Prompt; Irene Adler meets Holmes many years later after A Scandal in Bohemia, from Ennui Enigma
A/N: I hope this counts as "many" years. Watson seems to suggest that Irene Adler was dead by the time he published A Scandal in Bohemia in 1891, so I stretched it to the utmost for this response.
Also Merry Christmas for everyone who celebrated today :)
Irene Norton, née Adler, had not thought of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in many years. Her life had of late been a happy mix of domestic bliss, professional successes (for Godfrey had no objection to his wife continuing to sing upon the stage if she so wished) and adventure in the far-flung places of the world. Thanks to her engagements at the best opera houses in the world, she and Godfrey were able to live a life of leisure, and spent six months a year in travel. They had seen places many could only dream of. Paris, Rome, Moscow, Stockholm, even the Pyramids and Constantinople. It was exactly the life she had dreamed of, though it had taken an odd route for her to get there.
Yet every so often, as they sat home and reminisced, Irene could not help but remember the very odd role Mr. Holmes had played in their wedding, though he had at the time been working against her, engaged by the Grand Duke and future King of Bohemia, who had no doubt filled Mr. Holmes's head full of nonsense about her motives and jealousy regarding the Duke's marriage. It had been a thorny few days, as she remembered, and Godfrey had been most afraid for their future. But Irene always had an instinct as to people, and Mr. Holmes had been presented to her as one who cared for truth above all. By throwing herself and her story at Mr. Holmes's formidable reasoning power, she had formed the idea that he would come to see her side. And so he had. She should thank him, truly. Had the Duke wished, he could have had Mr. Holmes chase her and Godfrey across Europe, but upon realizing that the unwished for publication of the photograph was not going to happen, Mr. Holmes had apparently considered his role in the case finished. In truth, Irene thought much more often of poor Clothilde, now Grand Duchess of Cassel-Felstein and future Queen of Bohemia. By all accounts the poor girl was frightfully dull, all propriety and delicacy. Well, hardly anyone could be raised in that family with its obsession for morality and remain at all interesting. But it still did not mean she deserved to be tied to a grand buffoon like Grand Duke Wilhelm for life. Undoubtedly she was finding his libertine ways a trial, and he was unlikely to have much care for her. No, Irene considered herself well away from all of them.
She was, by summer of 1891, engaged for a number of performances at the Teatro dell'Opera in Rome. Rome was one of her favorite cities; the crowds were effusive in their praise and the mix of ancient buildings and modern luxury made the city the perfect background to perform her favorite dramatic roles. She loved to wander the streets, taking life slowly, with Godfrey on her arm and stopping for a long midday meal, Italian style.
It was on one of the long, hot days on which Irene did not have a performance that she made a day of wandering the streets, eventually arriving at the Borghese Gardens and observing the bustle of the city around her. Most of the visitors were not Italian; in fact, they mostly seemed to be young, wealthy men on their Grand Tours. Irene amused herself by guessing the nationalities of the visitors - the French tended to be artists coming to copy the works of the great masters with their paints and easels, while the English declared grandly that all was better in England - when she happened to notice someone odd. A tall man endeavoring to hide his height by sitting low on a bench, his face half hidden by a hat. The figure gave Irene a distinctly odd feeling, both that he was somehow familiar to her but also that he was in some way a threat. The feeling was one she had long ago learned to listen to, and she left the Borghese Gardens immediately, trying to imagine why a stranger on a bench should give her such an odd feeling.
It was not until later, as she recounted the feeling to Godfrey that she realized and stopped mid-sentence before laughing aloud. "I've been silly," she said to Godfrey. "It was Mr. Holmes. He was in disguise, or else it would not have taken me this long to recognize him."
"Mr. Holmes?" Godfrey asked, his brow furrowing. He did not seem to find this as amusing as she did. "Whatever is he doing here? You don't think he is still on our tail?"
Irene adored when Godfrey used American expressions he had picked up from her. "No, of course not. Why should he be? It has been three years since we left London and the Duke was married." Mr. Holmes had made the capital mistake at the time of assuming that Godfrey did not know of her former connection with the Duke. She suspected it would surprise many to know that Godfrey knew and loved her anyway. "I hardly imagine the Duke has kept him on retainer all these years. Besides, you've seen how busy he's been." Mr. Holmes's name had shown up frequently in the newspapers since he had accidentally been part of their wedding, always in connection with a grand success. It was these stories that often triggered their amused memories of their hasty wedding. "I doubt he is concerned with us anymore."
"Yes, that is true," Godfrey said, though he still looked unsure, which in turn made Irene think over the encounter. Perhaps it was not him. She was used to recognizing people in disguise, but Mr. Holmes was extraordinarily skilled at the art - she would have relished the chance to act opposite him. But, if it was indeed him, it might really be more than a chance meeting. Coincidences were rare, in her experience.
"It would be an extraordinary coincidence if I just happened across him, of all people, in the middle of Rome," she admitted. "Perhaps I should make sure." Though she did not know how she would do that. If he was in disguise, Irene could hardly count on finding him again. If Sherlock Holmes did not want to be found, he would not be.
Godfrey smiled reassuringly. "Well, in any case, I'm sure it will be fine. We escaped him once. If he is indeed after us, we shall do the same thing again." He got up and hugged her from behind, kissing her cheek. "You are quite his equal, my dear."
"High praise," Irene said dryly, before changing the subject. "Tomorrow we should go to this lovely restaurant I found by the Pantheon after my performance." She did so enjoy that life did not stop at nine in Italy the way it did in England or America. Perhaps she and Godfrey should think about settling here permanently.
Still, it was hard to think about anything while unsure if Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, following her. Irene and Godfrey had only just returned from their meal the next night when she dropped her handkerchief, which promptly flew into a nearly by alley due to the wind. Irene hastily ran after it - the handkerchief had been a gift from Edwin Booth, who had praised her first performance in New York - when she saw him. Sherlock Holmes, hurrying past the alley, still in the same disguise she had seen him wearing in the Borghese Gardens. Irene smiled and stopped before going back to Godfrey. "Good-night, Mr. Holmes," she said, loud enough so he could hear.
His reaction, however, was unexpected. Mr. Holmes turned around in some surprise, his expression frozen in fear. Irene could make out his eyes widening as he recognized her before he hurried away, to be swallowed up by the Roman dusk. She took Godfrey's arm as she returned to him. "Well," she said. "I can tell you for sure that Mr. Holmes is not here because of us."
"How do you know?" he asked.
"Because he looked terrified for his life when I called his name," Irene said. "That was not acting, nor was it the fear of being recognized." She knew the difference, and she knew acting from truth. Mr. Holmes, she was sure, was in mortal danger. "Whatever he is doing here, he is running for his life."
Godfrey glanced behind them to where Mr. Holmes had disappeared. "Well, I pity the men who are after him, whoever they may be," he said. "I doubt they will last the month."
Irene laughed. "You are right, my love. Mr. Holmes is not easily beaten. I only managed to bring him to a draw." They walked on, until Godfrey stopped to purchase an English newspaper, which he disappeared behind as soon as they returned to the hotel. Irene used the time to clean the jewelry she had worn onstage; stage makeup and lights did a horrible job on her best pieces, when Godfrey suddenly spit out his nightly tea all over his newspaper.
"Good heavens," he said, spluttering. "Irene, you must see this."
Irene hurried over to see a prominent death notice and her eyes widened when she saw whose. The detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London, age thirty-seven, over the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. There was little else, no relations or explanation, so it was clearly quite sudden. Irene stared at Godfrey in some shock. She realized they were now undoubtedly some of the only people who knew the famous detective was alive. Godfrey seemed to be thinking the same, for he asked, "Are you going to inform anyone?"
Irene thought over the two times she had now seen Mr. Holmes. How he had been in disguise both times. How very afraid he had looked when she called his name and he knew he had been recognized. How very unlike the masterful detective she had been warned against. "No," she said. "He must be engaged in a matter of life-and-death to resort to this. I can only wish him luck. I expect he will need it."