by SwordSkill
Author's Notes: Sherlock Holmes and all related characters are original creations of the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Original characters (meaning mine) will be noted. This fic takes place somewhere between A Scandal in Bohemia and Holmes's retirement. Please R/R.
He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman.
The Note
It has been much too obvious that my friend Holmes had never shown any interest to the opposite gender. His much too organized mind had always detested the thought of love, let alone marriage. He never made mention of any specific lady, except for the occasional the woman.
Irene Norton, nee Adler. The only woman whom Holmes believed deserved respect, after being fooled by this clever lady. Of course, he had never felt any emotions akin to love. Emotions were for blind fools, he seemed to imply. And yet I knew that there will always be this one woman to him, this Irene Adler.
I had just finished my visitations to my patients on one foggy Saturday night, when I perchanced to cross by Baker Street. I stopped at 221B and looked at the familiar, old door where I had stepped in for countless times. I would always associate this place with the dark mysteries Holmes had solved.
I suddenly remembered that such was the scenario before Holmes and I became involved in A Scandal in Bohemia . I had innocently passed by after visiting a patient and gave old Homes a call, and before I knew it, we were both in service to Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, the King of Bohemia, to settle a business with the woman Irene Adler. She was from Warsaw, trained in the operatic stage, retired, became an adventuress, and after a complicated events was married to Mr. Godfrey Norton. I understand she is about four years Holmes's junior.
Now, I could not help but give the door a good ring. It had been too long since I had seen my scientific friend. I was shown up by kind Mrs. Hudson to the old staircase leading to my former lodgings.
Halfway by the staircase, I sniffed the burning smell of sulfur, and by the door of the chamber I once shared with Holmes, I perceived puffs of smoke coming out.
"What in heaven's name..."
"He's at it again, Mr. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson wearily. "By the Queen, he's been suffocating the whole house with his chemicals since yesterday." She sniffed, "It's quite frightening to think what he's been doing."
I heard a loud bang! and a triumphant yell.
"I daresay, Mrs. Hudson," I said, smiling, "that the fumes will be gone by tomorrow."
When I opened the door, I was greeted by an ugly gray puff of smoke that swirled around me. It dashed at the stairs and out to the living room. Mrs. Hudson hurriedly rushed down to air out the smoke.
"Holmes!" I shouted, coughing my way in. I hung up my hat on the stand and yelled, "What the dickens are you up to now?!"
"My dear Watson!" I heard Holmes's delighted voice. "I could not have asked for a more perfect timing!"
I saw his thin, lanky form emerge from the smoke. He was dressed in a lounging robe with a pipe in his mouth. He waved me at an armchair that I barely saw and said "Do sit!" He walked across the room to open the windows to clear the room.
I found my way to the chair as he stood by the fireplace with that old, introspective expression on his face added to a victorious smile that stretched from one ear to another.
"Well, Watson," he said, "what brings you here?"
"I just came for a friendly visit," I said, peering curiously at the part of the room where he kept his scientific instruments. "What have you been doing, Holmes? You've given Mrs. Hudson quite a fright."
He gave a short laugh and said, "Dear, dear Mrs. Hudson. I must apologize to her tomorrow." He rubbed his hands gleefully and said happily, "I've just found another re-agent for vegetable alkaloid. Very hard work, I must say."
I was about to say something when someone knocked on the door.
"Come in, come in," said Holmes merrily, seating himself on another chair.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door with a little piece of white paper in her hand.
"Just came, Mr. Holmes," she said, passing it to him.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, reaching his long arm to receive the note.
After Mrs. Hudson closed the door shut, Holmes quickly scanned the piece of paper. I saw his face suddenly evolve to disbelief.
"What's the matter, Holmes?" I asked, concerned. It was not always that I saw Holmes taken aback.
He tossed the piece of paper to me and with a very queer expression written in his lean, gaunt face, he said, "See what you can make out of it, Watson."
The note ran in this way:
MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,
I would very much appreciate it if you would
come over behind old Jacobson's yard at half-past
nine tonight to discuss a private matter. I remain,
dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
Very Truly Yours,
Irene Norton, nee Adler.
I glanced up from the curt letter. "By Jove, Holmes! Could it be?"
"Yes, it is the woman." Holmes's voice seemed very cold. "Observe, Watson." He set down his pipe and steepled his fingers. "The rather scribbled handwriting points to the fact that the note was written in a hurry. Paper has the mark of 'V' signifying it to be the paper from a local hotel nearby, the Victorian. Dirty fingerprints means that she had some little urchin deliver it."
"How do we know that she indeed wrote it and is not a hoax?"
Holmes looked at the fireplace. "I remember her handwriting from the letter she gave me once."
"But what is it, Holmes?"
"What's it supposed to be," he said, his eyes veering to her picture at the mantlepiece that she had given him. "A note from her." He looked up, his stony eyes gleaming. "This certainly deserves some thought."
I was surprised. As far as I remembered, Holmes had never thought of turning away from a mysterious letter. Apparently, Irene Adler Norton had affected him.
He quickly looked at the clock. "Quarter to nine. Care to join me, Watson?"
"I'm at you disposal, Holmes, if you're willing for me to go tell my wife that I'd be late."
"I can always count on you, can't I, Watson?" he said, nodding.
"Of course, Holmes." I took my hat and opened the door.
After I told Mary that Holmes needed me, I walked back the cobblestone street of Baker. There, at the side of the road stood Holmes, in his usual garb for the "London fog": a woolen, checkered hat and overcoat, and his walking stick. He had just halloed a hansom for us.
"Come on, Watson," he said, climbing up the carriage.
When I had safely boarded, he told the cabbie, "Jacobson's Yard, by the River Thames."
The hansom sped. I looked at Holmes, wondering what must be going on in that calculating mind of his. So far, his face had regained its usual expression: expressionlessness.
I ventured out. "Holmes, I have a rather personal question."
"Yes, Watson?"
"Have you ever thought about Irene Adler Norton in a..." I hesitated, "more emotional way?"
Holmes gave a sarcastic laugh. "You disappoint me, Watson. You know my precepts. Whatever emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things." He shot me a meaningful look. "That is why I was also quite disappointed when you opted to marry Miss Mary Morstan. Love is an emotional thing, and it could bias one's judgment."
"I see."
We rode in silence until the hansom stopped by the dingy barn shed that was Jacobson's yard. It looked ghoulish under the moon and over the twinkle of the rivers. Cobwebs were rampant; broken furniture were scattered all over the floor. A few fishing-smacks were tied to some posts.
Holmes stepped out the carriage and looked around as he paid the cabbie. "Aha," he said softly, espying a delicate figure framed in the pale moonlight, hiding behind the shed.
"Come, Watson," he said, motioning me to be quiet, as if Mrs. Norton was a timid animal not to be scared away. "Our client awaits."
We made our way towards her. As we neared her, I could see her features more and more clearly. I remember what Holmes had told me about her: that she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. It was no lie. She was a beautiful creature.
Holmes stopped four feet away from her. He gave a trifling glance at her ravishing beauty, tipped his hat, and said calmly, "Mrs. Norton. I am Sherlock Holmes."