John quickly whipped out his phone. There was no time to stare; he snapped a photo of the front page. He turned the page to reveal a picture of a vaguely familiar woman, but before he could register anything of note, he heard footsteps outside the room. The file was far too big to smuggle out; he quickly clicked another photo, returned the file to its hiding place and shut the closet, moving towards the door just in time. Yardley Oliver opened it and looked at him suspiciously.
"Sorry that took so long." John said.
"Er, not a problem. I do hate to turn you out like this, but I'm feeling a little drowsy and would prefer locking up the house securely before I turn in."
"Yes, of course." John said, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize how late it was getting."
Mr Oliver ushered him to the door. "Thank you so much, really. Talking to someone who's experienced a similar loss did help me. By the way, how's Sherlock Holmes getting on with the case?"
On the doorstep, John turned around and smiled at him. "He's working on it right now. Good night."
John hailed a cab and set off on the journey back home, mind buzzing. Who was Charlotte? Why was there a Sherrinford file in Irene Adler's luggage? Why had she gone to so much trouble to hide it? If only Mr Oliver had stayed in the living room for a few more seconds, John could've uncovered so much…
He entered 221B, lost in thought, and his foot was on the first step when he heard Mrs Hudson shriek from the kitchen. He entered it to find her standing next to the fridge, looking aghast.
"Oh, John, Sherlock's up to it again!" she said, "There's a foot in my fridge."
"Erm, that's my fault. I wouldn't let him keep it in ours. Bad for Rosie, you know."
"Yes, of course. Well, won't you meet Mrs Adams? Bertha, this is Doctor Watson."
John nodded at the frail old woman sitting at the kitchen table. Bertha smiled back at him, but her smile vanished almost instantly, and she went back to staring broodingly at the kitchen table. Her fingers nervously drummed on the wood, and John didn't need a medical degree to deduce that she was an addict.
"I didn't know that you had company, Martha." she finally said.
"Oh, no, I'm just leaving." John said. He fetched Rosie from Mrs Hudson's bedroom and made his way upstairs, ready to sit up in wait of Sherlock.
Sherlock was not having a good time. If he was determined to get answers, Irene was equally resolute not to give any. He'd spent the last hour trying to steer their conversation into dangerous waters, but she kept cutting him off with snarky comments. They were halfway through dessert by the time he managed to make any headway.
"Where did you go after Karachi?" he asked.
"Oh, just here and there. Moriarty's connections kept me safe, even after his death." She laid her fork down for a moment and stared at Sherlock. "I really did think you were dead, too. Shouldn't have gotten my hopes up."
"And yet you knew I was alive long before the press reported it. How?"
"When Moriarty's web started unravelling, I realized there was only one person who could possibly be behind it." She let her hand brush Sherlock's slightly, and he didn't pull away. "Then, of course, I also realized that you wouldn't stop until his entire system - and hence my protection - came crashing down. So I fled. I've spent the last few years hopping from country to country. You should see how good my slogans sound in Spanish."
"What brought you back to England?"
Irene smiled mockingly. "Now, now, I can't tell you everything. Where's the fun in that?"
They sat in silence for a while, Irene picking at her food, Sherlock studying her closely. She was too well guarded; he couldn't deduce anything. He'd have to try talking.
"Must be sentiment." he said, "That's what brought you back. Sympathy for your father."
Irene's face softened slightly. "He's the only real family I've ever had."
Definitely loves the old man, Sherlock thought, but then why abandon him for all these years? To protect him, obviously. Didn't I do the same with John?
"I think it really did break him." she said, "First his wife, and now the dreadful business with James. But you wouldn't understand that."
"Wouldn't understand what?" Sherlock asked. He was painfully aware of the fact that Irene had somehow slid closer to him, and had an inkling that she had done it unintentionally.
"What it is to love. It's just a chemical defect to you."
"Is it?" he asked softly.
He held Irene's gaze for what felt like an eternity, trying to gauge the emotions flitting across her face. Curiousity. Confusion. Arrogance. Hope? His phone buzzed, and she instantly looked away, her emotional walls back up. It was too late, though. Sherlock had definitely seen her pupils dilate.
He pulled out his phone.
I'm home. Got lots to tell. Be careful around her.
He couldn't stop one corner of his mouth from lifting into a grin. My blogger has obviously made himself useful this once, he thought. He thought about what John had said earlier that evening - you look good in anything you wear - and couldn't help smiling even more. Mentally scolding himself for being so stupidly sentimental, he looked up from his phone, aware that Irene was saying something.
"I said it's late and I should go home. It probably isn't safe to leave father alone for too long." she repeated, one eyebrow raised.
"Yes, of course." He shoved his phone back inside and followed her into the street, waving his thanks to Angelo. They stepped out into the cold London air.
"You said you had something of mine." Irene said.
"Ah, yes." Sherlock pulled out her camera-phone. As soon as she saw it, her eyes widened, and she stood up a little straighter. "I have your lifeline."
"I bet you cleared all the useful information." Irene commented. As she slipped her hand into Sherlock's and slid the phone out of his grasp, he let his fingers curl around her wrist, and a satisfied smile crossed his face.
They'd both found exactly what they were looking for.
"You don't even want the stuffed turtle? Okay."
John had no idea what to do. Rosie had been throwing a fit for half an hour now, and nothing would shut her up. He'd tried everything - milk, soothers, all her toys, funny stories, but nothing worked. He'd even tried singing, but that just made her scream louder. He desperately glanced around the room, and his gaze settled on the skull.
"Well, it's worth a try." he muttered to himself. He handed her the skull, and she stopped crying almost instantly.
The door sprang open, and Sherlock walked in, tearing off his coat and muffler. "What did you find?" he asked abruptly, pausing for a moment to smile at Rosie.
"You might want to sit down." John said. Sherlock shot him a look.
"Fine. A brown file with 'Sherrinford' printed on the first page."
Over the years, John had learnt that very few things could shake Sherlock, but this certainly did. Sherlock collapsed in his armchair and leaned back, eyes closed, fingertips joined.
"What else?"
"This picture on the second page."
John and Sherlock huddled over the phone, their heads close together. John could feel Sherlock's hair tickling his face, and he didn't mind. Sherlock smelt like a combination of tea, dust and another familiar smell that he couldn't quite place. Sherlock looked up, blue eyes flashing thoughtfully, and John had to resist the urge to lean in and brush a stray curl off his face. Control yourself, John. He just came back from a date. That's probably why his hair is messy in the first place.
"Doesn't she look like Irene Adler?" John asked, breaking eye contact. "I mean, she's chubbier, has blonde hair, but if you look closely, it's the same woman. Also, Oliver told me that he had a daughter named Charlotte. Her mother walked out when she was a baby, and Charlotte rarely came home after college. Kept in touch with him, though."
"What else did the file contain?"
"I didn't have enough time to look through the rest of it. What about you? What did you find?"
Sherlock ignored him, leaning back and closing his eyes again.
"Sherlock? How was the date?"
No answer. John tried again. "What are you thinking?"
Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh. "Nothing, at the moment. Your voice is interfering with my brainwaves in more than one way."
"Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?"
Sherlock opened one eye and cocked his eyebrow, surveying John carefully. "Both." he said softly. John's heart skipped a beat.
"I'll be up late thinking, so you may as well take the bedroom." Sherlock continued, "Don't try to speak to me before tomorrow or I might throw something at you. No, you can leave Rosie here."
So saying, he got up and took out his violin, no doubt preparing himself for a night of contemplation. "My dear Watson," he said, face breaking into an excited grin, "The game is on."
"You didn't sleep, did you?" John asked Sherlock at the breakfast table.
"No, of course not. Sleep is for the weak."
"Are you at least going to eat something?"
"No. Digestion takes away the energy which could otherwise be utilised by my brain."
"Well, you must've deduced some stuff yourself when you were out with Irene. Are you going to tell me about what happened with her?"
"No. You might want to ask your boss for the day off tomorrow. We're going to take a little day-trip."
"Any point in me asking where we're going?"
"None."
It was already late evening by the time Mycroft arrived at 221B Baker Street. He straightened the knocker and greeted Mrs Hudson, then headed up the stairs. He couldn't help but admire the homeliness of the place, but he preferred the cool classiness of his own house. At least there was no sentiment and attachment clouding it. He opened the door to find Sherlock standing by the cot, tucking Rosie in. Well, there's a sight I thought I'd never see, Mycroft thought.
"You called, brother mine?"
"Do have a seat, Mycroft. I'm sorry you had to go to the trouble of coming to Baker Street, but you told me never to come to the office if I wanted to talk about anything...sensitive."
Mycroft's demeanour immediately changed. He understood exactly what Sherlock wanted to talk to him about.
"She's the same as she was a few days ago. Talking to the nurses a little, playing music, taking her medication."
"Yes, and I need to visit her." Sherlock said, settling into the armchair opposite his brother, "And I need to take John Watson and The Woman with me."
Mycroft smiled. He was rather glad that Sherlock had finally visited the crime scene. It was frankly quite perplexing, and the fact that it involved Irene Adler had only complicated it more.
"Should I also buy you three a tourist hat each?" he asked. "Sherlock, it isn't a zoo. I can't just get tickets and send you waltzing in."
"John found a Sherrinford file hidden in Miss Adler's luggage, but he couldn't go through it properly. All he saw was a photo of someone who greatly resembled her."
Mycroft frowned. "You can't be serious. If Irene Adler was in any way involved with Sherrinford -"
"-you'd know about it, yes. I need you to search the databases for any connection between her and Sherrinford, or anyone under the name of Charlotte Oliver."
"That was her real identity, wasn't it? We did thorough research on her a few years ago. I'll have the file sent over by tonight."
"Along with the visitor passes for Sherrinford."
"I understand you wanting to take Irene Adler with you, but why Doctor Watson? Surely he would like to stay as far away as possible."
Sherlock hesitated, and Mycroft realized what was happening. Despite being cold and devoid of most human emotions (except for an intense love for his family), Mycroft could somehow understand what Sherlock felt for John. It rather hurt to know that his little brother wanted something and he couldn't help him get it. Besides, he had his trepidations about what would happen if Sherlock started feeling too deeply. He could never forget the aftermath of Redbeard...
"I see. It's sentiment." Mycroft finally said, "He's family, and you want him to start forgiving Eurus."
Rosie started whimpering, and Sherlock got up to cradle her in his arms. Mycroft could sense that they both felt equally uncomfortable discussing this, but he went on.
"Sherlock, you can't fill a Redbeard-shaped hole with a Rosie or a John." He hesitated before suggesting an idea he'd already floated a thousand times. "We really should talk to Victor's parents, you know."
"Will you or will you not get us access to Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked, not turning around.
Mycroft sighed. I've got a long evening ahead.