Author's Note: I'm feeling generous today, so TWO chapters. It would be nice to reciprocate with reviews, if the mood strikes you.
Chapter Seven:
Irene lit a fire and sat in John's chair as the evening drew in. She got up once to close the curtains, but otherwise didn't move from the chair, or lessen her observation of the tall man sitting opposite her. The three plucked notes had continued now for slightly more than two hours. During that time, she had turned on her phone, and read the text from Moriarty that she hope to find:
5.12pm Nice Work- so if you do the rest, she'll soon be on her way back to Nice.
She replied in a text that simply said
5.17pm I am waiting for him to come back with the whole answer.
In the soft glow of the firelight, she watched Sherlock's impassive face. When he was like this, in deep thought, she could stare to her heart's content. She liked his strange combination of angles and curves- the sharp line of a cheekbone, the soft bow of lip. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow all the pieces fit together to make an extraordinary impact. She considered the difference between him and Moriarty. Both were geniuses. But Sherlock had warmth in all that energy of his; he burned bright and clear. She had trusted him in an instinctive way, as a polar opposite from Moriarty. For all the Irishman's brilliance, at a subconscious level she was repelled by the darkness, the coldness of his heart. For that reason alone, she had been gathering information for months about him and his network. It wasn't misbehaving; it was survival. She needed to give herself some protection against a man who once threatened to turn her into a pair of shoes. So, lists of names, fallen angels and other clients on both sides of the Atlantic who had used the services of the consulting criminal in the same way she had. If he threatened her again, she wanted to be able to tell him the consequences of damaging her. She slipped the USB stick adapter out of the dressing gown pocket; she had moved it from her handbag when she was in the bathroom. Now she downloaded the whole of the Moriarty file into the phone, and then deleted it from the memory stick, which she tossed into the flames. She had a copy elsewhere- a nice package sitting in a Swiss bank with instructions to her solicitor on what to do with it should she die. I think I might change the recipient of the package- send it to Sherlock as a little thank you.
She knew Sherlock was just as likely in his own way to be selfish and self-centred. Isn't genius always so? When you had that prodigious amount of intelligence, it tended to isolate you from fellow human beings. They were kindred spirits in that way, and it was unusual for either of them to acknowledge that another such as they existed. He's smarter than me, but a whole lot less astute. That brought a rueful smile, as she wondered what would happen if they ever managed to work together instead of tangentially.
That thought was interrupted by the Vertu vibrating in her hand- an incoming text.
6.58pm Call me
She went into the loo, ran the tap and called Moriarty.
"Helloooo, Sweetie." It came in that awful synthesized gangster voice that she loathed. "You are a little minx, you know. Couldn't have bettered the timing myself. I've just had the time of my life making a certain minor British Government official very uncomfortable. Now I need you to administer the coup de grace. You get to deliver the terms and conditions in person to Flight 007. It's at Skyways stand 12. I'll send a car. Is sleeping beauty still out of it?"
She flushed the loo.
"Ooh- was I interrupting something important?" He giggled.
"No, but it helps to disguise the sound of my voice" she said quietly. "No need to wake him up out of his trance."
"I thought you might do that with a kiss, knowing you, my dear."
"Save it for someone who appreciates the humour, Mister Moriarty. When I am done with Big Brother, I will text you. And then we get to part ways."
"Until next time, my dear. There will always be a next time, you know." The line went dead. She washed her hands and went back to wait, hoping that Sherlock would wake up soon. She really didn't want to do Moriarty's dirty work without knowing just what the hell was actually involved. But, if she knew too much, that might make her a target for Moriarty's distrust. It was like walking on a sword's edge- too much information could lead her into danger, too little would mean she couldn't protect herself.
She settled back in John's chair and warmed her feet by the fire.
"Coventry." Sherlock was out of the trance, saying the word as if it had great significance.
"I've never been. Is it nice?"
Sherlock looked around the room. "Where's John?"
"He went out a couple of hours ago".
Sherlock looked a bit annoyed. "I was just talking to him."
She smiled. "He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" She knew that time was running out before Moriarty's car turned up, and she needed whatever Sherlock had come up with.
"It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway."
In a flash, Irene realised the connection. The plane was somehow linked to another code, one that had been broken, but that the authorities didn't want anyone to know that they'd broken it. It was a start. But why that flight? What was its significance? Before she could grapple with hat, she stopped to realise that Sherlock had done it again- he'd given her the key information, sharing it with her, because he trusted her. That fact startled her into realising that she wanted him to stop now, rather than have him betray anything more. She had taken enough advantage of him. Anything more might make Moriarty want to silence her as too dangerous. It was a difficult decision to make- curiosity meant she wanted to know. Curiosity killed the cat. She needed to distract Sherlock quickly, so she did it in the only way she knew how.
"Have you ever had anyone?"
He frowned at her, not understanding. "Sorry?"
She tried to be a bit more obvious. "And when I say "had", I'm being indelicate."
He still didn't get it. "I don't understand."
So sweet. "Well, I'll be delicate then." She got up and crossed to the other chair, where she knelt in front of him, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it. "Let's have dinner."
He replied warily, "Why?"
She replied. "Might be hungry."
He shook his head, "I'm not."
She smiled. "Good."
The seeming contradiction between not being hungry and still being offered dinner, plus the physical contact with her, made the man hesitant. The adorable wrinkle of confusion appeared on the bridge of his nose. But he did sit forward and turn his hand over, so his fingers went around her wrist. "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" There was now a touch of caution in his tone.
She leaned forward, her eyes now clearly focused on those amazing lips. How can a man have such perfect cupid's bow lips? She followed it by her softest "Oh, Mister Holmes." She'd persisted in using the formal title, because he had refused to call her anything other than 'Miss Adler', as if that gave him some protection- an old fashioned courtesy to hide behind.
But she knew she was getting through, as his fingers gently stroked across to rest on the underside of her wrist.
Irene also knew that under normal circumstances, the man in front of her would resist her seduction. But she thought that it was likely to be the last time she would see him. And the feeling of regret that engendered in her surprised her. She never allowed herself to feel genuine emotions with her clients. But Sherlock wasn't a client; he had proved to be a friend to her in so many surprising ways. She wondered if there was something she could give him back. "... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"
The pause drew on as she watched those amazing eyes digest the question for its full implications.
Then the mood was spoiled utterly by the sound of an old woman's voice calling up the stairs- "Sherlock!"
His eyes broke from hers and turned towards the door.
She replied, ruefully, "Too late."
That provoked a tiny smile from Sherlock. "That's not the end of the world; that's Mrs Hudson."
Irene sighed, pulled her hand free and stood up. It might be that the car sent by Moriarty had arrived. She was walking away from him by the time Mrs Hudson arrived, with a black man in a sharp suit behind her.
"Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?" She turned to the man and explained. "He shot it".
Sherlock ignored his landlady and spoke directly to the man. "Have you come to take me away again?"
"Yes, Mister Holmes."
Rather tersely, Sherlock replied, "Well, I decline."
The man was not deterred. He took an envelope from his jacket and offered it to the detective. "I don't think you do."
Irene watched as Sherlock snatched the envelope and opened it. From across the room, she could see that it was airline boarding pass. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to perform the deduction; she realised that it was probably for Flight 007, leaving Heathrow tomorrow night at 6.30 for Baltimore Washington Airport. Sent by Moriarty? Or Mycroft Holmes? That was the only question. She sought eye contact with the man to see if she was expected to come, as well. He ignored her, with the discretion taught to someone trained to deal with intrusions into awkward situations. Mycroft's man, then.
Sherlock stood and looked at her briefly. "I have to go."
She smiled, "I know. This isn't goodbye, Mister Holmes."
She watched him put on his coat and scarf, then follow the agent down the stairs and out to the waiting car. She stood at the window and watched him leave, then hurried to the bathroom, wondering if her dress and shoes had dried enough. She hoped she would have time to get her hair up before Moriarty's car arrived for her; she could always apply her make-up on the way to the plane. While the vulnerable, unadorned look worked for the younger brother, there was no way she was going to go into a conversation with the older one without looking her very sharpest.
