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: "There's A Fine, Fine Line" from the musical Avenue Q.
June 23rd, 1893
To say the very least, the next few times Madeline, Sherlock, and John were all together were slightly awkward. Having one of your closest friends walk in just as you were about to make love to your other friend/secret significant other was just…mortifying. Well, to Madeline it was. Holmes, as it turned out mere minutes after Watson had run out the door, did not find it all that unseemly.
"I have done far worse things that he has discovered me doing," he rationalized to her, nodding specifically at the tin box on the mantle that housed his needle and recreational drugs. Things had cooled off significantly since the doctor's hasty departure, but they were at least sitting together on the floor, the detective's arms slung around her body. "This…is nothing that we cannot handle."
"We?" she asked pointedly, surprised that he'd referred to himself as part of the relationship. In fact, she never thought he'd go so far as to lump them together except when formulating a plan. Staring him down, he did not blink or shy away from it.
"We. We are both adults, we were found out together. Naturally we are both going to have to answer to Mother Hen about this."
"Oh, and I'm sure he'll be so grateful that you still think of him as a mothering figure."
He smirked at her playful jab. "Of course he will be."
Eventually, Watson came around to accepting their odd companionship, enough to where he stopped shooting them both looks of confusion, that would be followed with a million questions as to how and why this had happened so fast. Learning that they'd been doing this for four months secretively surprised him even more so than the idea of it all. It took all of Holmes' willpower, at alternate intervals, to not laugh in his face or chide him for being so utterly prudish.
But the situation took the time needed, and John was accustomed to his partner engaging in something both positive and stimulating. He wasn't actively using cocaine; occasionally Watson and the lady would stumble upon Holmes writhing in a haze, but not as often as before. The sleuth had reentered the world of crime and justice with vigor, pursuing the clues and perusing the newspapers with more interest. He had somebody to pose questions to in the dark of night, and for once it wasn't the frustrated doctor who was trying to get some sleep before doing rounds at the Veteran's Hospital the following morning.
And thank the Lord, he'd found a woman who wasn't Irene Adler. If Sherlock would be with anyone, John hoped that he would not turn once again to the morally-questionable female con artist.
"Have you heard from Irene at all? I'm under the impression that since Moriarty is dead, she would be free to call upon you at any time," Watson risked asking, walking with his friend towards a new crime scene. The Forester Gang, a rough bunch of Irish immigrants who thrived off pickpocketing and small-time heists, were suspected of robbing the British Museum of pieces of their Egyptian Collection and turning the jewelry and such over for a quick profit.
Mary, before she'd died, had confessed that she wished he'd never given up the world of deduction. She'd hoped to see him at the game, even without Sherlock, again one day; it made him feel part of the greater good, she understood that.
'It was as if she was reading my mind…'
"Hmm? No, no, The Woman does not know of my return to the land of the living as of yet," Holmes responded, barreling down an alleyway suddenly. Forcing himself to jog, Watson was a little more than miffed that Sherlock had not only run ahead of him, but stopped the conversation in its tracks. When he found him, the detective was pulling out his lockpicks and closely examining a doorway. "Somebody stripped the keyhole."
"Trying to break in, no doubt," the doctor supplied, leaning against the wall and watching the hunched-over man work. "Don't you fear her returning…and finding you out?"
"I don't fear anyone, least of all Irene," Holmes grumbled, giving the picks an extra shake in annoyance. "She and I have had the discussion. When I told her I didn't want to get information from her anymore, that also entailed the agreement that she would not come see me again. I should think she would find a way to honor that."
"Like she did when she barged in on Madeline's fencing demonstration?"
"…I reiterated the point when she approached me after that."
Watson chuckled, "That's good, but I do not believe that will stop her, if the news of your revival reaches her."
"But it won't, correct? You'll keep your discoveries out of The Strand, yes?" Holmes queried, nearly glaring him down in the process. The door's locks clicked at that moment, and the wooden portal slowly swung inward. Guiltily John's eyes slid towards the inside of the darkened building, not willing to admit the truth.
"Well…"
"Damn it," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head and entering the place, his eyes grazing over the heaps of stolen articles lining the inner room. It was a storage area for the notorious thieves, and he had stumbled upon the most critical pieces of evidence, the booty. Idly capturing a scarab beetle made out of solid gold, he continued, "Perhaps if your editors were not so demanding…"
"It's a vicious cycle, my friend; the public wanted more, I fobbed them off for a year, and then you came back, so…what else could I do? People I've never met have begged me on the streets to tell of the next adventure, of news of you. I have no talent or desire for lying, not to desperate people," he confessed, tapping his cane against a small statue of Anubis. The jarring noise caught the attention of the two inept "guards" who had been left behind to watch over the treasure. Sharing a quick look with Sherlock, the two engaged in a hasty hand-to-hand combat with the bumbling oafs. The detective dispatched his man with a kick to the diaphragm and a downward chop to the trapezius. The doctor dealt his dolt several whacks to the head with the cane and a jaw-crushing uppercut.
As they were dragging the thieves out the door and ready to flag down a constable, Watson realized something.
"How do you do that?" he wondered, quirking up an eyebrow.
Holmes concentrated with great interest on the unconscious men's pockets, rifling through them for more data.
"Do what, old chap?"
"Change the subject so subtly that I almost forgot the original conversation," he replied, putting his hands on his hips in indignation. Matters were not helped by Sherlock's shrugging shoulders.
"Just a talent, I suppose," the sleuth murmured, smirking up at his friend. John would not let the subject be put aside so easily, though.
"She probably already knows, and is picking her moment to return," he surmised aloud, much to the irritation of his friend. Eliciting no response, he pressed on, "She will choose the most inconvenient time to come back, too, knowing her…"
"And so? What if she does? It hardly matters to me what Irene chooses to do with herself anymore," groused Holmes rapidly, dealing one of the thieves a short jab when he started to rouse. His words and actions revealed more to the doctor the inner workings of his partner's mind on the matter than the last twenty minutes of wheedling. Waving down the alley at the passing policeman, he spat, "She has always been obligingly hardheaded when she wants to be; she will need to be set to rights."
"Finally disillusioned with your princess of petty larceny?" Watson dared venture, putting in one last comment before the officer reached them. Sherlock's face began to grow hard, his detective look taking over, and so John thought he'd not heard. But he did.
"Adler was never mine," he whispered fiercely, thinking back on all the times he'd cared for her and she left him for the next job, the next theft. He came in as a mere second to her greedy desire for more of everything, and Mr. Holmes was not one to be second best. "Just as I am not, nor ever will be, hers."
xXxXxXx
How convenient, Holmes mused, that Watson should give him a friendly warning and reminder that Irene Adler was likely to make her presence known at 221B once again. As if he wouldn't have given any thought to that possibility; it was a scenario he had been aware of happening since he first stepped back onto London's streets in December. Explaining the relationship he held with Madeline to her, however, was not something he counted on. It wasn't in the realm of realism at the time. Now, several months later, the facts had changed.
Were they changed for the better? At that point in the juncture, he would definitely had to say yes. Actually acting on what he, for lack of a better term, felt, was liberating. And Madeline herself was…just…a challenge. One that he relished pursuing.
It was prudent, then, that Fate should turn her wheel once again, and deal him a new dilemma.
The first indication that something was amiss was the slightly opened door to Holmes' domicile. His rules concerning the rooms were extensive, even to how the door should be at any given point in time. When he was alone or working on an experiment, it was shut and locked. That fact was also true of when he was not in. When with Watson and other stragglers (clients, he had to remind himself), it would be wide open. For propriety's sake (most of the time) it was the same whenever Madeline was over, although if it was late enough he could managed getting the door shut and locked without gaining Nanny Hudson's attention.
The next bit of data was the scent of Parisian perfume wafting out. A specific Parisian perfume that shot straight up the nostrils and left one quite unable to smell anything else. And the third point of fact he'd discovered was the lady's overcoat draped just inside the doorway. He wrinkled his noise in distaste before pushing the door all the way open.
And there she was, seated in his favorite chair, the tea service set up on a table by her side and a wide smile on her face. Irene was posed perfectly, her green silk dress catching the light and making her blue eyes dance. Dark brunette locks were piled atop her head, a few shaken loose when she turned her head in his direction.
"Sherlock!" she cried, leaping from her chair and smothering him in a massive hug. Awkwardly he patted her back, and thankfully she pulled away without trying to clamp her kisses on his mouth or cheeks. "I'd heard you were…but you're…I'm so pleased to see that you're alive!"
"I'm pleased to be alive, madam," he told her, closing the door and maneuvering away to stand by the fireplace. A cursory check of the room indicated that she had not touched, moved, or taken any item from its place. Except for the tea service obviously brought up by Mrs. Hudson, and the picture…
The picture of Irene he'd obtained, which had been placed face down on its perch, was righted. Clearly Adler had put it back up, the way it belonged she'd most likely assumed.
He shook his head at his inner monologue. How wrong she was.
"Forgive me for being blunt, but what on earth brings you here, woman?" Holmes asked her directly, arms behind his back and a single eyebrow raised at her airy laugh.
"What do you think? With Moriarty gone, and you being alive…" she trailed off, smoothing down her dress. "I'm paying a call. Showing my gratitude, as it were."
'On guard, old boy, on guard,' his brain chided, his physical response to it being a slight inclination of the head.
"Having a care for my safety was something I didn't know you had in you."
He raised a hand. "Pardon the interruption, but your safety, albeit a troubling thought, was not at the forefront of my mind."
Her smile wavered. "Of course. Watson, being your dearest friend, comes first. But I know that I was close, that I was in your mind. Won't you sit, take some tea with me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I've learned better than to ingest liquids with you around, Irene."
She grinned, her tight grin that revealed how she relished the memory. Besting him as frequently as possible was a fantastic pastime, after all. Still, she poured a cup of tea for both of them and demonstrably sipped out of both to indicate the security.
"Nothing sinister, I assure you. The landlady watched me like a hawk."
Sherlock snorted. "Well, she's learning after all, then."
Then and only then he sat, making the conscious effort to push his chair back so that she would have to get up to come anywhere near him. Her gaze never wavered, an eyebrow inclining at his motions when he finally came around. Irene wasn't about to complain, though. This was a personal visit, and she wanted to savor it. She intended to build another memory, and she wouldn't spoil it if she could help it.
A few moments ticked by, with Irene watching Holmes and the sleuth choosing instead to watch the clock wind down the minutes. Ten minutes. Ten full minutes without witticisms or sarcastic jabs. It was quiet, calm. It put Sherlock on edge, knowing she had some ulterior motive for being there. Adler always had a motive. He just had to wait for her to speak up.
And finally, she did. Setting down her china cup with a delicate clink, she cleared her throat. "I want to return to a discussion we had…at the beginning of the Moriarty mess."
His dark eyes flashed dangerously. 'Don't you dare…don't you dare.'
"He's gone now, we're safe, and Moran is locked up. All the danger is cleared from our paths. And…what I said about not running anymore, I meant it. I don't want to run, skipping one step ahead of the noose for the rest of my life."
She leaned forward, so far forward that she would've fallen out of her chair if she hadn't have gripped the table's edge. Freeing up one hand, she reached over and placed it on his knee. His gaze shot down and back up at her face in a heartbeat, his jaw tightening.
"I'm repeating my offer, and I know I can make a clean break this time, with your help, of course. Come away with me."
Sherlock looked her over from the crown of her brown curls to the tips of her black shoes peeking out from under the skirt. Another time, another place, and with much suspicion, he would be inflamed by such a declaration. But years had passed since their first encounter, since the first time he found that she was more than just a criminal and blackmailer. Since he…he grimaced at the thought.
The detective sighed, removing The Woman's hand from his leg and rising from his seat. "There have been too many years and too many shattered ideals passed for that idea to be genuinely plausible."
Once, twice, three times she blinked, holding back tears. It was a novel act, Adler tearing up, but it did not affect him. Well, it did not move him to pity her, in any case.
"Really. Forgive me if, until recently, I would find some doubt in your claim," she retorted, tightening her shoulders defiantly. Damn, she wasn't completely thrown off, then.
"Trust my answer on this to be the final one. I believe it would be best for you to go," Sherlock attempted to say, but he was cut off by her preemptive hand.
"Allow me to be the detective, Sherlock, and follow a theory of my own."
"You know what I think of theories, madam."
Irene glared. "For years you've had me play at your game, I think I've at least earned the right to make you listen to my deductions."
Against his better judgement, he nodded for her to go on. What she had to say would be interesting, for a moment, anyway.
"I deduce that up until me, you lacked interest in women. Not recreationally, not in being friendly or sociable, or at least not for very long. Not until I came around."
Holmes looked at the clock again. "Perhaps. Pray, continue."
"I catch your attention because I have something that doesn't belong to me, and you can't get it from me. I withhold something from you, a mystery, and you like that. You pursue me, and I in turn goad you, because I find it fascinating to see you pay attention to so much detail. In the end, what we have is a rivalry based on novelty, which progresses past that."
She paused, sipping from his cold tea to soothe her throat before going on.
"You are attracted to novelty, to competition. I've given you that for years, and you have in turn done the same for me. We can always depend upon each other to give one another a good chase, with a capture here and there. But then, another player enters the chase, without either consent or knowledge until it is too late."
Her bright eyes glazed over with subtle anger, slight jealousy. Irene proclaimed, "She is a novelty, a new toy to play with. Or was, which I admit she was very intriguing at the beginning of her case. Foul play in a carriage accident? What's not intriguing about that?"
Ah, so she did have a finger on the pulse, then. Sherlock settled against the mantelpiece, starting to grow bored. "Certainly right there, my dear lady."
Adler rolled her eyes. "How long, though, can she be entertaining? Frankly, a girl like her are a dime a dozen. More like a penny, really. She can fight, and I assume she can think, otherwise you would've turned her out long ago. But how long can the novelty last, Sherlock? She's so…not suited to the world we live in."
"I think, had you been researching more conclusively, that she has proven you wrong on several separate occasions," the detective murmured, jumping suddenly to Madeline's defense. So much for a few quiet words between phrases, he thought. That got Irene to get out of her chair.
"You can't deny that I am dependable for intrigue, no matter where I am."
He shrugged. "I've never said otherwise. Madeline's made the same argument for you, as well."
Irene's head jerked back, as if she was surprised that Madeline would deign to discuss her at all.
"But," Sherlock went on, "I've learned that you are only dependable for that. You're just as guilty as I am for being restless, for wanting to do better than someone else. She…challenges me, but it's more than, to put it indelicately, a pissing contest. Frankly that aspect of our relationship has always irked me, but you were enough to overcome it."
The Woman snorted, "Until now."
He shrugged. "Madeline has never been out for sport with me. It's never been about that. There's something more…substantial, than what you've offered. She's always given something more."
Silence surrounded them, giving the conversation time to settle in. As it did so, Irene squinted at Sherlock curiously, trying to figure out what he was telling her in between the words.
"Something more?" she inquired, hands gripping her skirt so tightly she thought she might rip the fabric. Holmes tapped the mantle with his fingers, looking off into the distance as if he could see her there. The soft expression on his face and in his eyes was one that Irene had never seen. He'd been tender to her, of course, but it was always leavened with suspicion, puzzlement. He could never trust her with revealing that look. Holmes glanced back at Adler, brought back to reality and shielding himself once again physically and mentally.
"On both sides," he confessed gingerly, waiting to see her response. Save for the mixing fury and questioning in her eyes, Irene was the picture of calmness.
"You love her?" Irene's next question chilled him, as if she was attempting to pelt him with ice as she asked. How could he possibly answer that? He was a thinking machine, each moved dictated by his brain and each calculation blocking the rising gorge of feelings that every human had. It hit him at that moment: no matter how hard he tried to escape it, he was human. He could feel…it just did not dictate his every move.
Did he love Madeline? His mind was flooded with her voice, her movements, her green eyes, freckled face, the scars on her arms and legs, her defining courage and appalling change of moods.
Holmes could not say the words. He hoped a simple nod would suffice.
Irene blanched, but only shifted her weight onto her other leg. "It's rather soon to be realizing this, don't you think?"
He tilted his head to the side. "Honestly, it was much earlier than a few months ago that I realized this. This is just the first time you're aware of it at all."
She coughed, shifting her eyes to look at the floor. "It was from when I…"
"Building up before that, Irene." He turned away from her, waving a hand towards the door. "If you wish to start anew, don't let me stop you. Farewell, Miss Adler."
Another minute or two went by, before Irene moved again. Her body was in flight mode, no matter what her pasted-on smile said. She strode towards the door, threw on her jacket, and clapped the hat buried underneath it on her head. Just her fingers closed around the door handle and Sherlock thought he was free, she paused.
"If you should ever change your mind…"
He looked over his shoulder, the determination in his eyes set. "I won't. Good-bye, Irene."
With that said, Irene eased her way out the door, tromped down the stairs, and disappeared into the streets of London for the last time. At least, he hoped for the last time as he stalked over to the end table and picked up the photograph of her. The likelihood of that happening was beyond him, and on that note he opened the wall safe and placed Irene's memory inside, locking it up in the darkened past.
The time passed, and he was unaware of the change of hours until Mrs. Hudson came in, announcing that Mrs. St. James at the door, and would he mind if she was sent up, despite the late hour? A clock in the hall chimed seven times, and he grunted his approval at the landlady. Sounds of steps going down were followed by feet climbing back up. The door open and shut rapidly, the lock remaining unbolted for the moment.
"Hullo, I know this is late notice, but Watson was just-" Madeline began, only to be cut off by Holmes' fast approach and his lips capturing hers. They stayed like that for a time, with him trying to convey what he'd never felt before her and certainly couldn't say…yet.
When he pulled away, he was amused to find her impishly grinning.
"What was that for?" she asked as his hands moved from clasping her shoulders to resting on her waist.
He shrugged, half-smiling as well.
"You're being so sweet…I should think that something is wrong," she giggled.
"Not at all," he chimed, leading her further into the room. 'And for once, that is the truth.'
Author's note, edited 10/25/12: After doing a series of revisions to other chapters in this story, I realized that this one specifically needed more work. I've never been really happy with how things with Irene and Sherlock ended the first few times I wrote it, but with some time and distance, I've found that this works so much better. Irene/Sherlock shippers still won't be too fond of it, but again, this is labeled a Sherlock/OC story, and I've been building up to it for over twenty chapters. Hope you enjoyed it!