Author's Note: God. I'm sorry it's taken me so very long to update this, but I've been buried up to my waist in GCSE revision :( Now onto my 5th out of 12 exams, so please bear with me where updates are concerned until the exams are over. Countdown to the 28th June! :D Anyhooooo, enjoy the chapter...some pretty heavy stuff going on as you will discover, but fingers crossed it'll still make a good read :)
*AMENDMENT ADDED*
TW, chapter end: rape/non-con
Not even Watson's injured knee could keep him from hurrying as fast as he could up the front stairs of his house when the cab finally pulled up in Cavendish Place a short while later. Even the click of the lock sounded wonderfully familiar as he slid his key inside and swung the door open.
No sooner had he let it swing shut behind him, a scurry of feet upon the marble tiled corridor announced the arrival of Elizabeth – the Watson's cook and housekeeper.
"Why, Doctor Watson!" Elizabeth raised her hands above her head, astonished. "What a surprise this is, we were told not to expect you home for another two days at least!"
Watson had of course informed Mary in his letters that the duration of the case would be two weeks plus travel time, but nobody's estimate of their arrival home could have been exactly accurate.
"Yes, we do seem to be ahead of schedule," Watson said with a smile, removing his jacket and allowing the attentive Elizabeth to take it from him. The housekeeper nodded diplomatically.
"If I might be so bold as to say, sir, you have been greatly missed these past few weeks."
"It certainly is good to be back." Watson took off his hat and balanced it comically on the end of the stair rail. He looked up at Elizabeth who was busy tucking a stray curl of hair back into its chignon. "Where is Mary?"
"I filled the bathtub for her not ten minutes ago, sir," Elizabeth answered. "I shouldn't imagine she'll be done just yet."
"And Tilly and Rose – are they asleep yet?" Watson noted the late hour as his eye was caught by the hall clock.
"Jemima is settling them now, I believe." Jemima was the young nursery maid who looked after the girls at nighttime so their parents could sleep.
Elizabeth's sharp eyes had settled upon Watson's makeshift crutch and grown wide.
"My goodness, Doctor, what have you done to your leg?"
"An old war injury," said Watson with a wry smile. "Years have passed but it haunts me still. That said..." He set down his crutch and gripped the banister tightly. "...I think I have rested it more than enough of late."
"Just mind you don't yourself more damage," Elizabeth reproved, taking up the crutch and moving it safely out of harm's way. "Will you be wanting a spot of supper before bed, Doctor? Perhaps a nightcap?" She smiled. "Take some pain off that leg of yours..."
"No...No thank you." Watson shook his head. "I think I'll just head up, I'm feeling quite weary. Don't wait up, Elizabeth; I'm sure you've had a long day."
"Very good, Doctor." Elizabeth nodded her head graciously. "Thank you, sir...good night."
Watson gave her a friendly smile and started up the stairs. He could hear the water in the tub splashing on the floor above and realised that Mary was still bathing. So, he stopped on the first floor of their townhouse where the nursery was located, deciding to leave Mary alone for the time being. He would see her later, but first he would look in on his daughters.
When Watson opened the door of the nursery and peered in, he had to smile at the chaos: Poor Jemima had her hands full bouncing a wailing Rose on one hip whilst simultaneously trying to console Tilly. The latter had pulled herself into a standing position in her crib and was, like her sister, red in the face from screaming. Despite the raucous noise, Watson felt a soothing wave wash over him as he took in the sight, smell (and sound of course) of his presently irritable brood.
"Can I be of assistance, Jemima?"
At the sound of Watson's voice, the young woman jumped a few inches into the air, still clutching baby Rose to her chest. She looked around, and when she saw the doctor in the doorway, breathed out what appeared to be a sigh of intense relief.
"Oh, Doctor Watson, you gave me quite a fright!"
"I didn't mean to startle you," Watson said, limping into the room, "I just thought that I might be able to lend a hand." He held out his arms, indicating the still howling Rose. "Here, let me have her for a minute..."
Jemima handed the baby over and Watson smiled as she nestled into his arms.
"There now, darling, don't cry..." Watson rocked his daughter gently, feeling rather pleased as her cries slowed to whimpers and finally to nothing more than the occasional sniff. Jemima meanwhile had taken up Tilly and was rocking her gently, mimicking Watson's technique until the second twin had quietened too.
"That should do it..." Watson moved to place Rose in her cradle, but the baby realised his intention and broke forth into a fresh wave of screams. Spurred on by her dominant twin sister, Tilly began to wail once again also, her tiny mouth stretched into a puckered 'O' of anguish.
"It takes me such ages to get them to sleep nowadays," Jemima said with a hint of fatigue. "I wish I knew how to settle them quickly. I feel as though I'm not doing my job properly, sir..."
Watson stood still and thought for a moment, the piercing screams of his daughters not hampering his logic. "I'll tell you what we could try," he said finally, resolutely laying Rose in her cradle, seemingly oblivious to her howls of protest, and then held his arms out to receive Tilly from her nurse. "The girls are sisters, of course," he said to Jemima, kissing Tilly's little head and breathing in the smell of milk and talcum so often associated with babies, "But they are also twins. It's thought, by some, that twins share a bond ordinary siblings can never understand."Watson lowered the bawling Tilly into the crib beside her sister. "Perhaps they can be of comfort to each other until morning..."
Sure enough, and no sooner had Tilly been placed into Rose's crib, the screams began to fade. Watson broke into a smile as his daughters watched each other intently. Though they were still small, he knew that they recognised each other immediately. He stood perfectly still and watched the girls until, drowsy from screaming, they slipped gently off to sleep within seconds of each other; Rose first and then Tilly just behind.
"Make sure they are put in separate cribs before you go, Jemima." Watson smiled to the young maid, looking up from stroking and kissing each of his daughter's heads in turn.
"Of course, sir." Jemima nodded. "Whatever made you think to put them in one crib together, sir?"
Watson considered.
"When times are hard," he said sombrely, "It is a great comfort to have someone with you on whom you can thoroughly rely..."
As he bid Jemima goodnight and started up the stairs to find Mary, Watson thought with a smile about the truth behind his words; the man who had said them originally; and coincidentally the man whom Watson had been thinking of when he'd spoken himself. He and Holmes would always have their difficulties, but there was no escaping the fact that the detective had saved Watson's life whilst they were in India, and for that the doctor was eternally grateful. When the new baby was born, Watson decided, there would be no question of who would be assuming the role of godfather, no matter what Mary might have to say on the matter...
Almost half an hour previously and just a short distance across London, Sherlock Holmes had arrived home to find that Mrs Hudson, the landlady, had already left for the night. With no footman to assist him, Holmes had been loath to drag his heavy trunk up the staircase alone, and so had simply abandoned it in the downstairs hallway. Perhaps Watson would help to shift it when he next visited...
As a rule, Mrs Hudson's presence ensured that the interior of 221b Baker Street -with its polished floors and William Morris wallpapered panels- remained clean and tidy for its chief occupant and his guests. However, it was clear that she had not taken the same care when attending to Holmes' personal quarters. In fact, judging by the dust which lay even heavier than usual upon the tables and desks, Holmes guessed that she had not so much as entered the room at all in his absence. Not that he could blame her – a woman who lacked basic dexterity quite to the extent of poor Mrs Hudson would have been in mortal peril had she touched a great deal of the things in Holmes' rooms!
Holmes slipped off his waistcoat as he entered the room and tossed it toward a chair which stood by the fireplace. The waistcoat missed the chair completely, landing creased on the floor a good fifty centimetres short of its target. Holmes froze, struck by a sudden thought – He threw his waistcoat from the doorway to the chair every night, but never once before had he missed. Was he losing his touch? Impossible. Had he, then, thrown the garment with more force than usual? Improbable. Or, as Holmes now realised to be the most engaging of all the options, the chair had been moved half a metre further away from the door.
Holmes ran a finger over the mantelpiece. As he had before suspected, Mrs Hudson had not been in the room for the past six weeks, let alone rearranged the furniture. Assuming the chair had not moved itself, someone had been in his room; someone unwelcome. But who?
The answer should have been obvious to Holmes, but it did not hit him until he took a deep breath in and caught the tiniest hint of a familiar perfume in the air. He cleared his throat loudly, certain that even though he could not see her, she would have no difficulty in hearing him.
"You can come out now..."
She had been hiding in the shadows, between a brass music stand the window. He heard it shifting along the floorboards as she revealed herself and turned slowly, searching for her in the darkness of the room. She was closer to him than he had realised -a mere arm's length away- and dressed in the same demure navy blue coat, skirt and hat she had worn on the train. It occurred to Holmes, as he met her eyes for the first time, that he had not spoken to her properly since the night they had succumbed to each other and made love. She was beautiful, he thought suddenly; so very beautiful, but it had taken him far too long to see it. His eyes bored into her now, scorching her, searching her, questioning silently what she was doing in his rooms; not to mention how in the name of God she had got in!
"I knew it," he said softly, finally.
"You knew what?"
"That you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."
There was a long gap of silence before Holmes solemnly lifted his arm and held it out to her. She fell against him, hands fisted in his hair, pulling his lips roughly, yet tenderly down to meet hers. It was a rite of passage now; a necessity of their meeting. They had not touched or even spoken in what felt like a forever, and Irene had craved him like a drug ever since. She attacked his neck with her lips now, leaving no mark but simply ghosting the skin as if she were marking him for her eyes only.
Holmes' hands found the buttons on her navy-blue jacket and began to pop them open one-by-one, silently suppressing the urge to rip it carelessly from her body to reach the warmth of her skin beneath. He was on autopilot now, allowing his body to work without instruction whilst his brain was engaged elsewhere:
There was no sense in denying the fact that his indifference since their liaison had little to do with regret. In truth, Holmes had been avoiding Irene for so long because he could not bring himself to admit that he longed to hold her just one more time; hear the difference in her breathing as lustful gasps built to a crescendo within her chest; feel the way her muscles seemed to tighten and tremble all at once whilst he marvelled in the knowledge that it was him making her feel this way.
Whatever the case, it had reached the point at which Sherlock Holmes could do nothing but accept the one simple fact which had been plaguing him for years – he could easily cut Irene from his life once more as he had many times in the past... Only now, he found that he no longer wanted to. Instead, he wanted her in his life. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go; to tell her that all the horrors of the past months were over now; that he would do everything in his power to protect her; that he...loved her, and would continue to love her because there had never been a woman -any woman- for Sherlock Holmes other than Irene Adler.
With a final gargantuan effort, Holmes shut off his brain and placed every ounce of his focus into clasping Irene tightly to him and deepening the slow kiss they had been sharing. As he pulled her down onto a rug in the centre of his room (miraculously not covered with dust and general rubbish), he breathed in the scent of the gorgeous woman above him and wondered what the night would bring them.
The two Watsons lay side-by-side on top of the bedclothes, their clothes in similar states of disarray and their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Mary's head was resting on her husband's chest; the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his tie abandoned in a corner of the room.
"I can't believe how brown you are," Mary observed, trailing a finger over Watson's cheek with a smile.
"And I can't believe how big you are!" Watson moved a hand over Mary's stomach and rubbed it gently. "How have your examinations been going?"
Mary smiled at her husband's expression. "Very well, you shouldn't worry."
"Will you let me perform one now? It's better to be safe than sorry with these trainee doctors..." Watson swung his legs over the side of the bed in a businesslike manner, but Mary caught his arm and pulled him gently back towards her.
"Later," she said softly. "Right now, I would like to be with my husband." She lowered her hand so it sat suggestively on the inside of Watson's thigh, but he did not respond. On the contrary, he lay very still and quiet, totally oblivious to his wife's advances until she realised his hesitation and looked up.
"John? Darling, what's the matter?"
"I thought I would lose you," Watson said quietly – so quietly, in fact, that Mary could scarcely hear him speak. "I thought I would come home to find you dead and the girls too."
"I know." She raised a hand and stroked his hair gently, soothingly. Not half an hour earlier, Watson had explained to her the turn of events the case had taken. "I can't imagine what you went through, so far away and all on your own..." She smiled slightly. "Well, with Holmes of course."
"It was agonising," Watson agreed. "The thought of losing you, Tilly or Rose tears me apart inside. You are so precious to me, Mary." He took her hand and squeezed it as though he never wanted to let go, and really he never did. "Please, I just want to hold you." He sighed uncomfortably. "I realise how stupid it sounds, but I need to know that you're alright...I need to know for certain that you're here with me."
"John..." Mary was struck with remorse, not knowing which line she should take whilst dealing with her damaged husband. "John, I am right here and I always will be." She lowered her hand again, stroking up and down the inside seam of his trouser-leg. "I don't...know how I can make you realise that everything is going to be alright, but at least let me try to help you..." Her hand was insistent, and when it came down to it, her husband had little choice.
Watson closed his eyes briefly and let out a deep sigh. "Mary..." He shook his head resignedly before cupping her cheek with one hand and pulling her towards him. He kissed her hand and each finger in turn but did not go further, completely contented just to hold her close and know she was safe in his arms. It was Mary herself who took the initiative – pulling herself up on her husband and pressing her lips to his neck, for she was sure he would not object. She knew exactly where his most sensitive spots were, and so paid them particular attention until he responded – strong hands frisking over her curves and turning her gently on her back so he lay over her.
They made love more than once that night, but each time with as much care and affection as the last. When finally they were content just to lie wrapped in each other's arms beneath the bedcovers, they began to talk about Watson's most recent adventure.
"Did you realise that your chest and legs are a different colour to your face?" Mary teased, rubbing her foot provocatively up and down the back of Watson's calf.
"I did." Watson smiled and gave her an extra-tight squeeze. "One downside to the Indian climate, I'm afraid."
"And the knee?" Mary pressed. "Am I to assume such injuries are also common in the Indian Climate? Or just when your friend Mr Holmes is nearby?"
At this, Watson laughed. "The latter, I think." He bent and straightened the problem knee tentatively, ever wary of causing more damage. "Still, it seems to be making a good recovery..." They lay, silent, in the dim half-light of their bedroom with only the sound of the hall clock and their own breathing to break the air. After a minute or so, Watson found his hands wandering down beneath the covers to rest innocently over the now fairly prominent bulge which was his unborn child.
"What are you thinking of?" Mary asked fondly, turning her azure eyes upon her husband.
"Names for the baby," Watson answered thoughtfully.
"Such as...?" One side of Mary's mouth rose in an amused smile.
"For a girl..." Watson cleared his throat, "Julia."
"Lord, no." Mary looked horrified. "Good grief, John, I was hoping for a sensible suggestion at least!"
"And might I ask what your contribution is?"
Mary considered. "'Alice'," she said at last. "After my mother."
"Oh must we name her for your mother?" Watson had never seen eye-to-eye with his rather puritanical mother in-law...
"Fine. Angela?"
"Too pretentious."
"Florence?"
"After the city?" Watson shook his head with a smile. "Too Italian!"
Mary shook her head, remembering the trouble they had experienced arguing over names for the twins a year or so earlier. "Annabelle?"
Watson grimaced, apparently believing this latest suggestion did not even deserve a vocal response.
"What about Pearl? Or Agnes?"
Watson raised an eyebrow. "The last I checked, Mary, you were giving birth to a baby, not to an eighty year-old woman!"
"Do you have a suggestion?"
Watson's mind was blank as a slate until he recalled a conversation of this very same nature he had shared with Holmes during the train journey from India. Amongst the detective's many ludicrous suggestions, there had been one -of French origin- which had appealed to him...
"Esme," Watson said, testing the way in which it sounded. "Esme," he said again with more conviction. "What do you think?"
"Esme..." Mary nodded. "Unusual... But I like it." She leaned in and gave Watson a quick kiss on the end of his nose, trying not to think about having to begin the fight again with potential names for boys...
They never had made it to the bed.
Beneath a moth-eaten woollen rug, Irene and Holmes lay next to each other on the floor of 221b Baker Street, still partially wrapped in each other's arms. Their respective clothes lay, forgotten, in a pile by the door.
Irene was warm and content to lie with one of her arms draped lazily across Holmes' bare stomach. It was pitch black now, but she could tell that he was staring at the ceiling, unmoving save for the autonomous rise and fall of his chest. He stirred suddenly, necessitating the movement of Irene's arm and spoke quietly into the darkness, though still loud enough for her to hear him:
"Is there something you'd like to share with me...?"
Irene's happiness evaporated in the same instant as a large lump materialised inside her throat. She began to twist her fingers together, knowing that this would only suggest further to Holmes that she had something to hide. The secret she was keeping was tearing her up inside, yet the thought of telling Holmes the truth made her heart feel like it was being squeezed; tighter and tighter, invisible hands wrapping themselves around her vital organs until they exploded in a cacophony of pain and upset. But worse still was the thought of keeping her story to herself forever; there was no doubt in Irene's mind that she would not survive much longer without a total emotional breakdown. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to come clean. After all, she reasoned with extreme reluctance, if she was to bear her scars to anybody, her first preference would be Sherlock Holmes...
"What is it you want to know?" She would play for time if she could.
"The truth." His knew her game, realised her reluctance to speak, but only felt spurred by her lack of enthusiasm. It was high time the truth was revealed, for Irene's sake and for the closure of what had proved to be one of the most interesting and deeply personal cases Holmes had tackled in years.
The truth. Not a subject Irene was familiar addressing, but one she knew it was time to reacquaint herself with. Taking a deep breath inwards, Irene began to speak...
Autumn in Kashmir was as stifling as the summer, Irene observed, though the sun was prone to set far sooner. She had spent an enjoyable day by the river – it was Jim's day off and the two had gone down to the riverbank for a gentle stroll in the afternoon sun before both were required to return: Irene to the palace for supper, and Jim to a mountain of administrative work at the Guard Post. Jamal had been unable to join them, but had promised to catch up when his royal duties had abated enough to leave him with time for social visits.
Thus, Irene was left alone in her bedchamber after a satisfying supper, and was just falling into a lazy slumber in her armchair when a knock at the door shook her awake once more.
"Jim?" She called out, stumbling from her chair to the door, still half-asleep. "Jimbo, is that you?"
"Regrettably not, Miss Adler..." Irene swung the door open to see not the smiling face of her friend looking back, but that of Captain Alcott. He was smiling, it was true, but not pleasantly, and Irene could not help but wonder what his intentions were.
"It's ten at night, Alcott." Try as she might, Irene did not like the arrogant Captain of the Guard and found it difficult at the best of times to muster up some measure of respect for the man. Late at night when he had roused her from sleep, it was even more difficult! "What is it you want?"
Far from being irritated by her attitude, Alcott's smile spread out yet further into the contours of his cheeks. "Rudeness is unlikely to get you anywhere or anything." He strode into the room without being invited, much to Irene's annoyance. "Did your mother never tell you that?"
"My mother told me lots of things," Irene answered heatedly, "Including how best to deal with scumbags like you. Now tell me what you want, and then get the hell out of my room so I can sleep!"
Alcott's smile never faltered, though Irene would have sworn she saw his eyes flash, if only for a moment. "Why you wear that silly frown, Miss Irene?" Irene felt a pang of fury as she realised he was attempting to mimic the voice of Jamal. "What a beauty you would be if only you smiled." He had moved closer to her, Irene noticed, and although every nerve in her body was screaming at her to move away, she found herself unable to do so. It was as if she were frozen completely to the spot. "Truly you'd be a woman I'd desire..." He raised a hand and stroked it down Irene's cheek. Perhaps he had meant it to be affectionate, but to Irene it was as if he were scraping a razorblade across her skin. She slapped his hand away and prepared to follow it up with a barrage of assault, but he was both too quick and too strong. Alcott had hold of both of her wrists, holding them tightly so she could make no fruitful attempt at an escape.
"So striking, yet so vulnerable I feel." He sighed deeply, as if with a mocking regret. "Both defining factors will make this easier for me, far easier..."
Only when Alcott had twisted her hands behind her back and pushed her roughly down onto the four-poster bed did Irene realise the trouble she was in and exactly what his intentions were. She opened her mouth to scream, but Alcott clamped a hand down over her mouth so that no noise could emerge. Why had she not taken him down? How had she allowed herself to be subdued without a fight? She bit down hard on Alcott's hand and he bellowed, relinquishing his hold long enough for her to land a swift upper-cut beneath his left eye. It was like hitting concrete.
As Irene clutched at her hand, she felt Alcott's arms around her once more, squeezing tightly, wrestling her to the bed. She screamed out and struggled, kicking, thrashing, and throwing wild punches – anything to keep the repulsive man above her from getting a strong grip. There was a horrendous ripping noise as the silk dress she was wearing tore from the waist, exposing her legs.
"Get your hands off me!" Irene slapped at Alcott's arms, desperate to have him away from her. She let out another yell as he grabbed at her corset, pulling with such strength that the ties at the back were ripped apart and the dress itself fell away.
"This will be easier for you," Alcott hissed into her ear, "if you would shutup and stay still! Otherwise, I fear the experience will be somewhat traumatic..."
"No! No, get the hell off me!" Her screams were silenced yet again by a hand clamped viciously over her mouth, but she wriggled free yet again, drew breath and spat into his face. His punch sent her reeling. She landed face-down on the bed, stunned and unable to move.
"What an evening it's been," mused Sergeant Hawthorne, running a hand through his curly hair with an air of exhaustion. "Paperwork seems a far more tireless task when one has spent the whole day being idle."
"You spend it with Miss Irene, yes?" It was Jamal who walked beside the Sergeant, released at last from a particularly pressing royal engagement and free to wander the palace and grounds at his pleasure. Tonight the two young men were on their way to find the third member of their party and surprise her, a bottle of whiskey in hand.
"Yes, down by the river." Hawthorne frowned and fingered the bridge of his nose gingerly. "The sun was out all day, and I got back to discover the most deplorable freckles all over my face!"
Jamal knew enough English to understand Hawthorne's disgust and laughed quietly.
"It's not funny in the slightest!" Hawthorne's smile showed he was joking. "I think..." His voice trailed off. They had reached the outside door of the guest quarters, and even through the thick wood, it was impossible to mistake – the sound of terrified sobs coming from somewhere inside.
"Behind me," Hawthorne commanded, reaching into his belt and removing the revolver which was strung there.
"I like," Jamal pulled out his dagger to show Hawthorne that he was more than capable of defending himself, "to be beside!"
As one, the two men moved up the stairs and onto the top corridor where the two main bedrooms were located. The sobs were louder up here and far more distressing.
"Check it." Hawthorne indicated the first door to Jamal, leaving the prince behind him as he proceeded to the second of the two rooms. It occurred to him that his friend was a member of the Royal Family and that to put him in potential danger by allowing him to explore the room alone was far from a sensible plan. If there was any danger, anyhow. He had good instincts, and presently they were telling him that the danger was already long-gone.
Revolver poised and ready (but bizarrely with the whiskey bottle still clutched in the other hand), Hawthorne kicked the door open and bustled inside. What he saw took his breath away. The bottle fell to the ground with a smash, but Hawthorne did not even notice.
Irene was lying on the bed, bare from head to toe aside from a few shreds of rose-pink fabric which were strewn around her – remains of the dress she had worn that day. She was trembling, shuddering and sobbing, face stained with tears and (most appalling of all) what appeared to be a black eye already forming against her pale skin.
"Jamal!" Hawthorne shouted for the prince before running towards Irene, snatching her silken robe from its hook to preserve her modesty.
Irene's eyes were tightly shut and she jolted with a shout as Hawthorne put his hands on her flesh.
"No! Please no, get off me, no!"
"Irene?"
Her eyes shot open.
"Oh...Jim," she managed before dissolving once more into sobs.
"Irene, who did this to you?" There was no doubt in Hawthorne's mind what atrocity had been committed here.
"I...I can't..."
Hawthorne nodded, stroking her hair, realising that he would get no sensible answer until she was calmer. He looked to Jamal who was stood in the doorway in shocked silence, his mouth hanging almost all the way open.
"We need a bathtub," Hawthorne said, talking to his friend Jamal rather than to the prince of Kashmir. "A bathtub and hot water... lots of it. Can you get it?"
Jamal nodded.
"Good." Hawthorne gave the prince a meaningful stare. "No-one must see you, Jamal. Is that perfectly clear?"
"Of course, Jim."
"Good," Hawthorne repeated. "Now go."
When Jamal had returned and the water heated, he turned his back and waited whilst Hawthorne carried the stripped and still shaking Irene to the bathtub and gently lowered her into the steaming water. Irene was beautiful it was true, but Hawthorne did not lust after her as most men would. Irene was not, and never would be, the kind of person he desired; thus, he knew she would not mind his seeing her in her state of nudity. Indeed, Hawthorne suspected she had been so traumatised that she would be immune to any sort of embarrassment...
The hot water began to soothe Irene's aches and she was finally able to open her eyes completely. Her head throbbed from the punch Alcott had given her and her body ached like never before, but it was the emotional wounds which she feared would take longer to heal. The water was a comfort in more than one sense – her violation had left her feeling unclean, like a piece of scum in the gutter. But as the water seared her skin, she felt suddenly cleaner, though compelled to scrub her skin so as to cleanse all traces of the rape from her.
Hawthorne was patient as could be, helping her to gently soak her hair in the water and holding her still so that -in her weakened state- she would not slip completely below the water.
Jamal fetched dry clothes from Irene's cupboard. When she was dried and dressed, she sat down in an armchair
"Now..." Hawthorne spoke quietly, yet insistently. "You must tell me, Irene – who did this to you?"
"At first I thought he'd come to seduce me," Irene said heavily to Holmes. "That he'd clear out once the message had sunk in." She sighed and trembled involuntarily, trying to stave off the memories of that night as they threatened to come flooding back to the forefront of her mind. "It was only afterwards that I realised – he never came to ask..."
At that moment, Holmes was nearer to committing murder than at any other time in his life. Had Alcott not already met his maker in a more than satisfactory fashion, Holmes swore he would have boarded the train at Victoria the very next morning, gone back to Kashmir and killed the bastard himself.
As to the case, Holmes now saw clearly what he had previously missed – There had been no Nahali: Jhasmine had been telling the truth. Jamal had never known about his sister's sordid affair with Alcott; he had seen them together and assumed he was repeating the assault previously performed on Irene with a new hapless victim. How wrong he had been. How wrong they had all been...
Holmes tried desperately to tell himself that it was not his fault she had suffered in silence for so long; that if she had only been honest with him from the start, he would have been able to work out the truth. But no amount of self-assurance could convince him that he was not at least partly to blame for her torment; if only he had not let her go the last time...
He wanted to offer comfort to Irene, but he found he could not move his head to look at her. Holmes wondered how she could stand to have another man touch her after the ordeal Alcott had subjected her to. He wondered how long Irene had been an actress for (he never had found out); long enough to hone some considerable skill without a doubt. Most of all, he wondered what he could say or do to console her. Holmes had never been one for reassuring words...but then what did one do when there were literally no words to say?
Lying silently now beside him, and completely unaware of the thoughts running through her companion's mind, Irene felt as though several tonnes of inexplicable weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She speculated only for a second on how Holmes would react before she found out – a hesitant hand wrapping itself around hers and squeezing tightly, though both their sets of eyes were still focussed firmly on the ceiling. It was not words of comfort, but somehow it was better.
If she had learned anything from this ordeal, she considered, surely it was that where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, it was always better to tell the truth from the outset to avoid complication.
No, Irene Adler thought with the glimmer of her old smile into the darkness. It was after all far more fun to watch him attempt to figure it out for himself...