Chapter 3

After an extensive physical exam, Irene was dismissed from the clinic with a tetanus shot, some antibiotics, several tablets of diazepam and careful instructions that she needed to rest. Thankfully, the doctor didn't ask her why her clothes were soaked in blood or why her wrists were bloody from where her bindings had cut into her flesh—he'd probably seen worse in his line of work and thought it was best to ask as few questions as possible. Apart from a few bruises, her injuries were largely superficial so she didn't require much medical attention. Sherlock had left the clinic a few minutes after the medic arrived and he mumbled something about their accommodations. He returned just as she was finishing up with a clean set of clothes, consisting of a plain cotton salwar kameez and a pair of brown leather sandals. He handed the garments and shoes to the doctor and left without another word.

Once she was dressed, Irene exited the clinic to find Sherlock leaning on the side of the bungalow, dressed in a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and some khaki trousers. He was smoking a clove cigarette, leafing through a John le Carre novel with an annoyed expression on his face. Upon seeing her, he lowered the wayfarers he'd been wearing to shield him from the hot sun. "Good book?" she asked, wondering what on Earth he was doing with a paperback. "It's rubbish. I picked it up in the airport and now I wish I picked up the toilet paper roll printed with Sudoku puzzles instead. Everything alright?" he inquired, putting the book away.

"Good. The doctor said I was fine. He gave me some drugs." she said, patting the pocket that held her medication. "Did he give you anything good?" he said, with some interest. "Sorry, just some antibiotics." she replied. "Pity." He seemed genuinely disappointed and Irene made a quick note in her internal files. Not entirely clean, then. They'd started walking away from the clinic and Sherlock had taken her arm to lead her to the other side of the compound where the barracks were. "They're putting us up for a few hours but we're going to hitch a ride later on a chopper to Islamabad." he explained.

"Is that safe?" Irene didn't know much about the ISI but what she did know didn't inspire much confidence. Pakistani intelligence agencies were always competing with each other for control and it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that an informant had already apprised a rival faction of their movements. Sherlock simply shrugged. "Unless you want me to call Mycroft or the Americans, I can't think of another way out of this country. So we're just going to have to trust them."

He stopped at a small bungalow and opened the door, gesturing for her to follow him. "Here. Zaheer has kindly offered us the use of his quarters while we wait for transport." Irene stepped inside to find a well-furnished room, complete with a queen-sized bed, a television, a small dining room set and a tray of food. Sherlock planted himself on the couch and busied himself with the television controls while he pointed at the tray. "Eat. I had them send the food here, I didn't think you wanted to go to the mess hall." Irene squeezed his hand gratefully and busied herself with the naan and curry that was on the table. She hadn't eaten in almost two days and now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was famished.

After making quick work of her meal, she looked up to find Sherlock watching her with a mixture of disgust and amusement. "I've seen bullfights in Spain that were less bloody than that." "Well if you see a bull around here, let me know. I might just eat it." she replied dryly. "You're in enough trouble as it is, don't go around eating religious icons of the subcontinent." he said with mock disapproval. He returned his attention to the television where he was scanning all the news channels. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he resumed talking to her.

"There's no news that they'd found the bodies so we're safe. For the meantime." He changed the channel to a local Pakistani one and left it there as he stood up to grab a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner. Returning to the couch, he resumed speaking.

"I went over your records. In London." He looking at her intently now, observing every nuance of her reactions.

"And? What did you find?"

"Prior to the affair with the pictures, you'd led a quiet life. You paid your taxes. Good marks on your GCSEs and college. Even your postgrad coursework." He said this as if he was trying to work something out. "You had a good practice, made an awful lot of money, had a lot more in the bank from smart investments. I don't understand why someone like you would end up working with Jim Moriarty."

Irene sighed. "I don't expect you to understand." People were always so quick to judge sex workers, especially if they didn't enjoy sex. A thirtysomething asexual virgin with sociopathic tendencies (possible autism spectrum disorder) was probably the very last person on earth who would empathize with her. "Anyway, you don't need to understand me to use me. What do you need me to do for you?" She wasn't in the mood to dissect her past with him of all people and she tried to steer the conversation to another topic. But he wasn't having it.

"Right now, I just need you to answer my questions. When did you first get in touch with Moriarty?"

"I got in touch with him through a friend." She idly plucked an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and scored it with her fingernails.

"A friend or a client?"

"A client. Sebastian Moran. He liked it when I put a Hermes saddle on his back and rode him like a horse around the room. He used to pay me two thousand pounds an hour to do it. More if I used a riding crop." She smiled fondly, reminiscing.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Lord Moran, from the House of Lords? The Tory war hero?" Irene nodded. "Tories are always my most interesting clients. But I liked him, he was a good client." It was true, she'd never had any problems with Sebastian.

"And how did Moran introduce you to Moriarty?"

"The Opera, I have season tickets. I think I ran into them during a production of Adriana Lecouvrer, during the intermission. Seb introduced me to Jim and said that if I ever had a problem, Jim was the one who would solve it. He was very charming, very funny. He gave me his card. I didn't think I would ever need it." She watched as her fingernail pierced the apple's pristine skin, leaving a perfect crescent-shaped indent in its flesh.

"So I'm assuming you called him because a client was giving you trouble."

"Yes." She remembered the threatening voicemails and the men who started showing up in her Belgravia residence, banging on the door at odd hours. When she'd noticed a sedan parked in front of her townhouse for more than a week, she'd finally snapped and called Jim. With her decidedly upscale clientele and the sensitive nature of her work, constant surveillance meant the death of her practice. "People started following me, started harassing my clients. I didn't get to where I was by being indiscreet, I always knew how to keep secrets. But then I realized that my discretion was the thing that was probably going to get me and Kate killed. So I called Jim. He said he would help me but he had conditions. I just thought, fuck it, a girl can't dress up in garters and spank the well-heeled forever. So we put together a retirement plan, with benefits."

At that, Sherlock snorted derisively. "Based on what I overheard at Mycroft's place, you asked for a very significant sum." Irene merely stared at him as if he was stupid. "The people after me had the resources of all the best intelligence agencies. You honestly think evading them wouldn't take money? Serious money?" Sherlock was forced to concede her point. "In any case, I don't see how that's of any interest to you. You won."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I won because you wanted me to win. You wanted to get caught. That's why you kept texting me, why you even sent me your phone in the first place. You might be a good dominatrix but you're a terrible criminal. You wanted me to stop you."

Irene gave a wry smile. "What good did it do me, I lost everything anyway. There's just no merit in doing the right thing." At that, Sherlock simply had no answer. For the rest of the afternoon, they sat there silently until an aide knocked on the door telling them that the helicopter that would bring them to Islamabad was finally ready.