Chapter Three: An Adventure In The Detective's Pocket.
Disclaimer: You know the drill; I'm not making monetary profit off of this, so on and so forth.
Reviews and PMs are always welcomed and given a good home.
Acknowledgments: I have to thank all of the betas for helping me with grammar and punctuation, brit-picking, suggestions and reminders of what they liked. Slogging through thison my own would have been impossible. Other Beta's have been very busy, so as they get back to me, I will add them into the acknowledgments also!
TheDubliner: For the encouragement and the conversation. I don't think this would have seen the 'publish' button if not for you.
MeiHitokiri: For the tireless work and quick turn-around
xXMildredXx: For the enthusiasm and wonderful stories to remind me why I wanted to do this in the first place.
thisisforyou:For being the first to look at this story, as raw as it was. And for pointing out the good bits.
SapphireElric:For fixing my American influenced spelling and chapter break suggestions.
Sianco: For the meticulous work and effort you put into helping me sharpen sentences, for making them flow better and for fixing my horrendous dialogue punctuation. Also forgiving more " . " (periods) a home and " , " (commas) a better life.
Kanna-chan94: For the awesome rush job you pulled to get notes back to me!
Chapter Three: The Adventure of the Detective's Pocket
The entire ride back to Baker Street, not a word was spoken between them. It was a pleasant silence and smugness hung heavily in the air. He didn't spare glances. What he had found appealing about her in the first place was still there, layered under her masks. Always fast to pick up on what was going on, to piece the jigsaws together. And she knew people and how to get under their skin, to get into their skin even, and find out what they wanted most. Then she would give it to them. He didn't think she had figured him out yet. They walked up the stairs, her shoes making soft tapping sounds as she followed behind him.
Sherlock found himself wishing Mrs. Hudson had decided to do a tiny bit of tidying; the newspapers of John's really did clutter the place up. "Collecting articles?" She asked, skirting around one of the piles. He glared at the newspapers. "No, those are John's."
"Experimenting then?" She asked, taking note of the eukaryotic organisms littered around the house as she undid the buttons of her jacket.
"I like to continuously have at least one experiment going on, it keeps boredom at bay for a time." He replied, clearing off one of the chairs at the table in the living room for himself. He sat down and watched her, trying to get a read off her. It was easier since... ah... since Karachi. He found himself wondering the very simple questions of Why. Why had she returned to London? What was worth the risk of being caught again? Why now? Of course the answers wouldn't be as simple.
She put the same amount of concentration into observing his flat as he was putting into observing her. He noticed the very small change in the way she held herself, while she noticed that in a year things hadn't changed much, all the furniture in the same spots, nothing taken out, a few things added to the walls though. He saw the outline of a new camera phone in her pocket as she noticed the full ashtray.
She walked over to the table and cleared the papers (onto the floor they went) from the chair opposite him before sitting down. He was aware that her movements- especially the small slight ones- the way her fingers brushed the chair back as she pulled it out, how her eyes glanced down at the table, how her- brought back memories.
"So," he said as she settled, "You've returned to London."
"Darling, let's not be obvious."
He smirked at her and studied her further; if she wanted to talk about not being obvious...
"You've come here for a reason- of course not something you are going to tell me- which begs the question, why? Why return, seek me out and then not tell me why you risked your life to come back? It isn't money; you have enough of that in Australia. You're curious how I know you were in Australia, the answer is simple- a slight inflection of your R's. Nothing too apparent unless one has a well-tuned ear for accents, which I do. If it isn't money it's..." He paused and slowly his smirk turned into his 'oh Sherlock you daft thing' look. He became very still as he continued.
"Of course. It's personal, very personal. Something you wouldn't let anyone see you vulnerable about except for someone who has; the only one capable of determining your heart without you having to tell them in words." Sherlock said, gently. Well, gently for Sherlock's standards. He looked away momentarily. Why was she here?
Irene's lips had turned into a straight line. She didn't respond. The man across from her was infuriating, fascinating, and worst of all; correct.
"I need your connections." She admitted, though coming from her it sounded nothing like admittance.
"I only have a few that could help you, unless you've gotten personal about the type of Argentinian rug you have and want to know if it's a fake or not."
"I need you to talk to your brother," she pulled a business card out of her pocket, "about getting me in here." She handed the card over to him.
Barfield Home,
422 Pinefell Avenue, Belgravia London, SW1W 6JE,
020 1154 038426
He blinked his gaze back to her, rubbed the card with his thumb and took his time putting it all together.
Irene back in London→ 3 dead call girls
l
John gone at the same time
l
Retirement home business card→ Reason Irene came back
l
Something personal
l
Someone in Barfield that she cares about.
l
Person who raised her → #mother#→ {Father} - *Grandmother*
#too conventional# {impossible} *yes*
"You want me to arrange for you to visit your ailing grandmother? You could just go in there on your own." He told her, dismissing the problem. She may be in danger, but did everyone have to make such a big deal out of danger? He and John spent most of their lives in danger and didn't run for help... unless they really had to, or John convinced Sherlock it would be for the best...
She got that slightly pouty 'oh don't be difficult or I'll spank you' look. It was the look that had made her so popular among the elite and discreet.
"Fine." He said and pocketed the card. "Lend me your phone," he commanded, putting his hand out, demanding silently and expecting her compliance.
She passed it over. The irony.
He dialed Mycroft and rolled his eyes when his brothers stuffy, official voice snarled a lazy; "I'm busy Sherlock," and hung up. He redialed.
"It's of utmost importance. I need you to get me a private interview with Irene Adler's grandmother."
"That is 'of the utmost importance'?" Mycroft said sceptically. "I don't think you'll get from her what you would from Ms Adler."
Sherlock ignored that and continued on, "I want it set up at her comfort for tomorrow evening, before 7 would be best," he instructed.
"Why should I do this?"
"Because I need a favor. In return I'll take the next five cases Lestrade throws my way, no matter how mundane they happen to be."
Mycroft barely hesitated. "Done."
"Text me with the details." Sherlock wrapped up, hit the red 'end call' phone button and slid the phone across the table back to Irene.
"It will be done. Now," he said, getting up. "If you'll excuse me, I have a case to complete."
Irene got up as well, "I'll come with you."
He didn't stop moving towards the door. "No, you won't. It's best if you stay here." He made it to the top of the stairs before she caught up to him.
"How is it better? It's not going to be safe. You've told your brother, who's to stop someone from coming here?" she demanded, hurrying down the stairs in his wake. He turned to her sharply and corrected her.
"I did not tell him you were in town at all. I merely said I needed an interview with your grandmother. It is best. You'll get in the way."
She buttoned her coat up as she pushed past him, "I'm coming with you. I won't get in the way". She retorted, leaving no room for argument. She has something to do with this case;I just can't put my finger on what. He sighed to himself. Maybe having her along will make her give away the answer. She hastily raised her scarves about her face, keeping her face well hidden and grabbing one of Mrs Hudson's umbrella's as they left. She put it up against the sleet as soon as she stepped foot out the door and angled it so that only he could see her face.
"Where are we going?"
He huffed with annoyance at her, "If you insist on joining me, I insist that you keep silent as we go about business." She kept her thoughts and questions to herself for the next half an hour, and he wondered if he had been unfair when he had insisted she be silent. They were currently in the cab he had gotten that would take them to Arden Wolff's home address, which Lady K had texted to him earlier upon his request.
When they got to her flat he broke the CAUTION: CRIME SCENE tape that had been run across her door and picked the lock. The apartment that had once been Arden Wolff's was neat. There were dishes in the sink and laundry laying on the bathroom floor and some in the hamper. It was clear that everything did have a place and (for the most part) was in that place. Nothing had been cleaned up, which was helpful since the police had been stomping throughout the place already, destroying, carrying in and out evidence that they would find trivial but that he found crucial to a swift case closed. Irene followed him about at first, but she soon started looking out the windows, in the drawers, through the mail, at Ms Wolff's poor choice in DVD collection. He could help but glance over to her every few moments. He chose not to. She was relaxed, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
~She isn't an ordinary type of person~
She also isn't extraordinary, she's just Irene. She's posh clothes and rouge, and body language and sex.
~Doesn't that make her extraordinary?~
He was spared further conversation with himself when she asked;
"Is there anything I should be looking for?"
He looked up from the bookshelf he had been inspecting. "Yes, see if she had any drug paraphernalia in the house, check in all the usual places, under the bed, in the medicine cabinet, in the fridge, dresser drawers, shoe boxes stashed in unlikely places and the like."
He went back to what he was doing and found the book he was looking for. Ms Wolff had a timetable just like everyone else. He flipped through it to see if she had made any mention of clients, but all it seemed to be was about her banking, reminders to renew her driving license, a note about the horse races and relatives' birthdays. He cursed silently and put the book in his pocket for later. Irene returned to the living room once more and informed him that she had found nothing. At least she had tried to be helpful.
"Excellent, what I expected, really. Since we can't get into the other crime scenes as easily, give the Inspector a call," he instructed her.
"Will you at least give me his number?" she asked, fingers poised over the touch keypad on her camera-phone. "Left pocket," he told her, now looking at the photos she had up on the wall.
She would never have brought a client here, too personal.
Irene went to reach into his left jacket pocket- "No no, trousers." He told her, scanning the photos first for anyone that he recognized, anyone that could be the link. Nothing. He took a careful look at Arden's body language in each photo, was she happy or just pretending? Irene slowly, and he imagined attempting seductively, put her hand in his left trouser pocket and smoothly pulled out his phone. Her attempt wasn't a total failure.
She searched his contacts for Lestrade and hit "call".
"Hullo- Yes you can, I'm calling for Mr Holmes- he needs you to secure and allow him access to two crime scenes- I'm his assistant while Doctor Watson is away- yes that's correct, two crime scenes- the ones involving dead call girls - umm, just the most recent ones I believe-"
She pulled the mouthpiece of the phone away from her mouth and asked Sherlock. "What are the addresses?"
"Right pocket- jacket this time." He told her, now making careful note of the locations where the photographs had been taken. She reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She returned to the phone conversation and read out the addresses.
She hung up and slipped both the paper and the phone into his left jacket pocket. "He said the soonest we can get in is tomorrow and that we'll have to be fast about it." She told him, dipping her voice into a feminine and breathless baritone.
Sherlock straightened his collar, "I've gotten all I need from here, let's not dally about."
Sherlock insisted that they walk back. As they had exited Ms Wolff's apartment he told Irene, " I need to think. Sitting in some stuffy cab with faux leather seating is not the environment to think in. I hope you wore your good shoes."
"Good shoes are the only kind I own." She smiled and put up her umbrella.
Things are starting pick up! What do you think of Irene being back, and her motivations for doing so? While I didn't get the next installment of "All My Dreams & All the Lights," I did post up the oneshot I mentioned last week, titled "The John Watson File,"
Here is a sneak peek for next Tuesday's chapter!
The offending garment was pressed between them and was indeed, getting Sherlock's shirt wet. Irene threw her jacket atop his (which was laying on the sofa). She gave him a sultry look that named every one of his desires, sexual and otherwise.