S

"It was supposed to be another month before he was back." Sherlock is saying this with a cup of coffee untouched on the table.

Victor gives a half-laugh. "Well, he's back. Nothing we can do now. The ID?"

Sherlock takes it out of his pocket and hands it to Victor. There's a hum in the background that sets Sherlock on edge, but it also gives him something to do. It's something else to focus on other than the coffee, the situation, Victor, anything. It'snothing personal towards anybody – he holds a rather burning vendetta against the day after a high. "Him coming back so soon - it's throwing everybody into chaos. You know it."

"Tell me something I don't. Give me a break." He's snippy today – something's happened… "Hmm. Interesting name for a bloke." Victor tilts the I.D. around, examining it from several different angles. "He got it before the new seal, good. That would be a pain in the arse to get around in a day." Shaky too? Understandable considering who's back; rumours starting already?

The bookstore is picking up steam now. It's been two hours after Alex -how is that an interesting name- left Sherlock's flat in a daze of confusion and anticipation. Mostly confusion.

They all do that.

"Cut straight to it, then. You're not on the list, are you?"

Sherlock still hasn't eaten any of the food on the table. "I'm not on his list." Casual. Nothing is wrong.

"Not yet." Victor says this around a bite of a donut. Unlike Sherlock, he is eating. "You keep this up; I give it three months before he sets his eye on you."

Interesting. He knows what's going on. "How'd you get mixed up with him?"

"High-profile client. Wanted Malaysia – was dead set on it actually. I didn't know he was on the list until he came knocking on my door." He finishes his donut and taps the ID on the table. "And I'm putting that mildly, knocking on my door." Slight recoil – shiver? Something more? Repressing memories.

He knows more than he's letting on.

"What are you saying, Victor?" Still a straight face. Best not to look like you're shaking in your boots, or worse, fascinated. People hate that so much and he is not entirely sure why. He never will be.

"I'm saying, lay low, Sherlock. You're about to get in above your head if you keep up." He's looking straight at Sherlock's face now.

"Not possible. Boring."

Victor cracks a smile. "Understood. At least I tried." He slips the ID in his pocket and picks up the coffee, still untouched and still hot. "I'll drop it at your flat, you'll end up forgetting again. Take care."

"Probably." There's not much room in his head for a kind return of words now. He's started the usual cycle of random detail – like how the woman in the line next to him is wearing clothes well below her means, or how her son is dressed a little too well. Spoiled for sure. Sinks her whole life into his. Spoiled to the core.

"Oh, forget what I said before. I give it three weeks before he starts tracking after you." Victor's face is still smiling, but his eyes have lost the crinkles that go with happiness. Not completely serious – trying to soothe the punch… "Oh, picked this up. You might like it." He slides a book onto the table with his free hand before turning to leave. "You weren't going to drink it anyway."

"Good to know." Sherlock is alone now, trying to focus on the issue at hand, but still coming back to the child. How his mother is so terribly doting to someone who is so clearly rotten.

J

"Are you sure?"

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have told you."

Jim is on the white couch, trying not to focus on the problem at hand. Anything but the problem at hand, really. Maybe how Irene's got her eyebrows knitted together very loosely, maybe the way that she's trying to figure out why her flat was his first stop in London, or maybe the way she's trying to figure out why he still has his driver outside.

A phone call probably would have done the job, James.

I need to talk to her myself. Give me one break. One.

Break? Try being funnier next time and maybe.

He's still sprawled out on the couch, not bothering to put his feet down. Irene won't mind; after all, plenty of people have been in here with far worse than their feet on the couch. "Why'd he come back so early? He was supposed to be gone for-"

"-another month, yes. I was about to put out the call for his head." Irene comes back in the room carrying a fresh cup of tea, which she sips on absently. Jim's is nonexistent. She knows perfectly well to keep it that way too, given the moment.

"Ambitious. Know that you'd end up floating in the Seine right along with the bastards that he put there, though."

Irene sits down and twists her face a bit, eyebrows still scrunched slightly. "Ooh, snippy. You know he put them there?"

"Obvious to anyone with a brain."

Silence. Irene's flat is comforting, if such a word can be used. The buzz of activity along the street can hardly be heard from inside, and everything is lit up to a designer's standard. It calms Jim down, for reasons even he is capable of telling himself.

It feels like home.

It's where he would like to be right about now.

"What do you do about it?"

"Hm?" Jim has been lost in his thoughts again. Irene supposes he must have been thinking about different ways to get through his power complex, although the correct train of thought is more along the lines of 'get around.'

There's no way out of it.

"What are you going to do about it?" She's leaning forward in her seat now, fixing her gaze straight at his face.

"Nothing, Irene." He sighs and rubs his fingers in the space between his eyebrows, the way he does when something is being annoyingly persistent. " I do nothing. You do nothing. Everyone was running rampant for the past half year and he comes back a month early. Nobody does anything." He looks up for a second, just to drive the point home. "Ordering a hit on him is useless, to say the least."

"Give a girl credit." She raises the cup to her lips and takes another sip.

"I do. Just offering adviiice." He draws out the word, maybe to make Irene lay off a bit, or maybe to distract himself a bit more. Either way, it's still just another disguise.

Mask number thirty-two, he calls it.

"So what do you actually need, Jim?" She's still leant forward. "You don't come here with a car full of luggage and a waiting driver to offer advice."

The spot between his eyes actually hurts now, just underneath the skin, but he drops his hand and leaves it alone. It's not her that's the problem. "He knows my network inside and out. The minute I try to do anything he can shut it down before five minutes have passed. He can, and he doesn't."

The knit between her eyebrows deepen. It must disturb her too. "You need people outside your own network is what you're saying, I never thought you'd get to that!" Irene's fucking around with him now. As per usual, he's thinking. It injects a little bit of cheer back into him, even though she often reminds him of pressing matters. It's well worth the cost. "I thought you said you're not going to do anything?"

"Anything rash. Come on, Irene. I still need to maintain some sort of order. I already lost a good bit back in-"

She waves her free hand and makes the stop sign. "Say no more. Really, the sentiment isn't like you when you talk about it. You need people outside your own grounds to get things back up again. I think I can help you."

"You don't have a network." He is still sorely tempted to rub that spot in between his eyebrows, but she'll think it's her that's the problem. Everyone does when he does that.

"I have Kate." A smile.

Lucky.

Jim pretends to ignore her and goes on. "Tell me this isn't someone else's network. Lie to me and tell me it isn't."

She laughs, a real, bright laugh. "Of course! What else in this city? He knows loads of people that you probably don't. He's in the business of forgery, so to speak."

Not again. "Documents? There's thirty-two of them in my circle alo-" He's starting to sound irritated now; the first time since he got there.

She is very quick to cut across his sentence. "Oh, you haven't seen anything like him. Rather sexy, that one."

Seriously, Irene?

There's something to be done here, not someONE.

Interesting idea.

Shut up.

"Focus? I'm pretty sure you know I prefer not to be dead in an alley somewhere."

The idea is rather nice, admit it.

Shut up.

Get some.

Shut. Up.

She sips on her tea again and relaxes her face, feigning innocence. "I tried. But he does have a rather useful network. It gets stuff done."

Jim gets up from his seat now, taking care to rebutton his jacket. "Where is he?"

"Right now? It's hard to say; that man's all over the place. Try-"

He's already moving out the door, leaving Irene alone with her tea. "Text me." He takes care to shut the door on his way out, though. Best not let in a draft.