Now, I kind of plagiarized from the American TV show, "Elementary" for this plot line. Sorry, but it fascinates me that you can drain all the blood in a short amount of time out of someone by hanging them upside down and slicing their jugulars. I know, I'm demented. Get over it.
Over the next few weeks, Sherlock learned that Irene was, indeed, a fabulous cook. She set a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of him, mixed with green peppers, tomatoes, and onions, and he gobbled it up in less than five minutes. She smiled to herself, handing him the frying pan filled with them. "Like it?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed, filling his mouth with more. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother. She's pure French. And her husband taught me how to cook American food."
"American food?" Sherlock paused, looking up at Irene. She sound her hands around her tea mug and nodded.
"My grandfather was American. He met my Grandmother during the War. Let's just say that Hitler wasn't too happy about it."
"Your grandmother knew Hitler?"
"He was one of her first high-paying clients when she turned eighteen. Shortly after was when it all ended."
"So that makes your grandmother..."
"Eighty-nine. She was much older when she had my mother."
"Ah." Sherlock nodded, eating more of his food. Irene drummed her fingers on the table. "Yes?"
"I don't know much about you, Mr. Holmes."
"Bullshit." He rolled his eyes, glancing at his phone. Lestrade: Call me. Quickly.
"All Jim told me was about the drug issue."
"You Googled me," he muttered, fingers typing quickly on his phone. Who is this?
Don't play dumb, Sherlock. Mycroft got a hold of me.
Well, then. Why exactly am I calling you?
Because I asked you to.
Liar. Tell me why. Or I don't call.
Call me and you'll find out.
"No, I didn't. I just find it unfair."
"Unfair?" He arched an eyebrow at her. Irene noted how fast his fingers were moving, and rolled her eyes.
"Yes, unfair. You know so much about me, but I know almost nothing about you."
He stood, taking his plate to the sink. "All in due time, Ms. Adler. Now, you can either come with me, or you can stay here. But I have a case to solve."
Irene hopped to her feet. "Do I get to see Lestrade?"
He glared at her. "Only if you keep your hands to yourself."
She smiled coyly. "That could be arranged." When she returned from his room dressed in dark denim jeans, a sheer black button down (her red camisole underneath stood out impeccably), and red suede pumps, Sherlock rolled his eyes. She was so predictable. "What, do I look bad?"
"Just like usual, that's all. I hope your new clothes don't look like you. You're only as good as your best disguise." He grabbed a leather jacket. "But I do like the shoes. Just don't kick Lestrade."
"I'll try," Irene murmured, grabbing her jacket as well. As they walked out, she glanced at him. "What's my alias this time? I don't think the Moriarty one will fly again."
"Well, you could always be yourself." Sherlock hailed a cab and opened the door for her. She gave him a quizzical look as she slid in.
"Doesn't that defeat the purpose?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he handed the cabby a piece of paper with a written address on it. As the car started to move, he gave her a pointed stare. "Madeline de Carte died how many years ago? No one will remember that name, dear."
Irene smiled. "I guess I could try it."
They rode in silence, until they entered a shabby-looking part of town. There were people lined up on the streets, sitting on the curbs. Prostitutes strutted down the sidewalks, short skirts revealing almost everything. Irene muttered something insulting, but it was too quiet for Sherlock to hear. He continued to spot familiar faces as they rode. He knew Irene was becoming tense, but he felt calm. This was his part of town, where he used to spend most of his days. They sold the best cocaine here, and he had half a mind to get some. The bars were always filled with willing women, and the drinks were tastier than any of the pubs near Baker Street. The people down here were real; they had real problems, and drug-dealing and body-selling was the way that they coped with them. He admired this area; he respected it. There were some people here that were going to end up in big places, they just had to deal with the slums for the time being. Others would end up in a cell. Or a slab.
Lestrade stood outside the apartment building, tapping his foot. If Mycroft was right (and usually he was), Sherlock was back. And if the number Mycroft had given him to contact Sherlock was right (most likely), and the person who answered was Sherlock (probably), then he would be here any moment. This case was unlike any other; the victim had been drained of all her blood. There were no struggle marks on her body; she hadn't been raped. However, hanging upside-down from a six-foot tripod was interesting enough. This case was bizarre, and only Sherlock Holmes could help. He watched as the cab pulled up, and a policeman went to direct it somewhere else. "Stop, Hendrickson, that's for me!" The policeman backed away quickly, retreating to his original place. As the door opened, Lestrade felt himself smiling. He shook Holmes's hand and hugged him (which wasn't normal for either of them). "It's great to see you back."
"And I see you've kept yourself well. The beer gut is fascinating," Sherlock remarked, nodding towards Lestrade's protruding stomach. He smiled.
When Lestrade looked towards the left of Sherlock, he was expecting John. However, unless John had had a sex change, he was completely appalled to see a tall, slender, beautiful young woman standing next to him. She had dark brown hair, almost black, her eyes crystal blue, just like Sherlock's. For a moment, he thought they were related, despite Sherlock's now-blonde hair. But then, after she introduced herself, he changed his mind. "And you are?"
"Madeline." She paused, shaking his hand. "De Carte. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleasure is mine," he murmured, kissing the top of her hand.
"I'm sure." She turned to Sherlock, dropping her hand. "So, what's this all about?"
"We found a woman-"
"Prostitute?"
"We're not sure. They're running a background check on her right now. But I figured you'd find out." Sherlock nodded as Lestrade went on. "We found her in quite a peculiar state-"
"Let me guess, tied to the bed post?" Irene snickered, nudging Sherlock. He rolled his eyes in response. Lestrade arched an eyebrow.
"No. Hung upside down by a tripod."
Irene giggled. "Ooh. Sounds like fun." Her voice was low and seductive, and Lestrade felt shivers running down his spine. Sherlock, however, was rolling his eyes. Again.
"Well, not when your jugular is slit."
"Drained of blood then?" Sherlock asked as they made their way upstairs into the apartment. Lestrade nodded. "Who found her?"
"Lab partner. Said she hadn't been to class in a couple of days, so when she came to find her, she found the door unlocked and her hanging in the living room." Lestrade made a gesture to the body hanging in the middle of the floor. Sherlock nodded while Irene covered her mouth with her hand. Lestrade patted her back. "You'll get used to it."
"Well if it isn't the freak," a female voice muttered from beside them. All three turned to see an light-skinned African-European woman coming towards them with a camera in her hand.
"Good day to you too, Donovan," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.
"Who's that, your sister?"
Irene narrowed her eyes. She seemed like a common woman, wearing loose-fitting trousers, natural hair, and a not-so-flattering white blouse. Her shoes were scuffed; she didn't have many pairs. She was an easy target. "Not quite. Good try, though. No wonder you're a detective."
Donovan rolled her eyes, going back to her work. Irene stood off the the side, taking everything in while the boys did their thing. She noted the neatness of the cut across the neck; the large amount of blood pooled around the victim's head. The girl was skinny, a ginger. Her eyes were wide, revealing them to be hazel. Irene noted the slenderness of the girl; maybe it was just from losing all her blood. However, she seemed to be slender anyways. She dressed very sophisticated for someone who was going to school, almost like a business woman. Irene cocked her head. When the realization dawned on her she almost screamed. Shutting her mouth, she straightened, staring at Sherlock. He was busy arguing with Lestrade, and she knew better than to pester him. But she just couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer. If this was who she thought it was, then this wasn't just a random case. Obviously, the murderer was trained, probably an assassin. Everything about this murder seemed staged, almost as if to send a message. She squatted down, glancing at the position of the tripod in the room. It was in the center, and if Irene was speculating correctly, it'd be perfect. Arching an eyebrow, she did the calculations in her head. Turning, she noticed Donovan talking with another man, who was dressed in what looked like a bio-hazard suit without the headpiece, making glances at Sherlock. She stood and made her way over.
Donovan glared at her. "What? Freak want us to leave?"
"No. Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow a measuring tape." Donovan arched an eyebrow, but instructed the man (who Irene learned was a man who went by "Anderson") to go get it. When he returned, Irene winked at Donovan, murmuring, "I like a girl who listens." As she retreated to a corner, she almost heard the whispers behind her. Nothing like a conversation starter.
Sherlock watched Irene from the corner of his eye. He wondered how long it would take her to make the connection; he had just wanted her to do it herself. He noticed how she measured the distances very carefully; he knew that she already knew the dimensions, but was just verifying her thoughts. She was good, and he smirked at her serious face. Of course, this situation pertained to her. Naturally she would want to not make any mistakes.
When Irene was finished, she snapped the measuring tape closed, causing everyone to silence, turning to her. She rolled her eyes at them, giving Donovan back the measuring tape. She walked over to Sherlock and smiled. "I know-"
"So do I. I was just talking to Lestrade about it."
Irene stared at him, hurt. He'd known this whole time and hadn't said anything to her? Let her grieve silently, trying to figure it all out while he already knew? He wanted her to look like a fool. That had been his plan all along. She stiffened, hard shell coming back on. "Well, I'll call Kate's family and let them know. I'll just say I'm from the service." She turned to walk into the hallway. A few minutes later, after a grueling phone call that hurt both parties, Irene was interrupted in her solitude by Sherlock.
"We're leaving." His voice was cold, stony. Irene followed him, keeping her head held high. This was twice since they'd been in London that he'd made her feel this way, and she was going to beat him.
Like most of their cab rides, it was silent. John was away at work until late that night; it was only about noonish. Therefore, Sherlock and Irene had all the time in the world to be mad at each other. It was usual for them to bicker; they had been for the time since Irene's sister had left. Sure, they'd gone out on small dates, and lived normal lives, but the only income arriving was that of John's hospital pay. Needless to say things were tense at Baker Street, and while Irene's venting system consisted of tea and shopping with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock took to more... dangerous methods. For example, he almost blew the entire place up experimenting with a bird brain Molly had shipped to him. It was too stressful for either of them most of the time, and Sherlock was usually gone helping Mycroft. It gave Irene time to cool, but it had only been a month of so. However, if this was what love was, she didn't want to be in it much longer.
Irene's heels clicked angrily as they marched across the floor of the flat. Sherlock was behind her, walking a bit softer. He shut the door quietly, knowing that Irene would need some time to cool down. However, she didn't seem to feel the same.
"Why didn't you just tell me?"
"You needed to find out for yourself."
"You made me look like a fool, you dimwit!" She kicked off her shoes, throwing them under his bed. She stormed back out, bright pink toenails and all. She had also gotten rid of her sheer blouse, pulling her hair out of it's ponytail. Irene stared up at Sherlock, anger in her eyes. Sherlock sighed.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ms. Adler. However, this matter can be discussed later. We have a crime to solve."
"More like a death to avenge," Irene growled, spinning away from him. He grabbed her elbow.
"Never say that," he advised, "because it isn't about avenging. It's about finding the truth. He wants you to avenge. It's his way of getting you vulnerable. Use your head, Madeline."
Irene stared at him with wide eyes. Why was he suddenly using her real name? "Who is 'he'?"
"Sebastian Moran."
Irene gasped. Moran had been one of her clients; that's how she'd met Moriarty. They were partners, but would never admit it to anyone who couldn't figure it out. Moran was a convicted felon, an ex-soldier with intensive combat training. Together, they were unstoppable.
Until Sherlock Holmes.
She shrugged her way out of his grasp. "Well, it was only a matter of time. Was he the one who was hired to have a hit on John if you hadn't called yourself a fake?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure. I can only guess. I Googled him. He seems to be very-"
"Violent? Yes. He murdered a man he squabbled with in a pub because he called him a fag. Which he is, but I never use that term. Very degrading."
Sherlock peered at her. "How do you know him?" He knew the answer before she even said it.
"I know what he likes. Which is probably why he killed Kate. It would figure he would know how to murder like that. Very clean and neat. Professional. I don't know why I never saw it before." She started making circles, acting more like Sherlock as he stood there, dumbfounded. "Does that mean he knows we're back in town? I mean, he probably was watching us when we were at the crime scene. He's smart, but very vulgar. He always preferred whips." She paused. "He has a lust for murder. Almost choked me once. Very large hands." Irene stopped. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"
Sherlock nodded. "It's okay. I do the same thing." He glanced at his watch. "I'm not sure if we should bother John at work. I don't think the hospital likes us that much."
"Well, we did go there yelling at each other," Irene noted, flopping down on the sofa. Sherlock chuckled as he sat opposite her. "Want to go out for tea?"
"No, we need to stay and work on tracking Moran." Sherlock stood, pacing like Irene had moments ago. "We need financial and personal records. Who's he working for now? Where has he been living? When did he find out we were here?"
Irene moved over to Sherlock, standing in front of him. "I can think of better ways to occupy our time... After all, you want to wait until John gets home to inform him, right?" She ran her fingers down the side of his face. Sherlock gulped. It did sound enticing. However, he didn't want to be distracted.
"Maybe later." He began pacing again. Irene sighed.
"Well, then, tell me about your childhood. You can work on tracking later. Take a break."
Sherlock glared at her. "I don't need distractions right now, Irene."
"Maybe you'll come up with a brilliant idea if you just relax for a moment. It's not always about speed, Sherlock."
"That, my dear, is why we have different professions." Sherlock grabbed John's laptop and sat cross-legged on the sofa and began his research. Irene shook her head and walked into Sherlock's room. She grabbed one of the books she'd been reading and ventured back out to find Sherlock delved into his research. Irene shook her head again and sat down in the chair near the window, watching the sun disappear behind the clouds as she began to read.
It was quite normal for the sun to go missing in London. In fact, there were months in which the sun was nonexistent. However, at that moment, no one in the Sherlock Holmes circuit knew just how long the sun was going to be missing. No one knew the amount of trials and death were ahead. None could fathom it; one would think it unthinkable. Sadly, it lives in all our brains, just waiting for the right event to strike. When it goes off, releasing it's chemical all throughout the brain, the vast amount of darkness and danger implemented is unrecognizable. Chart-topping. Frightening. Sebastian Moran, a man who already had the symptoms of a violent psychopath (much unlike his partner, who was an intelligent one), had lost it. His brain was on overdrive, and he wasn't going to stop until he'd reached his one goal (Even thought he felt himself a hypocrite because of it, it didn't matter. He had gone mad, and once a person goes mad, it never ends.).
Vengeance.
See. Totally plagiarized "Elementary." Sorry to any who were offended by it. However, that was the episode when Sebastian Moran was introduced, and since he hasn't in Sherlock, I figured it was about damn time.
Oh, and on this whole "Irene Adler lesbian" note, I have a small thing about that for later on. However, since the actor who played Moriarty's voice sounded a little off, I figured "He's his right-hand man. Why not make it in more ways than one?" If ya got a problem, lemme know.