Okay, so I'm not British. (Obviously, by the way I spell "color", "favorite", and other words). The only words from British dialect I honestly know seem to be "bloody" and "tele". So if you guys would be gracious enough to extend your knowledge of British "slang" as I like to call it, that would be great. Thanks(:
Sherlock was over-the-moon. As he awoke the next morning, he rolled on his side and faced the window. He could hear the faint sound of cars in the distance, and he knew today was going to be a better day. Instinctively, he reached his fingers to his lips. The tingling sensation had been there ever since Irene had left, and he had a funny feeling it wasn't going anywhere.
After he had showered and changed into fresh clothes, he brewed himself a cup of coffee. The local news for D.C. was talking about random current events, none that Sherlock even seemed to care about. The paper was dull as well; journalists weren't learning proper writing techniques these days. Just as he was taking his first sip of coffee, his phone buzzed.
I have news. Meet me at the one coffee shop downtown. It has a green awning... Cody's I believe. Twenty minutes.
He smiled. She found something. He agreed, and grabbed a jacket.
It was cold outside; the wind whipped at Sherlock's head. His hair flew all over the place, and he was sure his ears had small icicles on the edges of them. But, he found it, ten minutes early. It was a quaint shop, much like a locally-owned Starbucks, except the people inhabiting it weren't local college kids trying to take advantage of the Wifi and look "cool." These were people- real people- that had real jobs and enjoyed a cappuccino while reading their favorite book or reminiscing with friends. Sherlock examined the people in the line in front of him, realizing that most of them had government secretary jobs, nothing of too much importance. They made enough to sustain them here, and most of them were single with pets to satisfy their needs of companionship. To Sherlock, their lives were of no importance. He didn't need to humiliate them; he didn't want to risk blowing his cover. So, he just wait his turn in line while trying to wait for Irene without seeming like a nervous idiot.
Irene noticed him as soon as she walked into the door. He was staring at the menu, trying to figure out what he wanted. She smiled to herself, watching him become confused. He seemed to be torn between two choices, but she wasn't sure what. No doubt he'd had a cup of coffee before agreeing to meet her. She walked up beside him, trying to pretend like he was a random person. She even squinted her eyes to look like she couldn't really see the menu.
"I was contemplating buying you a latte. You seem like a hazelnut machiatto kind of woman, as well." He turned to face her, slipping his hand around her waist. "You puzzle me, Ms. Adler."
"I must be doing something right." She stared ahead, recalling the previous nights' texts. She didn't look at Sherlock, but she knew she'd have to tell him anyways. Sherlock deserved her honesty, and she was tired of playing the bad guy.
"Well? What would you like?"
"I can pick up my own tab."
"Oh, no. The pleasure is all mine." Sherlock stepped forward to the barrister. He took another look at Irene, squinted his eyes, sighed, and faced the barrister. "She'll take a dark cherry white mocha, please. Medium. Nonfat milk."
"And you?"
"He'll take a large three-shot cappuccino." Irene smiled softly at Sherlock, who stared at her with wide eyes. He wasn't sure how she'd figured it out, but she was learning all the while.
Sherlock handed the barrister his card, and they sat at a table near a floor-length window with their hot drinks. "What is it you wanted to tell me? What have you found out?"
"That things aren't always what they seem. Mr. Holmes, there I things I can't tell you here because... well, we're probably being watched. I'm afraid my phone's being traced as well. It's a risk even speaking about this to you now, in public. I have this grave feeling photos are being taken of us, however, we must act like we're casually out on a coffee-date." She smiled and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. Sherlock responded with a small shake of his head, and a smile on his face while he turned to look out the window. There was no one peculiar out on the street or sitting outside the restaurant across the street from them.
"I had thought that's what this was, Ms. Adler." He smirked at her, and she started fiddling with her hair, twisting strands around her fingers.
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. But... Sherlock. I'm serious. There's someone out there... He's like Jim... But not." She spoke through her teeth, forging a huge smile, keeping her voice low. Sherlock let out a hearty chuckle to throw off some of the customers sitting around them.
"How did you come across this... Mastermind?"
"He texted me.. Last night. He wants to play some twisted game, Mr. Holmes." At Sherlock's look of disgust, she shook her head, still smiling. "And, no, not like that. He's purely interested in making a new Sherlock Holmes... The villain."
"Then we'll just have to stop him." Sherlock rose from his seat, pulling hers out for her and leading her out into the street. "Did he- or she- mention to you about their whereabouts?"
"London. He got my number from an old client who's vacationing there with his family. He never mentioned his name, though."
"Well, Ms. Adler, it looks like we'll be finding ourselves back in London after all."
Irene dawned a sudden devilish grin. "We'll give a new meaning to 'dead men walking'."
John woke the morning after his "coffee-incident" and shook his head. He must've been dreaming about it, because it definitely had not been-
"Good morning, Mr. Watson. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Hudson let me in after I explained to her I was an old friend of yours. How've you been?" There, in a pair of blue jeans and a loose-fitting dress shirt (that quite reminded him of one of Sherlock's) stood none other than Ms. Irene Adler, who was scrambling some eggs while drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
Watson staggered, hiding behind a doorway, clad in nothing but his underwear. "I must be dead."
"Why? Never seen a dead girl, Mr. Watson?" Irene cocked a smile, winking at him. "It's about time I turned up here again. I could never stay away from London for too long; it's my home." She picked up the skillet and walked over to the table, where she placed it in the middle. The table had been set, but for three people. John arched an eyebrow. Was Mrs. Hudson coming for breakfast? "Get some clothes on for Christ's sake. The only one around here allowed to eat in their battle armor is me. Breakfast's in five." John did as he was told, ducking back into his room and pulling on a fresh pair of clothes. A shower would come later, but some fresh cologne wouldn't hurt. Much better, Watson.
John made his way back out to the dining room, where he sat across from Irene. She was idly reading the morning paper, laughing. "What brings you back home, Ms. Adler?"
"To end Moriarty's game."
"Moriarty's dead, don't you know? Just like.." John stopped. You were actually about to say it, you fool.
"Sherlock? Oh, yes. Quite. He's so dead he's-" Irene stopped, smiling. "How's the other Mr. Holmes?"
"Mycroft? Why, I wouldn't know. Haven't heard a word form him since the-"
"Suicide? It's quite alright to speak of it, John. We all have to move on from death, anyways."
"Speaking of death, I thought you'd had your head chopped off in Pakistan..."
"Well, the late Sherlock Holmes saved me." Her eyes softened for a moment. "In more ways than one." She stiffed again. "Anyways, Mr. Watson, it's good to know you have at least one friend in this world. However, I could recommend a better list of mixed beverages other than the straight up Scotch you seem to enjoy."
John shrugged. "So even though Moriarty's dead, he's still playing a game?"
Irene shrugged. "Well, I think this person is trying to trick me into believing that Moriarty's still alive. However, all I have are text messages. You wouldn't happen to know of anyone who could trace them, do you?"
"So you came to me instead of one of your old clients?" John was apprehensive, staring at Irene. Her eyes were stone; she was hiding something.
"My old clients want me dead, John."
"What's stopping me from killing you after what you did to Sherlock?"
"What I did?"
"Yes! That bloody buffoon tried his hardest to consume himself with cases, he was so into you. You just had to ruin his heart, didn't you?"
"I didn't ruin his heart, John, he ruined mine." Irene stared down into her plate, swallowing. "But, nevertheless, there's not much we can do now. Tell me, are you always clumsy with your coffee?" She smirked at him.
"So that was you."
"Yes. I had to make sure you still remembered me."
"Oh. Well, let me take that phone for you. I'll get it looked at. I'm sure you'll be staying here, won't you?"
"I'm not letting you take my phone. I might never see it again." Irene pushed away from the table, standing. "I'm going with you."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Ms. Adler."
"I think it's a stupendous one." The chilling voice cut through the air like a knife. There was only one person John ever knew to use "stupendous" sarcastically.
Sherlock.