Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "I Know Him So Well" from the musical Chess.
July 28th, 1891
"And…en garde!" Holmes commanded, flicking his blade into ready position. Madeline followed suit, fatigue weighing heavily on her.
"I can see why this sport is not encouraged at young ladies' schools," she huffed, allowing her rapier to beat against his slightly. Her combat clothes, as she dubbed them, was an old fencing uniform Sherlock found buried in a trunk in the attic, and he even found her a mask to protect her face. Anything that could protect her from gaining more damage to her body was preferable, she reflected. Sweat crawled down the back of her neck; she was grateful that her shorn hair had not lengthened much since it was first cut.
"Oh, perhaps we should change that. Insert swordplay between dance and elocution lessons, that would be somewhat acceptable, I think," joked Holmes, advancing towards her and attacking. She parried, dropping wordplay in favor of concentrating on the action.
A month into the strenuous practice, Madeline was showing definite promise as a fencer, provided she kept her emotion under control. It took awhile to get used to the terms, but it seemed simple enough once she linked the words to the forms. Riposte and lunge, remise and ballestra rolled easily through her brain. Definitely it was the emotion that would be her downfall in an actual battle. And Holmes, still an arrogant and devious man, would use it to his advantage despite being the teacher.
In all honesty, he didn't expect her to last past the first day of training, the literal day after her birthday. She'd shown up, rapier in hand and tutoring fee in her pocket. He'd refused the fee, and thrust trousers, a waistcoat and a shirt at her to change into. Once they started the work, her muscles stretched and tore in a way that they never had before. Running was a fun activity, but fencing involved every part of her body. Combined with her still-weak arm and leg, the day was just a horror physically. She wanted to learn, and the best way to do so was to get right into the work, he rationalized.
Madeline was thoroughly exhausted by the end, glaring fully at her friend and at one point saying he was bourgeois, bollock-loving bastard before promptly slumping on the ground to rest. He let the insults go; merely commenting on how women were such a delightful, unspiteful species, Holmes sat down next to her and they both chuckled at the banter.
In between his cases, he'd find the time to instruct on her form, and holding the blade, and attacking. Since there was absolutely no room at 221B to fight, they had to take a carriage down to a half-used warehouse. The owner owed Holmes a favor for solving the mystery of where his surplus supplies were going to, and so he paid it by letting the two spar in the space where the workers didn't go. Sometimes they'd draw a crowd, with them crowing for one or the other to win. Madeline was heckled quite a bit, simply for being a woman in a man's activity, but a few of the men were rooting for the day when she would best Holmes.
Which often seemed like she'd never be able to do so.
Holmes lunged forward, rocketing past her as she stepped out of the way quickly. His blade, though, came at her again, and she barely parried it.
"You have to attack at some point," Sherlock grunted, circling her slowly.
"Every time I do, you regain the upper hand," she wearily explained, trying to straighten her stance.
"Ah, are you attempting to tire me out, or goad me into a blindsided attack?"
Madeline bit her lip, struggling to keep her fury under wraps. Was her plan that transparent?
"So both then," he continued, raising his steel once more. "Allow me to enlighten you, ma'am. I have years of experience, so I don't tire easily or make mistakes."
"Everyone makes mistakes," she chided him, gripping the hilt hard in her right hand. He responded by flying at her again, his weight thrown into the move. She blocked it, but fell under the pressure. Now he was playing dirty, something else he was very good at. His argument for that was an opponent in today's world couldn't be held to Queensbury Rules (despite those rules being only applicable to boxing), and so one must always be prepared to deceitfully overpower the offender if one had no other choice.
'He wants it that way? Fine!' she thought, sweeping her leg to the left and hooking it behind one of his knees. With a sharp pull, he dropped down on one leg and was incapacitated briefly. Taking advantage of his lost time, she sprang back onto her feet and lunged. The rapiers crashed and rang, a fluid dance of steel sweeping from one side to another. Holmes increased the speed of his weapon's dancing, and soon the movement was almost a hum. At one point, Madeline was absolutely lost, her muscle memory taking over the fight as she was figuring out what to do.
And then, she saw her opening. Pressing forward slightly, she caused their separate hilts to interlock, and with a substantial push she flung his blade out of his hands. Trouble is, her blade went along with his. They clattered some fifteen yards away, and the workers nearby were cheering and grumbling alternately.
The duo looked at each other, to the blades and back again, before making a mad dash to get to the rapiers first.
Madeline managed to gain a few steps, until Holmes grabbed her ankle and hauled her backward. She dropped down hard on her side, and Sherlock attempted to scoop up the weapons. However, the lady wouldn't let him have so easy a victory and instead got onto her feet once more and launched herself bodily at him. They tumbled to the dirt, and somehow one or the other caused them both to be dragged into a roll. Eventually they had somersaulted twenty feet past their mutual target, each intent on pinning the other down instead.
In the midst of the struggle, grunts turned into giggles, and punches turned into meaningless slaps. As they turned over and over, Holmes discovered that by jabbing a finger lightly in her ribs she was sent into hysterics.
"You ass!" Madeline chortled, right as Holmes got a hold of her arms and slammed them into the ground. His legs were on either side of hers, holding them together so she couldn't knee him in any sensitive areas. Unable to wriggle out from underneath him, she half-glared at him. His hilarity shown through his dark eyes as she groaned, "Damn…fine, I declare myself defeated."
"I'm so sorry, but I didn't quite hear you," he teased, turning his head slightly as if he would be able to understand her words better that way.
"I said, you win."
He snorted. "I don't believe the men up in the rafters can hear you either."
Madeline arched her back slightly, trying to pull loose. Being held down by her highly intelligent, quite strong, highly attractive friend was rapidly expelling her amusement.
"Do you want me to start screaming 'assault', Sherlock? Because I could do that…" she muttered, looking past him to the rafters, the roof, anywhere but his face.
Smirking, Holmes let her limbs go and rose to his feet. Holding out a hand, he waited until she'd brushed herself off before assisting her up. Patting her shoulder abruptly, he turned away to gather up the rapiers.
"I must say, you're improving," he confided loudly, sheathing his blade. Pulling out a handkerchief, he began to wipe the sweat and dirt off his face while continuing, "At least, quite well for someone who was a cripple two months ago."
"I thank you, sir," she murmured sarcastically, searching for her protective mask which had been flung off during the scuffle. Once it was found, she went to Holmes and snatched her blade from him.
"Truly, you've done far better than I had originally expected. Think for a moment; could you have imagined possibly engaging in such a vigorous activity in June? No," Sherlock answered for her, "I know you couldn't have. And you're certainly no master, but given some time, you may prove quite good at the endeavor."
Madeline blinked, taken aback by the outpouring of confidence. It wasn't often that Holmes gave a true compliment, without it being backhanded in some way. Her mouth, parted slightly, opened more for her to speak, but he pivoted on his heel and strode away. Effectively cutting her off, he waved towards her direction.
"Come now, lessons are over for today, madam. If you so wish, we may have time to get to our respective homes and change into evening wear to see the opera with Watson and Mary."
She smiled brightly at that, trotting after him. "How could I resist such an invitation?"
In spite of her soreness and hasty dressing, Madeline had a grand time at the opera with Sherlock, John, and Mary. After a good three years of only letters and telegrams with her school chums, it was nice to rely on another set of people for outings in the City. Granted, one of them didn't know when to stop being analytical (going so far as to inform the gentleman in the row ahead of them that perhaps he shouldn't be visiting the East End to find an escort for the show, which nearly resulted in a brawl during Act Three), but she finally had "adult" friends all the same. Julianne and Constance were dear sisters, Nanny a mother; companions were what she needed. Dinner was had after the enchanting show, with it actually going swimmingly and without Holmes' brand of cheerful disruption. Contrary to her original thoughts, he did know how to behave when it was required of him. In any case, she definitely knew better now, and came to expect the unexpected.
xXxXxXx
July 29th, 1891
The next day, Madeline briskly walked from her home toward Baker Street, staying very close to the buildings lining the roads. She would never try outrunning a carriage again; next time, she would duck into the nearest house and stay put. As luck would have it, no cabs clipped by her, and so she began to relax. Forever she would be tense walking the streets of London, no matter how many years would pass since the "incident", as she dubbed it. Tying the sword and its sheath tighter around her waist, she never saw the woman crossing right into her path.
"Oh, dear me!" she spluttered when the woman tripped and fell. "I am sorry, I was preoccupied. Do forgive me."
"That's quite alright," the other lady said, her American accent cutting through the air. Her wide smile did not seem genuine, even though it had a way of lighting up her bright blue eyes. Dark brunette hair spilled out of her hat, knock off kilter thanks to Madeline's lack of depth perception. Some dust had gathered on the woman's pretty yellow gown, but it was nothing that couldn't be wiped away.
"Here, let me help you up," Madeline said, thoroughly embarrassed and holding out her hand. The lady gripped her finger tightly and hauled herself up, meanwhile staring unabashedly at her. "I, uh…"
"Aren't you that woman who brought her maid to trial for attempted murder in June?" the American asked bluntly. "Pardon my bad manners, but isn't that you? I saw your picture in the newspapers."
Wincing, Mrs. St. James nodded. The other woman glanced to her right, and a twinge of recognition caught in Madeline's throat when the American's face was in profile. Where had she seen this woman before?
"Yes, that was me. I am Mrs. Madeline St. James. What is your name?"
The dark brunette shrugged. "Just Miss Irene Adler, although I was a Missus Something-Or-Other in the recent past."
"Ah," Madeline responded, unsure of what to say. "Well, Miss Adler, I was completely unaware that my picture ever made its way to the press. I've nothing that reminds of the trial."
Adler had the grace to at least look mortified. "I didn't mean to cause you discomfort. I just thought-"
'Americans,' St. James thought acidly. Aloud she cut in, "It's no issue, miss."
They chatted lightly, with Irene pointing out the novelty of the rapier attached to Madeline's waist, and the minor details of the trial. When the subject turned to the detective who'd saved her life, the British woman noted a hard veil descending over the American one's eyes. Privately she fancied this Adler knew Holmes in some way.
"What do you think of the man? I can hardly run into anyone who doesn't have some opinion on him," she queried, wanting to break past the barriers. Adler would have none of it, though.
"I think he's brilliant, like I've read that he is in the reports and the new tales put forth by Dr. Watson in the Strand."
'A very genial, generic response.' "That's all?"
Wistfulness creased Irene's face. "I find it hard to hold an accurate judgment of Sherlock Holmes when I am not close to him."
Her head whipped around, seemingly at the sound of a vendor's bell ringing across the street, but Madeline caught the second part of her statement nearly lost in the clamber around them.
"Not as close as I once thought…"
"Excuse me?" This conversation was getting interesting, and she wanted to get more information.
Irene gave her a shallow grin. "I said that I simply must be going. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. St. James."
"Likewise, Miss Adler."
The woman in the golden gown nearly sprinted away, melting into the hoi polloi easily and losing Madeline. Confusion roiled in her mind, and so she decided to bypass her need to keep up her training by indulging her desire to get answers from Sherlock himself. Returning to her journey, she made perfect time, getting to the Baker Street residence just as Mrs. Hudson was going out the door. The older woman greeted her happily, her face growing melancholy when asked about Holmes' well-being. He was in his normal mood of experimenting—the new trick was to explore the variations of some sort of compound, neither woman was sure—but he'd received another visitor at the door himself, and they were closed off for forty-five minutes from the rest of the world. Hudson could hear nothing above a whisper, but by the time the female guest left ('Aha! Getting somewhere.') Holmes sunk in a sullen depression, sitting on the floor for a good hour without moving.
"I'll go and check on him, don't you worry, Mrs. Hudson," Madeline tried to reassure her.
The housekeeper gave her a strained grin. "And here I thought I'd be stranded to carry the can on my own without the good doctor. Thank you, my dear."
Ascending the staircase, and feeling a bit powerful for being able to walk up them on her own, St. James stood just beyond the door and listened carefully for any signs of life. All she heard was the ticking of the clock on the wall, and so she knocked on the door.
"Holmes?"
No response. Knock-knock-knock.
"Holmes, are you there?"
A low grumble managed to seep through the wood. Resolving to risk his potential fury, she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was still in disarray, like it had always been, but a table had been pulled out and two chairs sat at its edges. A pamphlet sat alone on the table, spewing scrawled notes and a couple of photographs. Sherlock, however, was not seated there. He was right where Mrs. Hudson had left him: sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at a picture propped on the ground in front of him. He was unkempt as he usually was in his home, unshaven and wearing the ratty old smoking jacket he favored so much. Lazily his eyes traveled across the room, up the skirt of Madeline's violet dress to her concerned visage.
"I don't see why you're worried, I am not dead, after all," he muttered, his gaze latching back onto the photograph. "I am in no mood to teach today."
"I can see that," she replied dryly, untying the sheath belt and letting the rapier drop to the floor. It would do no good pointing out that as a compatriot, she had a right to be bothered about his mood swings concerning a woman. Especially if was about a female; he had hardly any contact with other members of her species besides her, and so it unsettling to observe his ruffled feathers. The action did not cause him to look at her, but she would be remiss in assuming he wasn't paying attention. "Mrs. Hudson told me you had a woman here, and that you were upset once she left."
"Not a woman," he corrected her, "The woman. She was The Woman. And I am not in any way upset. I am…rather in a contemplative state of mind."
"Well, thank you for clarifying, that changes things considerably," she stated, closing the door finally.
Circling around him, she was able to get a closer look at the photograph before he slammed it face-down on the floorboards. Dark hair, light eyes, and a face she'd seen only before arriving.
No wonder she thought she recognized Irene; she was the woman in the picture! She'd looked at the photograph so many times during her recovery, it was ridiculous that she didn't remember Adler right off. And she'd caught Holmes occasionally toying with it, the image capturing his mind long enough for him to not notice Madeline's curious gazes when he did so.
Setting herself down right next to him, she had some difficulty adjusting her legs underneath the skirt. She met his frank glower with a blank look of her own. Seconds went by, and the silence grew more and more insufferable.
Finally, the detective croaked, "Haven't you anything else to say?"
She shook her head, though her mind was screaming questions. "No."
"Liar. You always have questions. Aren't you going to ask about it at all?"
Idly pushing up her sleeves, she just shrugged. "I may be inquisitive, but there are topics that I will not breach without consent. This, clearly, is one of those topics, as you don't want to talk about it."
His frown deepened. "That trick will not work on me."
"There's no trick, Sherlock. You don't want me to ask, so I won't."
"Fine."
"Very well then."
They sat side by side for another ten minutes, their eyes flying everywhere but towards each other. Then out of nowhere, his right shoulder started resting against her left one, his defenses deflating slowly. Every couple of minutes or so, he allowed a simple statement to flow out. Irene was her name. She was from New Jersey. She was an actress-turned-criminal. Adler had been married over nine times. She and Holmes had a summer of passion before her fourth marriage. She was employed by his greatest enemy, but she was Holmes' informer now. Irene wanted him to run away with her.
"She came to me today, and tried to make me go away with her again," he finished, scratching the stubble on his cheek. "You can wager what my answer was."
There were hundreds of thing he would never tell her about Irene, but Madeline comfortable with not knowing. She did not speak at all during this time, rather she let him just talk when he wanted. The moment she would ask anything, she knew he would never continue the subject, so she buttoned her lip and nodded at the appropriate times. One question nagged her mind, refusing to be put away.
"Do you love her, Sherlock?" she inquired softly, tilting the picture back up so they could both see it. Hoping to gauge his physical reaction to the image, she found none save for his jaw clenching momentarily.
"…I have no idea the meaning of the word. I miss her when she's gone, I certainly like the challenge she poses, I want to protect her from the fiend Moriarty, but love?"
Holmes cupped his chin with his hand.
"I am unsure how I feel about her at all."
Madeline cleared her throat, taking in this knowledge. "To be fair, you're unsure how you feel about anything."
His eyebrow jumped up at that, but said nothing.
"Holmes, I'm fairly certain you need to think long and hard on this matter, if you're unsure about it. My advice to you is—"
"Aye, advice that I do not ask for."
"—Look at your past actions, examine your present ones, and weigh in all the facts. But you'll have to listen to this," she spoke over him, and then tapped his chest right where his heart resided beneath the muscle and skin. "If you love her, your answer will be there. If you don't, you need to work towards a solution. Leaving it unresolved won't help you. Moping won't help you."
"I wasn't moping," he countered, the glow returning to his dark eyes. She knew, though, that he had at least listened to part of what she said, if not all of it.
"Right, and pigs are sprouting wings to take flight," she snickered, patting his forearm and rising from the floor. There was no more she could do for her friend, and so she decided it would be best if she let him sort everything out on his own. Upon grabbing the rapier from its spot, she glanced back at him. Now, he was watching her, the gaping never wavering. Taking sure steps back over to him, she bent at the waist and gave him a friendly good-bye kiss on the cheek. "Please, think about it."
He was positively gawking at her, and she was a bit afraid that his eyeballs would fall out of their sockets. With a small curtsy, she bade him good-bye and exited the domicile. As she rounded the staircase, Madeline inwardly smiled; her nonexistent trick had worked, and she wondered how long it would take Holmes to figure that out. With any luck, her companionable overtones would gloss it over, and he would instead heed her advice.
Mrs. St. James didn't look back when she left the house, but if she had, she would've seen the man standing at the window, viewing her departure and stewing over the afternoon's events.
Author's note: Ok, another long chapter out. Thanks to Isis for inspiring me to write in the fencing, I hope I did alright with it. Yay Madeline, for helping Holmes with the "Irene Problem" (she really is a problem, truly)! Thanks for reading, I'd appreciate reviews, and another update will happen in about a week. See ya then!