?"
"I'm going down to meet John at Craig's; I've got to be off. I expect you want to come?" Sherlock suggested, throwing on his coat.
"No, I'd honestly rather not. I'm rather…fatigued after meeting with our silly little sister. I do think I fancy a nice long bath. Maybe another nap while I'm at it."
"Not like you."
"A bath not like me? Do you even know me at all?"
"No, I mean about you not coming. That's not like you."
"I'm allowed to be tired, Sherlock. Don't mock me."
"I'm not mocking."
"Then give me peace. Honestly," she groaned, rolling her eyes despite their being closed. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say another word on the matter.
"We'll bring food for dinner; don't wait up if Mrs. Hudson brings tea."
"I won't," she breathed, her lids still shut.
"Stay out of trouble," he ordered, before throwing open the door.
"I'll do my best," she said, falling back onto the sofa.
Sherlock walked out onto the street, and as he prepared to raise his hand in the air to hail an oncoming taxi, he jerked it back down and shoved it into his pocket. Then he pulled out his phone and called John.
"John, gotta call it off today."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I just do; change of plans."
"Yeah, but Sherlock—"
Sherlock hung up before John could say anything else. His phone rang a few more times, but he ignored it sizzling inside his pocket. He had ignored John's phone calls before, and he was sure he wouldn't mind it if he did it again.
He decided to hail the next cab after all, and getting inside, ordered the driver to Euston Square station. About five minutes into the drive, Sherlock squinted down at his phone.
"Oh, driver," he said, in an oddly polite tone, "would you mind terribly taking me back from where you picked me up? I've forgotten something."
"You need me to wait for you outside while you fetch it, then, sir?" the cabby asked, looking over his shoulder for a brief moment.
"No, that's alright. I think I'll be a while," he replied, looking at his phone in a preoccupied manner. The cabby looked confused, but did as he was bid.
"Just drop me off at the corner, would you? I don't want to take too much of your time."
"No, sir issalright. I'll take you to the door, no trouble."
"The corner, if you please, sir," Sherlock replied, his politeness starting to disappear under the thin veil. The cabby's eyes broadened in apprehension, and when they made it to Baker Street, he let Sherlock out on the corner as he was instructed.
"Thank you so much," the detective said, exaggerating his words with nauseating politeness. The cabby smiled weirdly…he wasn't sure what to make of this mad man in a black coat. He simply shrugged and drove off.
After waiting for a few moments on the corner to look at his mobile, Sherlock strode down the path and reentered the flat he had only just left moments before. Quietly, he ascended the stairs, making sure to avoid the one overly-creaky step, and slid through the open door to 221B.
The sofa was vacant, and the blanket was on the floor. In her place was a good-sized carpet bag. Opening it slightly, he found clothing, toiletries, and other items of significance belonging to his wife.
The pipes in the wall were silent, so she wasn't having a bath. The kitchen was empty, as was the bathroom. There was only one last place to look: his bedroom.
As he reentered, he saw exactly what he had expected to see. She was wearing her coat and had her cell phone in one of her hands. Her hair was done up expertly. On seeing him, her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she pocketed the phone. But after a second of registration, she smiled innocently.
"Forget something?" she asked.
"No."
"Then—"
He cut her off; he understood what was happening all too well.
"No," he said, softly and possessively.
"No what?" she asked, acting confused by his ridiculous assertion.
"You aren't doing this."
"I'm not doing what?"
"Don't play games with me," he said, standing in the doorway and blocking the light from coming in. His shadow was enormous as it fell across the floor and enshrouded her in darkness.
"Don't pretend you're not leaving," he said.
"Mr. Holmes—"
"I'm not wrong," he said raising his eyebrows.
She swallowed, her eyes never once leaving his face.
"I have to," she said, determination making her voice sink to a deep tone.
"No, you don't," he replied, equally set in his intentions.
"I'm going."
"Stay."
"Why?"
He stopped talking and decided to keep the next bit to himself. He wasn't…that desperate. She looked at him, the question "why" was still written on her face.
"I don't see a reason I must," she said, buttoning the top button of her coat. "I'm going, Mr. Holmes. Please…don't follow me."
"You can't."
"I am."
He stood in her way so that vacating the room was an impossibility.
"Irene—" he said as she walked into him. "Don't."
"Ah," she said. She looked into his face, cocking her head and sporting a coy smile. "Using my name now, are we? You really are desperate."
"No, I'm not."
"Then let me pass."
"I don't think so," he murmured, dangling a knowing smile in front of her face. He knew her all too well. "You don't want to leave, so don't. You've given me no reason for your leaving, there's nothing between us that would make you leave, and you certainly haven't been bored since the wedding. What," he asked, his face inches from her own, "has Eurus told you?"
"None of your business," she hotly responded, making a useless attempt to move towards the door.
"You will tell me," he said.
"I'll not be made to do anything, Sherlock," she replied, her voice like vinegar on a wound. "Now…let me pass."
He could see the teeth clenching behind her firmly set lips; things were happening in that clever head of hers. She was determined to get away without inquiry.
"No," he said, softly and calmly. Her eyes widened.
He lowered his face and wrapped his fingers around her wrists, drawing her to himself. In the complete absence of warning, he had gently claimed her in his arms, and was slowly, delicately kissing her. It was the last thing she had expected from him, for she knew that he was never given to such outbursts of romantic affection; apparently, he was now.
In shock, her hands wandered toward his neck. He kneaded his lips into hers, and she stroked his with equally tender motions. She was practically breathing him in, and he felt so full of her that he could never possibly let her go.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she whispered in between kisses. The sheer intensity was making her hands fiercely grip his shoulders, practically begging him to keep her there.
Indeed, his arms had such a tight hold on her that she felt like she was being pressed in between two walls that were slowly closing in. He'd never held her so securely before. He was trying to keep her from flying away.
She knew it, but the reluctant little bird was determined to fly.
After he had finally unglued his lips from hers, their noses were touching and both of them were quite simply, for lack of a better description, out of breath. She kissed his nose delicately and sighed.
"Don't make me order you," she said. His breath on her cheek has magnetizing. Taking her hands from around his neck, she tried to put them at her side. She managed to put one in her pocket, but he still held her in a vice.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said, quickly kissing the corner of his mouth. He looked at her as if he was assured of his being able to keep her there.
"No, Miss Adler…" he whispered. "You're not sorry."
A small, confident, and knowing smile graced his closed lips. She could scarcely comprehend the meaning of the ambiguous look on his face.
"No," she said. "I truly am." It was at this moment that she nearly started wildly weeping outright, but she clenched her teeth together to keep all the water behind the gate.
Stroking his cheek and floating up to his face to kiss him again, she waited until his eyes were closed before pulling her hand out of her pocket. In it was a syringe, and in one swift motion, she had plunged it into his shoulder.
"No!" he screamed, feeling the needle pierce his skin. Nevertheless, she injected the liquid, holding him so as to guide him to the floor, where he was inevitably falling.
"No!" he hollered again, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down with a thud. She dropped the syringe, which was emptied; the needle dripped. Her shining, liquidous eyes were inevitably looking into his. She could feel his fingers weakening around her wrist. She shuddered, and tears sprang to her eyes, glimmering and begging to be let out.
"Don't—" he spat, fighting madly to keep his eyes open. "I've lost Mycroft! I've lost Mycroft, I've lost Mary—" he seethed. He looked so angry with himself. "I can't—don't do this, Miss Adler. You don't have to do this; whatever my sister has told you…tell me, for God's sake," he said, managing to shove every agitated emotion back into the pit it had come from.
"Shhhh…" she whispered, smoothing his hair and running her fingers through the black curls: ruffling the locks in the way that always seemed to calm him down.
"Hush now, dear."
His hand finally fell from her wrist, and she bent down to press a prolonged kiss to his cheek. She was having the most difficult time warring against those persistent tears in the back of her head.
"I love you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she whispered over him, "and this isn't your fault. Promise me that you'll at least remember that. It was never yours…it was mine." Caressing his cheek with wholehearted sensitivity, she whispered, "Don't say anything, love. Don't spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me…the woman who loved you."
She had tears peeking out of her eyes, but none of them jumped from the ledge to fall down her face. She kissed his cheek once more before she took her hand from his face and slowly rose to her feet.
"No!" he bellowed one last time before his eyes shut, making a drunken grab for her ankle that missed its mark. Then his memory was lost. He remembered no more, because Irene Adler disappeared through the doorway with the carpet bag in her hand, heels on her feet, and cellphone to her ear.
It was the last thing he saw before everything went black.