Author's Note: This chapter is on the long-side, but I'm hoping there won't be too many complaints! =P I feel I should apologise in advance as it may be a few weeks before the next chapter gets put up as I've got a massive two weeks of GCSEs coming up, and my teachers don't have much respect for FanFiction! Thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far =) Enjoy!
It first dawned on Holmes that he had begun a dangerous and potentially humiliating contest with Irene when he shut the door of his own room, leaving the lady in question safely on the other side. His lips were still burning from the kiss they had shared -the kiss she had initiated- and at the time, Holmes had been unable to resist the opportunity.
Holmes knew that it had taken every ounce of his self-control to break off the embrace once it had begun. If Irene was not intoxicating enough, there was something about the way she had thrown herself upon him that made her seem...irresistible. Holmes was not afraid to admit to himself the effect Irene had on him- he was not in denial of his feelings; just unwilling –no, unable- to act upon them.
Seconds after shutting the bedroom door behind him, Holmes was seriously contemplating turning around and re-entering the room before he realised what a bad idea that would be. This was a game between the two of them, and nothing more. Beyond the chasm of his personal feelings, Holmes' mind was telling him that if he were to go back and try and reconcile, it was very unlikely his attempts would be well-received by Irene. He had made a fool out of her, and she would need time to calm down. Or -as Holmes knew was more likely- she would need time to plan her revenge.
So instead of re-entering his own room, Holmes opened the door of Watson's cabin and stepped inside. The doctor was sat in one of the room's two armchairs, scribbling into a small leather-bound journal. He looked up and smirked as Holmes entered.
"So...You and Irene found an interesting way to pass the time this evening?"
"Testing Miss Adler's limits is a fundamental part of my plan to discover her motives with this case." The walls between cabins were thin, and Holmes realised it would be pointless to deny their liaison.
Watson rolled his eyes. "And testing your own limits in the process?" He smirked again as he turned back to his journal. "She's got you by the scruff of your neck and you don't even realise it. Preparing an evening of shameless seduction... That sounds like Irene Adler!"
Holmes said nothing; merely stepping towards the window and watching the Turkish countryside whip past in the wind. It was an incredible change of scene from the stoned streets of London, but Holmes was unimpressed. His mind was preoccupied to an extent that he was unable to concentrate on anything other than Irene. He had to fight back an onslaught of emotions as he recalled the ecstatic moan that had escaped Irene's lips as he had kissed her neck...
"I suppose that you're after somewhere to sleep for the night?"
Holmes jumped as Watson's words shook him out of his daydream. He shook his head and turned to face his friend.
"Wonderful. How kind of you to offer."
"You can have the armchair," Watson said, getting up and moving a large pile of books from the second armchair onto the table. "But only if you keep quiet. We're due to cross the border out of Turkey tomorrow morning and I want to be fully-rested."
"I shall stay perfectly silent."
"No tapping or recreational noise?"
"None at all."
"You'll shut up until half past seven tomorrow morning?"
"You have my word."
"Good."
Watson ran a small sponge bath while Holmes sat totally still in the armchair. He intended to stay quiet; he was listening to Irene through the wall. He heard her bustling around in the cabin; clinking glasses together as she cleared them. He heard the olive disk scrape across the table and listened intently as the rustle of cloth suggested she was dressing for bed. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up on end as he heard her footsteps crossing the cabin with new purpose, followed by the creaking of the door as she swung it open and entered the corridor. Her knock sounded just seconds later, and Holmes was on his feet to answer it before he could think twice.
"Good evening, Miss-" Holmes was cut off by Irene's knee slamming into his groin. He doubled-up and groaned as he felt her hands wrapping themselves around strands of his hair and dragging him up to a vertical position. He was prepared for two fists to the face, but the reality was very different. Her lips caressed his for less than five seconds before she drew back and whispered into his ear.
"Nice trick there, Sherlock...you nearly had me for a second..."
"I would have said for more than a second."
"It's not going to happen again." She breathed out, deliberately blowing a soft breath of hot air into his ear and revelling in the shiver it produced. "I'm going to make you come undone in ways you've never experienced before. You're not going to win this one..."
"What gives you such confidence?"
Irene's only response was to press herself closer to Holmes and lower her hand so it stayed dangerously close to Holmes' crotch. She smiled triumphantly as the pressure she applied caused every muscle in the detective's body to tense under her touch.
"You see," she said. "That was just a tiny touch... Imagine the rush you'd get from the rest..."
"Yes," Holmes said, applying a hand to her lower abdomen and gently sliding it down further and further until she too shuddered with anticipation. "Imagine..."
"I'm good, Sherlock," Irene said once she had recovered herself and banished the hot flush that threatened to cloud both her cheeks and her judgement. "I'm really damn good..."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"So it's game-on?"
"May the best player win." Holmes was both comforted and excited by her words. It was a poor excuse, but something within Holmes was telling him that this game Irene spoke of was the perfect guise under which to act upon his feelings without the worry of becoming emotionally involved. This, Holmes reasoned, was a win-win scenario. All he would have to do was beat Irene at her own game...
Irene kissed his cheek and backed out of the room. Holmes watched her go and then shut the door behind her.
"Now that was something I could have done without seeing..." Momentarily, Holmes had forgotten all about Watson. The doctor shook his head despairingly. "You're an idiot, Holmes," he told him. "What on Earth possessed you to challenge Irene Adler to a game involving sexual relations? This can hardly be described as research!"
"In what way?"
"Well, you're not exactly thinking with your head anymore, are you?"
"I'll wager six weeks," Holmes said, taking his seat in the armchair and beginning to stuff tobacco into his clay pipe. "Six weeks til she cracks."
"Or two weeks until you do." Watson rolled his eyes as he took the second armchair. "Give it up, Holmes; she's been 'round the track more times than a Derby champion!"
"Maybe," Holmes said, lighting his pipe and taking a long drag. "But I've had my fair share of experience in the field..."
"Holmes, did you know there's such a thing as 'Too Much Information'?" Watson held up his hands in surrender. "Really, what you do in the privacy of your own home is nobody's business but yours." He raised an eyebrow. "And Irene's, clearly."
Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly, blowing enormous clouds of smoke across the room. When Watson began coughing from the fumes, he reached over and snatched Holmes' pipe; dropping it into a pitcher of water that sat on the table.
"For the last time, Holmes, if you're going to smoke, would you please do it in your own room?"
"You want me to go back in there? Now?"
"We all reap what we sow," Watson retorted. "You've dug yourself into this hole, Holmes; you can get yourself out again." He grinned. "Whether it will be with both your pride and every part of your anatomy still intact, no one can say!"
"Without a doubt, Watson, you exhibit the human instinct to take pleasure from the pain of others," Holmes said. "I believe the Germans call it Schadenfreude..."
"You told me you didn't speak German!"
"I tell you a lot of things..."
"Well could you please tell me how much longer this journey is going to take?" Watson gritted his teeth as he spoke. "We've been on this train for eight days now, and if anyone needs to get their feet back on solid ground, it's you!"
"Thank you for that prognosis, doctor," Holmes said, fishing his pipe from the water jug and shaking the droplets of water in Watson's direction. "And in answer to your question, we'll be arriving in the far east of Pakistan within six days."
"I want you back in your own room within three," Watson said firmly. "I'm a patient man, but I'm not sure if my nerves can stand the strain..."
"Watson, Watson, Watson..." Holmes was stuffing his pipe with fresh tobacco and preparing to leave the room in order to smoke. "We shared a set of rooms for several years...surely you remember?"
"You're right," Watson told him, "I do. And that is exactly what concerns me!"
Sufficed to say, Holmes only made it a day and a half before he was firmly expatriated from Watson's room. Whether the final straw had been the tobacco stains in the breast of Watson's best white shirt or Holmes rugby tackling him when he had narrowly missed sitting on the Stradivarius that had been nestled in the armchair, Holmes was unsure. All he knew was that he had not seen or spoken to Irene for more than twenty four hours; and was secretly terrified of just what she could have planned in that time.
The train had left Turkey and was heading south through Iran; leaving the plains of Georgia behind and steaming towards the Afghan border. A bump on the train tracks threw Holmes off-balance, and he fell into the door; putting out both hands to steady himself against the wood. The door was unlocked. Holmes toppled forwards as the door swung open and landed with a 'thump' on the floor in the doorway of the room.
"Nice entrance..."
Holmes looked up warily. Irene was watching him from where she was stood by the window. Her hair was pinned as if she were about to go out, and Holmes noticed she had donned her best (admittedly stolen) jewels; reserved, he knew, for only the most special of occasions.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, getting gingerly to his feet and brushing dust from the front of the black waistcoat he wore.
"Oh, you're coming with me," she told him. Her smile was wide enough that their encounter before might not have taken place. "We're having afternoon tea."
Holmes looked out at the barren landscape passing by the window. "...At Iran's most famous pavement cafe..?"
"On the train," Irene said, rolling her eyes and chuckling to herself. "I was just about to get changed."
"Aren't you..." Holmes began, but broke off as Irene dropped the dress she wore from her shoulders and picked the pool of navy satin from the floor; taking care to face away from Holmes so he could see the round curvature of her buttocks as she bent. She looked up at him, eyes wide and innocent.
"Is there a problem, detective?"
"Not at all." Holmes forced a smile as he removed his own tattered jacket and chose a neatly-pressed tailcoat from the pile of clothes that still sat over the armchair where he slept. He looked up as another comment sprang to mind. "Do wear the pink," he told her. "It flatters your skin tone."
"Fashion expert now, are we?" Irene asked amusedly as she obediently took the dark pink dress Holmes had described from the closet.
"Among my many talents..." Holmes slipped his arms through the jacket and adjusted his cravat in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece. "Who is it we're meeting for tea?"
"Lord Leopold, I'd like you to meet my husband: Sherlock Holmes." Irene smiled up at Holmes, adjusting her grip on his arm as he shook hands with Lord Leopold- a tall, balding man with a contagious-looking skin disease covering his left hand. Holmes had to grit his teeth and smile as he shook the scab-covered hand that was offered him.
They were in the train's conference rooms: an area which covered the entire floor space of the final carriage and which was set apart for business, meetings and the occasional private party. Aside from Holmes and Irene, there were about ten other people in the room, and Irene appeared to know every single one of them.
They had approached Lord Leopold almost as soon as they had entered, bypassing the light refreshments and champagne that had been laid out at the back. Irene had now spotted another familiar face in the crowd and was leading Holmes towards him.
"Mrs Holmes, how lovely to see you again." The tubby gentleman saw them approaching before Irene could hail him. Holmes was not especially tall, but this man barely even came up to his shoulder. "Am I to assume this is your husband?"
"Sherlock Holmes." Holmes offered a hand, enjoying as always the fact that he was studying every detail of the man before him while his subject was none the wiser.
"We meet at last," the man enthused, taking Holmes' hand and pumping it up and down exuberantly. "Thomas Walton. It's a pleasure, Mr Holmes...your wife has told us so much about you. I must say, we are all incredibly impressed by your work. Private detectives really should be given more acclaim... "
Holmes nodded graciously and spoke a few words back, but his mouth was operating on autopilot. The ten other people in this room shared several common factors: they were all well-dressed, and all incredibly well-off. With his tousled dark hair and unshaven stubble, Holmes stood out by a million miles; as did Irene with her American accent and pink dress. It was also of Holmes' interest to notice that by ten years at least, they were the youngest members of the party. His majestic mind was ticking and whirring already as thousands of possible reasons for their presence here buzzed around like live insects within his skull. Unable to decide on one alone, Holmes excused himself from conversation with Thomas Walton and led Irene away.
"Would it be too much for me to ask what we're doing here?" Holmes whispered to Irene, pulling her to one side and helping himself to two glasses of champagne; one of which he handed to her.
"It's a conference," Irene explained in an equally low voice. "You have no idea how long I've spent trying to get myself a ticket to one of these meetings, so the least you can do is play along."
"Tell me..."
"We're Sherlock and Irene Holmes. I was born in New Jersey as the heir to an enormous oil fortune. You were born and raised in London and your father was Joseph Bridgestock-Holmes: An aristocrat who held a seat on the House of Lords for more than twenty years. We met in France while browsing in a famous Paris jewellery store, which you returned to a year later to purchase my engagement ring." Irene wiggled her finger in Holmes' direction.
"I take it you've fed this story to the company already?" Holmes asked; half-appalled, half-admiring.
"It was necessary," Irene told him, smiling at a haughty-looking woman who was adorned with pearls of all shapes and sizes. "This isn't the kind of club you can just walk into."
Holmes said nothing; merely turning back to the refreshment table and taking another glass of champagne to replace his own- the contents of which seemed to have disappeared rather quickly. His eye was caught by a small pile of cards which sat on the edge of the table. He lifted one to the light and examined the heading: NSSPS.
"How intriguing," Holmes murmured to himself, setting the card back down again once seeing there was no further information given on the card which would indicate what the letters stood for.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." A voice sounded over the quiet chatter. "If you would all like to take your seats, the meeting will begin shortly."
Irene led Holmes over to a seating booth next to an elderly couple in matching shades of dark green attire. Holmes took his seat and looked around him; intrigued to discover what NSSPS was. He reasoned that it would be a charity or organisation of some kind, but why was Irene so interested in it?
A man stood up at the front and turned to face the company. He was, Holmes thought, one of the most unattractive men he had ever laid eyes on. But what he lacked in good looks, he made up for in presence. The man radiated power and prosperity; far more so than anybody else he had seen so far. Without so much as speaking to him, Holmes could tell straight away that this man was the richest one there, and most likely the leader. The others seemed to look up at him; as if he were a prophet or deity of some sort. Holmes even half expected them to get down on their knees and bow when he began to speak.
"It gives me great pleasure," the man began, "To welcome you all to the twenty-seventh annual meeting of the National Society for the Study of Precious Stones."
A scattering of applause broke out, and Holmes smiled to himself. The National Society for the Study of Precious Stones. Suddenly it wasn't so much of a mystery why Irene was interested in this particular cause!
"I see we have some new faces joining us today," the man continued, smiling in Irene and Holmes' direction. "Let us give a warm welcome to Sherlock and Irene Holmes."
Holmes and Irene smiled and nodded as the company clapped politely in their honour.
"Now that the introductions are complete, I would like to draw your attention towards our first item of the day; sent to us by Lady Melissa Hartley from her estate in Hertfordshire." The speaker indicated another man who stood just to his left. The second man held a beautiful emerald ring on a satin cushion. It was set with two diamonds on either side and sent a glittering spectrum across the room as the sunlight caught it.
There were several admiring gasps and exclamations from the crowd as the ring was passed around for all to see. Holmes, however, was wholly unimpressed. He sneaked a glance at Irene, and saw that she too had every ounce of her attention focussed on the ring. Her eyes shone with a familiar gleam as the precious stones passed under her scrutiny.
"Tell me," Holmes whispered, "Does the society know they have a serial kleptomaniac in their midst, or did you leave that part out of the conversation?"
"I prefer the term 'Mastermind'," Irene said slyly.
"I daresay you have several fine pieces secreted away which the society would give an arm and a leg to inspect..."
"Maybe I do," Irene said, "But they don't know that, and you're not going to tell them."
"I had no intention of telling them," Holmes said, pretending to be interested as the ring passed through his own hands. "But you should know, precious stones are not my area of expertise."
"Make something up," Irene said frantically. "Act like every diamond you see is a miracle of creation and you should be fine." She leaned in close and whispered directly into Holmes' ear. "Besides...You owe me one after last night!"
Holmes cleared his throat just as silence fell over the company. He wished he had made no noise at all when he realised that every member of the party was watching him; as if waiting for him to speak. The speaker at the front smiled encouragingly at Holmes.
"We welcome contributions from even our newest of members," he said pleasantly. "Please feel free to speak if there was something you wanted to say..?"
Holmes could feel Irene's eyes on him; willing him silently to keep quiet and not speak up. He considered the situation. He knew next to nothing about precious stones; the answer should have been simple.
"As a matter of fact," Holmes heard himself saying, "I do have something I would like to address." He got to his feet and stepped to the front; catching Irene's eye and flashing his smug barely-there smile. She rolled her eyes in response; interested despite herself in what he had to say.
"It should be obvious to everyone here," Holmes began, "That in this room there is a small fortune in diamonds, gems and precious stones." He stared around at the party, taking in the strings of pearls and shining stones that adorned so many of them. "Perhaps it would interest you to know that there is one piece in particular which has caught my eye today- one which lets the side down significantly." His gaze fell upon a white-haired woman in the front row of the meeting. "Madam, are you aware that the diamond pendant around your neck is a forgery?"
You would have been able to hear a pin drop in the silence which followed Holmes' statement. Off to one side, Irene wished she could bury her head in her hands. She knew exactly what was coming.
"I beg your pardon?" the woman spluttered finally. "My pendant most certainly is not-"
"A forgery," Holmes interrupted. "A very clever one, but a counterfeit nonetheless." He held out a hand. "If I may..?" he prompted.
Suspiciously and with mush hesitation, the woman handed over her pendant. Holmes received it and turned it over and over in his hands, gleefully studying the perfect stone nestled in a casket of gold. He looked up at Irene. "May I borrow your ring, darling?"
Irene handed it to him, hoping her warning stare would hit home. Holmes held up the Irene's diamond ring in his right hand, and the pendant in the other. "As you can see," he said, "A diamond acts as a prism; splitting light into a spectrum of seven different colours." He held the ring into the rays of sunlight spilling through the window of the train. At once, a stunning beam of light spread across the flooring; seven rays of light in every colour of the rainbow. He lowered the ring and held the pendant into the light instead. The spectrum appeared again, but in a much duller shade than before. The difference was obvious to everyone present.
"If your pendant was a real diamond, it would surely split light to the same degree as my wife's ring," Holmes told the woman. "I first noticed the difference as you entered the room before the meeting and stepped into the light. As it is, your pendant is a finely-cut piece of glass made to look like a diamond." With nimble fingers, Holmes unlaced the gold chain from the pendant so that he held one component in each hand.
"The final proof can be drawn from the solidity," Holmes said, casually tossing and catching the pendant in his hand. "Diamond is one of the hardest and most durable substances known to man, but glass is more easily shattered. If one were to apply a suitable amount of force..."
Before anyone could react, Holmes flicked his wrist and flung the pendant at the wall beneath the train window. There was a universal intake of breath as everyone waited to see what would happen when the 'diamond' hit the wall. But Holmes' aim had been slightly off and instead of hitting the wall and stopping, the pendant hit the window itself; carrying with it the full force of Holmes' over-arm throw. With a tremendous 'CRACK', the window smashed; leaving a rounded hole in the shape of the pendant which had just passed through it.
Holmes looked 'round slowly at the window before closing his eyes in dismay. "Alright," he said slowly and carefully to the crowd that was now glaring at him ferociously. "Perhaps if I had taken the glass out of the gold casing before testing, the pendant would have bounced back from the window." He looked out of the window, certain that he saw the glint of gold and glass shine back as the light caught it. "If it's any consolation," he told the woman, "You have lost nothing of value. Besides the gold chain which you still have," he held it up, "The pendant was practically worthless."
The woman got slowly to her feet; with difficulty, for she was quite elderly.
"That pendant was a family heirloom," she said furiously. "A forgery it may have been, but its sentimental value was priceless!" Before Holmes could say anything by way of apology or reply, the woman turned to the chairman. "I am most unimpressed, Mr Matthews," she said severely. "It is with great regret that I do so, but I am afraid I must withdraw my support of this organisation." She glared at Holmes. "A noble organisation it once was, but clearly you no longer consider carefully who should be allowed to attend."
The chairman had turned very white, and he raced after the woman as she made her exit from the room.
"No, please wait, Lady De Faure! Please, let's talk this over, don't let's be rash now!"
Another silence had fallen over the room. Every pair of eyes was burning holes through Holmes' forehead. Irene stepped up to Holmes' side and spoke in a low voice.
"Sherlock, dear... That was Lady Frances De Faure of Bordeaux- one of the richest women in Europe. She is the financier of the NSSPS. She sponsored it from the start, and it's her that keeps it running." She sighed deeply. "I guess not anymore..."
Holmes stared straight ahead, unblinking. On the one hand, he had exhibited his unmatched skills of deduction in a way that would normally have earned him praise and respect. On the other, he had inadvertently destroyed a popular organisation made up of some of the richest men and women in the world. Holmes could see only one way out, and he laid a hand on Irene's shoulder as a husband would to his wife.
"I'll meet you back at the room, shall I?" He nodded respectfully to the remaining members of the party. "Bonsoir."
Irene watched him go, taking in the tense and furious silence that remained. She broke it in the only way she knew how; leaning back in her chair and breaking into a wide smile as she helped herself to another glass of champagne.
"So, ladies," she said, turning to the woman in the green dress who sat beside her. "What did you all think of my husband?"