IV. VAIN OR THE NOBODY... AND NOTHING

Adler was good at her "job"; only she could have thought someone capable of hiring a crowd of people, disguising, creating a very convincing fake fire alarm, just to get to see where she kept a photograph… She was just the same, skillful like no one at creating distractions; from a legitimate wedding ring which hadn't been used at any wedding, to a bunch of unnecessarily fake domestic staff, to a ridiculous story of ridiculous objects gone missing that would be brandished as a funny game, to the unlikely suggestion that social rules could shame her: only to get Holmes away from Watson, and under her scope in a fake case.

Holmes returned to Baker Street right after his meeting with her, waiting alone for the afternoon to come, time when she said she would see her lover and from then on, besides of figuring what he could from first sight, he could follow him and properly start the investigation. She insisted she thought it was him so he heard her; according to what she told him and what he saw no other theory until now was obvious, at least it would be a start.

Her lover was a nobody, a handsome drunk of black hair that wore it back well stuck over his nape, intense clear blue eyes over high cheekbones, high forehead, pale skin but scarred somewhat with the traces of few pimples long gone, an artist, with a wide back and a bony very tall body but a swollen liver, a writer and a poet who wrote her songs. Holmes deduced he was a drunk within his entrance because of the state of his abdomen; but minutes later he saw him get drunk, filling his glass of wine over and over again while he and Irene talked about indecent characters from pubs. Holmes had never been quite so blatantly disconcerted, his eyebrows never so high; it's not that he hadn't heard worse, but Irene wasn't in the least the typical anything, The Woman was living up to her legend and surpassing it by far. The more he heard them converse the more he had the feeling he was being tricked, it was only a vague suspicion like that of Adler being lying to him before she gave him the house tour; but he was still going to look into it, the case and his suspicion would both have his attention.

Irene Adler's lover's name was Robert Kendall Vain; some used to suppress his first last name as natural artists that they were, so he would have the artistic name of Robert Vain. Holmes understood these people marginally, with his appreciation of the sad squeals of his violin but no better than that; all purposeless definitions and unproductive activities where a nuisance to his logical brain; he was intrigued by the artistic name, intrigued by the sudden poetry recitals that their drinking reunions turned into (the drinking interrupted when one of them rose his voice and began declaiming a verse, walking through the mob or standing tall on a table, all the drunks would respectfully shut their mouths, listen as if they could think clearly)..: intrigued in mockery; he had followed drunken Robert Kendall only to see him get more intoxicated later in the night; despite he was sensing being in a trap, Holmes was enjoying himself.

Mrs. Hudson was back home; Watson had seen her arrive; she had given an excuse about an emergency, all had been normal, and so Holmes let him go back to sleep.

Next day he met Irene at her house in the morning again, as promised, to tell her what he had seen. She was singing as Holmes waited outside her door, her voice becoming louder as she approached, her voice was sultry and in tune; she sang opera but she didn't around the house, around the house she sang with no effort, as it was her whim, and her voice was sultry indeed. She opened the door and now put forward that the servants weren't returning until the afternoon, she wanted them to clean the house but stay away because they were so nosy, at least while the affair lasted; when Holmes asked her at what time she evaded a straight answer, two, no, four… five, she didn't remember what she had told them. She gave him champagne and he discreetly sniffed it before drinking, but it was clean. She told him more about her husband as he requested, but he envisioned in the information no clue to his whereabouts; he was an American, a lawyer, his family back in America knew nothing of him that was recent (a telegram said so).

He left the house with the sound of her voice in his ear and the purpose to have an irregular spy on Robert Kendall while he spied on her, determined to secretly get information on her from her servants. He now suspected her husband didn't exist; for even when his clothes all had his name and that of the same tailor as if custom made, smelled of soap and some with the same faint man scent, they all had it in almost the same intensity, as if he had worn them at the same time, and they all looked too new. The pictures she had from him showed him to be elegant and indeed maybe he didn't wear anything that wasn't almost brand new, he didn't have a demanding work physically; but also, none of the pictures were recent, this he knew because of the state of the paper, and the fact that in the wardrobe she didn't keep any of the dresses with which she appeared. However, when the afternoon was falling his irregular came running to him to tell him Robert Kendall had entered a very suspicious abandoned warehouse from which male wails emerged… and with a murderous look to him at that, "I'm telling you Mr. Holmes, that man was about to assassinate someone in cold blood!"; reluctantly Holmes was obliged to abandon his spying spot, hoping he had been paranoiac and she had been telling the truth. Unfortunately in the warehouse another drunk and for the moment homeless man, friend of Kendall, was crying because according to himself his life wasn't worth a shilling, he couldn't tell him anything about Irene, and only irrelevant things about Kendall, he pissed right before his sight, he took pity on him and ordered his irregular (who was his improvised backup) to go buy a blanket for the man; Irene was alone in her house and sleeping when he went back and stayed so for the next half hour, and so Holmes had to return to Baker Street with empty hands, a second day and no progress to solve the riddle in any direction.

- Watson! This Adler deal is torturing me! He whined with the same voice and attitude that he did when he was seventeen.

- Why do you say that?

As he looked at Watson there sitting in his armchair retire the cigar from his mouth and be sincerely attentive, surrounded by the comfort of their fire; he felt bad to lie to him, he even felt bad to keep secrets that didn't belonged him from him; but he remembered Irene (in what he had interpreted as nervousness) telling him how it ashamed her to have a lover, his duty being to be discreet with client's confidentialities, and also, he still considered for there to be a wisp of a possibility that her husband was indeed kidnapped when he went for a walk, or suffered an accident that left him deformed and somebody stole his credentials, so no hospital had notice from him; he swallowed and clasped his lips, didn't let that line of conversation continue.

- It's just a hard case. Never mind, - he waved - I don't want to talk about it until I have something clear.

- The missing bell-pull case… - It was a sarcastic question.

Holmes raised a reprimanding eyebrow at him, and so the discussion was ended.

He dragged Watson to his bed making out, they didn't have sex but they made out as adolescents, nicely.

Next morning he was in her house again, she had asked for daily updates and he wasn't about to deny her, thinking that if once him being there went against him he would know about it, be ahead of "them", if someone was looking for him, well what better way to arrest "them" than to use himself as a bait.

- Are there any findings?

She looked so anguished that if Holmes wasn't so full of doubts, this would be the moment when he would start feeling shamefully useless.

- I think you've sent me on the wrong trail Miss Adler. I don't usually let myself get carried away with the client's theory, after all that's why they came to me, but you've proven to be so smart that I thought you were right and you only needed me to execute. Don't get me wrong, I yet corroborated that no hospital had notice from him, that no one saw anything happen in the way of his usual walk, that no traces were in the way of his usual walk… you really must find the clients list that I asked you for, how can he not have one?, his most recent cases too, and you should let me talk to the domestics… Mr. Robert Kendall appears to be everything he has told you and nothing more, if he had taken your husband he would have already gone where he was keeping him; I'll admit he has a hot temper but then again, don't we all…

- Oh no! You don't think he may have killed him!

Holmes didn't answer at first; it was always a possibility even though all data he had on Kendall from every object and every person spoke of a smart but solitary man, thinner than Adler's husband and unable to lift him from the street and kill him on his own; of course that if he had taken her husband his aim would have been killing him, and then they would be late by now, taking into account the two days which she had said had passed before she went to him, and the day before this one when instead of checking Kendall's house for evidence as he would have in a universe where the existence of her husband was incontrovertible, he had sent his irregular to spy on him which is what a substitute for him could do effectively; but he wouldn't tell her that, the bottom line anyway is that he didn't find possible that Kendall would have taken her husband. – It is a possibility Miss Adler that I don't find probable.

Irene knew he was getting to the right track, dismissing wrong traces and asking for the right clues to find out her deception too soon; she required time.

Tears slid from her eyes. – I hope it isn't true. She cleaned them with her handkerchief, but then covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her pain appearing absolutely sincere. But then again Holmes knew her an actress; he put his hand on her back anyway, to console her in case she was really crying. Brusquely she put her head on his shoulder, hugged him. – Oh find him!, she said between sobs. – Please find him!.. I'd feel so miserable… and guilty on top of that! I'll leave Robert!, I hate him!.. Oh I'll be the most faithful and kind, the best of wives!.. Find him!

Holmes put his arms around her and doubted his own theory, though he had always distrusted crying females. – Miss Adler, he said as a wet spot gathered in his shoulder - if you want me to find him you must help me then: have the domestics here so that I can interrogate them, I have to go through all of his things, all of his papers again so we can find his clients' list and know fast which he saw lately, what about your husband's friends?

Her eyes wide opened (as he couldn't see them) she was letting dry up, the pupils moving in fast thought, now worried about planning all the following details to keep her charade going.

She reincorporated, her eyes red and puffy, she smiled to him as much as a sad person naturally could. – You're right, I've been very foolish and stubborn, but you were also right about another thing: I am smart, believe me I know people; I didn't take Robert seriously and I think that was my mistake, but he is so sharp… maybe he knows you're following him, maybe he doesn't but suspects I have sent someone behind his trail, so he hasn't gone where he is keeping him… that could be possible! - The corners of Holmes' lips were going down, unconvinced, he shrugged; all he had seen was an infatuated drunkard with poet pretenses and he didn't think much of him, even less that he could find out any of his moves. – But you're right, the servants are returning at four, you can talk to them, I'll search again through his papers, I'll have a list with all I can remember from his clients and friends when you arrive… I can't right now, I am absolutely indisposed. Right now I'm just begging you, don't lose Robert from your sight, settle things to have him observed. Come have meal with me when I'm put together and have taken a shower, – she smiled again as much as a sad person could – because you're so kind and I don't even know how to begin to thank you; on top of tiring yourself all day long investigating some disappearance that is surely my fault you have to console a weak crying sentimental woman, let me repay you. I'll have everything ready with which I am able to help at three.

Holmes was stone hard in the face and tone. – I accepted the case Miss Adler; you'd be surprised, I'm always acting as a living palliative for my clients, effective or not as I may be. I'll be back at three then.

Holmes was confused again as he was leaving that damn mansion, he felt his brain muddled; he began fearing his irregulars had missed something as it had happened on other occasions, that he had let her husband be killed while he was fearing a conspiracy, but he also the idea that Adler was playing him couldn't be discarded perhaps until three; he was returning, if she didn't have a convincing clients list he would know about it, and then be sure if there was something fishy going on or not… However he decided to exchange observation spots, his currently most useful irregular would be on her and he would be on Kendall. He felt he was on slippery ground, his feet not well planted in the truth, he realized he was wanting to be biased towards her.

There was nothing on Kendall, nothing in his house, nothing; he was always looking contemplative and distracted, in philosophical reflection, one which made him scowl profoundly using up the contents of a cup or two in the morning, having his stomach ready for what would come later, and still later in the night; for a moment Kendall reminded him of Mycroft, the decadent ruined thin version he could have been if the universe's chances had turned out differently. He went back to Adler at three in the afternoon recovering his guard up, if she cried let her cry, he would not be fooled.

But Irene was completely composed and beautiful, as if all this time in her concern she had actually forgotten about dressing and making up as she knew how, see now her looks were the epitome, just like that, the epitome, full stop; he was suspicious again, was she trying to seduce him? Was that what that whole day was about? She had cooked for him, the servants not arriving 'til four.

– Once I used to cook myself and my whole family, they always were pleased and finished what I served them; so I guess I am good at it.

He couldn't deny that, he would hear later from his irregular if she had stayed home enough time to actually cook that, amongst other more important things. She sat down too and began eating. He didn't eat much ever and he was having a hard time finishing up that huge plate, he instead was looking at the clock constantly, and the notes Adler had given him within his entrance, one hoping to skim through them and two waiting impatient for four o'clock and the real or fake domestics to be home; she looked at his - at times - unmoving hands holding the cutlery.

- Either you are a boxer or are brutal with the criminals you catch, which is it Holmes?

She hadn't used the "Mr." part of it and Holmes raised his guard more tightly; no one called him like that except Watson, Lestrade and Gregson sometimes, because he wasn't as familiar with anyone else, deprived from friends and any other constant colleague, everyone else he knew respected him too much and kept the appropriate distance, always adding the "Mr." or "Detective" part of it.

He followed her gaze down to his scarred and plainly destroyed knuckles. – I practice box from time to time… I am never brutal.

Irene felt something of a melting heart because Holmes was so candidly saying he was gentle… and yet he was a boxer. He looked at the clock yet again.

- Don't worry Detective, they'll be here, meanwhile why don't you try to enjoy the food and the delightful, distinguished company?

Holmes felt stung with irritation at being the one being read; he threw her a lightning glare, stretched his neck to say: – You're as arrogant as you look Miss Adler.

- And I had heard you were arrogant!, but yes I guess you're really falling short.

- That's just Watson trying to make me more interesting for the public; you can see I'm not.

She smiled. – Clearly; but if you solve this case I assure you, you have my permission to be as lordly towards me as you wished.

- Sometimes I fail Miss Adler you know; I'm in duty to warn you.

- Oh but I have faith no one could do a better job. You can start calling me Irene by the way.

- I'd prefer not to.

- Then you do are the cold reasoning machine he has affirmed you are.

- Perhaps.

- Or perhaps I'm too inappropriate; I've never been able to adjust to the English stern ways.

- Perhaps.

- My apologies then.

Holmes now threw her a glance at the same time reluctant and relenting; Irene also was at the same time failing and getting to him.

The domestics arrived in time and couldn't tell much more from that which Irene had related before, apart from insults towards her and Kendall, and exclamations at the scandalous ways of both… but no facts. Adler's notes were well structured and during his first inquiries, however useless as they were, the names and all data there seemed to be genuine, real people who didn't know much about the disappearance but affirmed being his closest clients and friends, people with real jobs and solid legal cases that adjusted well with everything; what Holmes didn't know yet, not conclusively at least, was that she had resources and thanks to Watson and some of his own publications knew all about his methods, she knew that he looked at people's hands, their sleeves, their knees, their shoes...

When his irregular informed she had gone out and he had lost her hansom in the streets somehow, with her returning only with time enough to cook that meal they had, he returned to being against her: clearly she had made those notes while she was out and known she was being followed.

In Baker Street he was looking at Watson reading with the burden of guilt on him. Holmes was intelligent, as much as he wanted to deny it he knew he was finding Irene attractive in augmenting degree, just enough to obfuscate his judgment, just as much as a woman as Watson was as a man when he met him; now of course Watson had the upper hand, with the very accurate mental image he had of his naked body, and love and idolatry added; but if he had accepted her invitation to eat he had to recognize it was partly due to her charm, and all his current bewilderment was due to her beauty and astonishing intelligence. He felt guilty and didn't even kiss Watson on his own initiative that night.

Next day Kendall didn't let him go find out about the falsity of Adler's notes as he had planned. Kendall fought in a pub, fierce, cutthroat like a savage animal, "murderous" as his naïve irregular had said, and it was only morning. He gave sinister signs; he had walked to the City of London and Tower Hamlet's Cemetery, looked around and made the sign of the cross on himself once and again, hadn't properly ever stopped at a grave; then a block later he had sat in the sidewalk and cried aloud, invoked Irene's name twice and continued crying. Holmes confirmed she hadn't broken up with him because in the afternoon he visited and they talked in good and even loving terms.

When the next morning he informed her of Kendall's erratic behavior she had cried again. – And if he was in a grave? Holmes tried to console her again and she held him tightly, she was soothed or at least her sobs were and she wasn't yet letting him go. When he stated again that nothing said he was in a grave since Kendall hadn't stopped once, Irene lightly pressed his hand and confessed, her pretty big green eyes shining with tears and gratefulness, her full lips in a little smile: - Oh Holmes, you're the only bright light in these dark paths nowadays… The only one able to shed some light in the most horribly torturing puzzles. She added the last part, to dissipate a bit the adulterous inadequate tone of the former statement, and yet let it hang with all its effects. Holmes felt his stomach flutter and affirmed he had to leave to keep working, collecting his hat from the seat in a hurry and leaving the place as if chased by the demon.

He discussed with Watson that day, accused him bothered of not wanting to make love with him anymore, revealed to him that Mrs. Hudson knew and it was his fault for being so indiscreet when he did feel like it. – God bless Mrs. Hudson! She is a kind hearted woman and has known us for half a decade now; if she wasn't as sentimental as she is we would be in gaol right now! Watson said he was being unfair and negative, and obnoxious, and didn't want to see him that day, slammed the door to his bedroom and heard Holmes vulgarly damn him outside. It was their worst fallout to date. Watson answered from inside his bedroom, air missing in his lungs, his voice a cracked whistle because a knot was in his throat: - I don't love you anymore!, deeply regretting it right away.

However Holmes left to Irene Adler's next day not sure if Watson loved him or not; incapacitated as he was to distinguish the primary evidence that could tell him something about feelings, more pronounced when he was vulnerable to them. She was seductive and perfect and Kendall gave more clues as he went out of his home with a filthy dun bag filled to Holmes' expert eyes with instruments that could serve to torture, to do gardening and to bury; two blocks ahead he stopped, shook his head, turned around and entered his house to not come back out. Holmes had already searched his rooms days ago and hadn't seen that dun bag, but he could have borrowed it from his neighbor; and indeed he had, once several days ago (fitting the alleged day of the missing man's disappearance), and this last time. He got his hands on the tools but there was nothing to them, the last trace was that of recent dirt from the back garden, that way he only knew that they had been cleaned before being used again. He was now taking turns with his irregulars to keep watch on Kendall and Adler; she wasn't giving any worrying signs. He wasn't being able to corroborate the veracity of the notes; even he back then was sometimes victim of bureaucracy, and the data was taking long to be crosschecked even when he had asked to be alerted instantly when a discrepancy was found, if he had wanted to check them himself he would have to go around sneaking into all little tribunals and offices in London, or rest in the main one for hours searching for all the right papers to steal them (arranged as they were by year), and it just wasn't possible… Yet he sensed he was missing something…

That day Watson was giving him the cold shoulder and appearing uncaringly aloof, Holmes only glared at him, filling his pipe with tobacco over and again, thus filling the room with smoke; Watson coughed, his eyes stung and he couldn't read. The only time he directed him word was to complain one last time before he went to bed: - I don't know how I've been able to live with you! That was it, Holmes dropped his arms without Watson noticing (being as he was, giving him his back while he walked away), curled into a ball when he had left the room and quietly cried, exhausted with the case and heavily hurt, he thought Watson would leave him and his formerly unfounded and unfair accusations of him not wanting to make love to him anymore now rang true. That Kendall and his odd ways was getting to his brain too.

In her home she expressed concern about his eye rings, and even claimed he was losing weight; whatever had happened she asked and he didn't answer, but she talked about the position of people's nerves and affirmed she had learnt massaging the temples from her mom, temporarily alleviating stress; she offered to do it on him and even when he didn't reply she went behind him and started. – Relax now Sherlock, relax. She fingered his nape and his hair at the low back of his head, caressed them, in a way he knew wasn't part of the massage; she lay her hands on his shoulders and gently pressed them, then only ran them by them, to his clavicles and then back to his shoulder blades; she ended up supporting the side of her head on his right shoulder and murmuring: – I want my husband back, as her left arm with her hand lightly over his throat was embracing him.

That was the eighth day he was investigating the Vain case, or whichever better name Watson would have given it. He wasn't really suspecting her as intensely anymore; too many facts were for her and Vain's actions looked every time more concluding. As Vain led him very far into the outskirts of London, surrounded by woods, and even into the woods with his dun sack in hand, only to, like the other day turn around halfway (this time in a hansom) and return home, he believed Vain was going to one of the many solitary houses in a perimeter of kilometers; he asked around and checked those inhabited, he did realize the impossible magnitude of the task if he wasn't directly brought to the correct place by Vain or a clue, but at this point he was exasperated, both sad and angry because of Watson and not wanting to return home, crazed because of Irene and wanting to finish the case to not have to see her anymore; he spent the rest of the day looking for the right place, going from pub to pub and from construction to construction in the woods. With his hands empty, exhausted and desperate he returned to Baker Street at midnight.

Watson was ready to apologize to him when he came back; he was still upset, offended and furious but wanted to be mature, so he waited for four hours sitting in his armchair. But Holmes stormed in and strode past him without as much as eyeing him - Holmes!, he slammed his door shut and then everything was dead quiet; Watson felt bitter anger rise to his throat, he stood up and made sure Holmes would hear his own insult in revenge of those he had heard the night of their fight. – You little prick! "Little prick", he had heard right, Watson was no longer only saying he didn't love him, he didn't want to live with him, but on top of that was calling him base names which hurt more because had a relation with his male anatomy, which Watson had worshipped, now venomously demeaned by the same mouth. Watson didn't hear Holmes' little reply: - I hate you.

Mrs. Hudson took the plates and cups from the sitting room without looking at him, getting his attention as he was still red and standing outside Holmes' door; when he thought 'at least now we can screech at each other freely' he knew it was really very ironic. Mrs. Hudson knowing had been the most sensitive point of their quarrel (the one about making love had only been a very stinging wild accusation from an ill-tempered Holmes), and now it was the only good thing going on with their lives. He suddenly felt the urge to speak with her.

- Mrs. Hudson!

She stopped but didn't turn around; Watson was met with her back. - I don't approve Doctor Watson but you two are like my children. Just get your act together.

And she was in the hall to the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson always liked it badly when Holmes called her "Nanny", she was even more attached to him than she was to Watson; Watson was like the adult trustworthy son she didn't have and Holmes was like the child she always wanted; Nanny this, Nanny that, anyone could have suspected Holmes hadn't had a mother and now was making up for that. "Nanny how do you sew buttons? My favorite shirt has lost some... You would do it, really? Thank you Nanny!" "What's for dinner Nanny? You know I hate eels." If you replaced "Nanny" for "Mommy", Mrs. Hudson's dream was twistedly realized. "Nanny Watson has a love problem." "I don't!" "How would you advise your son on love matters?" "You have to be a gentleman, when a lady…" Oh!, Mrs. Hudson was most pleased with her tenants; now scandalized her role was to reprimand them, harshly reprimand that horrible odd and unhealthy infatuation with each other, despite she had already forgiven them; she had seen it coming anyway, why with Holmes' eccentricities and the way he looked at Watson, as if he was admiring Adam in the day of creation itself.