Hello, again and again thanks for the reviews that I'm hoping I'll continue to get!
This chapter is a break from Molly and Moriarty (although it does include both of them, just seprately) instead following Sherlock and Irene.
It may seem random and/or confusing and/or weird, what is said/ what happens in this chapter, but I promise you it will make sense eventually and is important to what happens later in this story.
It also includes case information from John's blog found at : / / w w w . . c o . u k / (remove spaces).
So please read and review (as always)!
(and as always, hope you like it!)
(One day after 'The Great Game' episode and the same day as chapter four of this story)
Irene Adler stood in her walk in closet (naked, again, after trying on a third outfit and deeming it unworthy) tossing through the rows of hanging dresses, trying to find something perfect.
Of course, Irene always took great pride, care and consideration into her wardrobe choices for any event, being it business, pleasure (pleasure being her business and business being her pleasure) or a boring day at home.
But this meeting was probably going to decide her fate and future, if the man she was meeting was really all people said that he was.
And so she had to take even greater pride, care and consideration into what she wore for this event.
"You know you'll look stunning no matter what." Kate said from the open doorway. She was already dressed in a nice black skirt-suit.
"Yes, I know," Irene agreed, not turning to face her assistant and continuing to search while still maintaining her lady-like poise and not falling into franticness, "But stunning is not what I need…"
"And what do you need?" Kate asked, any innuendo in the emphasis of the word 'need' residual from working for Irene for so long and completely unintentional.
It was sort of their dialect, given their line of work, to speak with automatic double entendres in sensually smooth or husky voices all of the time.
"I need…" Irene began, "…I need to be taken seriously."
"To look powerful?" Kate inquired.
"Yes, but not too powerful." Irene clarified, taking out a dress and holding it up to her body in the mirror.
In the reflection she could see Kate standing far behind her, watching her like she always did, with the awe of someone watching a goddess.
"I don't understand…" she said softly, as if she was referring to more than just Irene's words.
"I have to look powerful, I have to be taken seriously," Irene explained, "but not look too powerful, not taken too seriously…or else he might see me as a threat."
She shook her head and replaced the dress back onto the rack with one arm, still standing at the mirror.
"Oh." Kate nodded, and then smiled, "Well you could always wear your battle amour…you've already got it on."
She could see her boss's face from the reflection smile widely and so she mirrored it and the two allowed themselves to giggle like school girls.
"Well that would give me my desired balance between being taken seriously but not too seriously…" Irene laughed, "It's a shame he wanted to meet in a public place. Can't really show up to King's Cross naked, now can I?"
"Well not legally," Kate responded, "But you would look stunning."
Irene laughed again.
After awhile of silent searching she spoke again.
"Do you think men know...?" she wondered, "How much effort we women put into dressing for them?"
"I didn't you dressed for men." Kate said.
"Oh, I don't." Irene replied, taking out another item of clothing from its hanger "Like everything else I do, I do it for myself. But, some women, most women do…and now here I am worrying about what to wear like it's the first date or something. Like I'm nervous, insecure..."
"Maybe you should dress like it then…" Kate suggested.
"That's brilliant!" Irene exclaimed, tossing the dress she held out of her hand up in the air and turning around to face her assistant, "If I look nervous, insecure, if I act scared and desperate…then he'll be more likely to help me. Because won't think that I'd try to use him in the way I've used my clients, try to dominate him in the way I've dominated them…oh, Kate, you're so brilliant…!"
"Thank you!" Kate choked out, surprised by Irene's uncharacteristic expression of uncontrolled enthusiasm (rather than her usual subtle, refined, and always sensual behavior) and rare compliment, "You are too, Miss Adler…!"
"Of course I am." Irene smiled, "Now I'll need to borrow some of your clothes…"
"It's so crowded, we'll never find him…!" Kate worried.
She scanned the train station and the masses bustling through it.
There were long distance travelers, commuters, loiters and uniform and undercover police officers searching for something (someone?).
All this didn't matter to Irene and Kate.
Their heels clicked against the floor as they hurried into the main hall, past various benches, stands, shops, and people.
They passed the window of a café chain built into the station and Kate almost did not recognize the reflection of the woman walking beside her.
No.
She almost did not recognize the woman walking beside her correctly.
Dressed in a muted pastel shirt and cream colored skirt, both a size to big for her and so slightly loose fitting and not at all chic, the woman walking beside Kate in the window was Kate herself-
-two years ago. The shy, carefully polite, carefully closeted lesbian, from before Irene had found her and hired her, who attempted (and succeeded) at being exactly what was expected of her.
As well as Kate's old clothes, Irene was also wearing big sunglasses she had bought from a stand in the station as they walked around looking for who they were meeting, a scarf tied at her chin to cover her hair and the most minimal amount of make-up Kate had seen her boss apply in a long time.
All this not to be recognized.
Normally, Irene loved being greeted in public by her public.
She loved meeting fans of her work, being asked questions and for autographs or appointments.
She loved the spotlight.
But even more she loved being called out by opponents to her work, or just to her.
She loved the challenge.
Today, however, she could not afford being spotted. This meeting was to be absolutely secret, as insisted by the mysterious man she had come here to meet.
It had taken her almost a year to get contact with him and even when she finally did it took multiple attempts (and one very crucial connection) for him to agree to meet with her.
"Come on, Kate, what are you looking at?" Irene asked.
She had gone ahead and then looked back to see her employee idling at a coffee shop window.
"Sorry!" Kate exclaimed and scurried after her boss.
"He wouldn't be in there." Irene said, gesturing to the café, and snorting; "An American chain? I'm sure he has more class than that."
"Then why would he want to meet us here?" Kate wondered, "If he wanted it to be somewhere public he could have chosen something a little less pedestrian…"
"Oh, Kate, don't be so stuck up." Irene laughed, "You sound like the princess…"
Kate joined Irene's laughter but mostly as an attempt to hide her cringe.
Irene's male clients never bothered Kate but Irene's female clientele always made her more than a little jealous.
Irene didn't notice this or at least pretended not to as the two continued walking.
"Where would he be, then?" Kate asked, in order to return the conversation back to a less threatening subject.
(As if the man they were meeting was actually less threatening than, well, anything. He was said to be very dangerous…)
"I don't know." Irene stated pensively, she never liked saying those words.
"He should have been more specific when he said 'let's meet at King's Cross'." Kate consoled.
"He said I would find him in the west side of the building…" Irene reminded, glancing around the high-ceilinged hall, "…and here we are…"
Among the many people going about their business, trying to catch trains, greet arriving relatives, get out of here as quickly as possible and get home, Irene tried to spot the ones that would most likely be him.
She had no idea what he looked like; his age, height, hair color, features. She had nothing to go on other than a gender and an area of a train station.
There was a bearded homeless man, seated propped against a wall being ignored by passerbys, sitting next to an empty coffee cup from the café. Not bothering to ask anymore for what he knew he wouldn't receive.
No, not him.
The coffee cup brand…
There was a vendor at a newspaper stand, sitting on a tall stool and occasionally exchanging newspapers or magazines for coins or bills from passing patrons.
No, not him, either.
The media available for purchase was too low-brow, celebrity-focused…
He was a sophisticated criminal mastermind, controlling a powerful criminal organization.
What would he look like?
Irene looked harder, eyeing everyone male loitering in the west end of the station hall.
There was a very conspicuous-looking drag queen in heels so high that Irene herself would dare try to walk in them and a bright red wig who was cat-walking up and down the corridor waiting to see who would have something to say about his choice of clothing and lifestyle today.
Definitely not him.
Too gay…
"We're running out of time, Miss Adler..." Kate reminding, pointing up at the clocking hanging form the center of the ceiling, "Just call him and ask where he is."
"It doesn't work like that." Irene declared, "I don't even have his number. I was connected by a mutual acquaintance to his phone."
"What are we going to do then?" Kate asked.
"I suppose I'm going to have to contact the mutual acquaintance…" Irene said tentatively, not really wanting to, "Maybe he changed his mind about the meeting…"
"Why he do that?" Kate wondered aloud, frustrated-ly, "How could he do this to you?"
"Calm down." Irene warned, "Let's not make a scene…"
Her eyes wandered from the fearful face of her assistant over to a man seated on a bench by a balcony.
He had a newspaper opened so that only the fingers holding it and his legs were visible, which he had quite loudly turned the page of only a second ago.
Now the page, no longer visible to him but now visible to Irene, was a very interesting headline.
Instead of news on the recent bombing and bombing attempts, or other world, domestic or financial news that the reputable papers were reporting on, this headline was about a foreign duke who, during at trip to England, had (allegedly) received the services of a certain dominatrix.
Her name was Irene Adler.
And she smiled, heading towards the man reading the slightly outdated newspaper.
"Come along, Kate." She called behind her as she approached the bench.
Kate dutifully followed Irene.
"Thank you, so much. You give such good service. "
Irene and Kate sat across from whom they were meeting at the small round table in the café.
They watched as Moriarty took the coffee from the barista, purposefully brushing his hand in the process, and thanked him in a tone that made Irene's always innuendo sound completely innocent.
Normally baristas didn't venture out from behind the counter but after Moriarty had asked to have his coffee brought to the table, as if he owned the place, the barista didn't refuse.
"In fact…" Moriarty continued, grinning, "I think I'll give you a tip. Thanks, hun."
He took a fifty from hiswallet and inserted in between the waistband of the barista's pants and his tucked-in uniform shirt.
The barista, already very unnerved, didn't even bother to try to convince the customer that he could not accept the money and instead quickly retreated back to his post behind the counter.
Moriarty watched the barista as he hurried away and when he was gone, he turned back to Irene and Kate, sipping his coffee.
"Cute one, isn't he?" he commented, still grinning.
Irene did not respond, she was still staring at Moriarty in surprise, not only at whathe had just done but at what he looked like.
She had expected a silver haired, middle-aged gentleman in a thousand dollar suit and matching thousand dollar shoes, wearing stolen rings from exotic countries and an unidentifiable accent blend.
Moriarty was younger than Irene had imagined and much more normal looking; with unassuming brown hair and eyes, and standard khakis and un-tucked-in button down (albeit nicely fitted), and was Irish.
Irene had also thought that he wouldn't go to an American coffee chain, read trashy tabloids or be gay and he seemed to be making a point of proving her wrong.
"So let's get on with this, then…" Moriarty said, yawning and setting down his cup, "You're Irene Adler?"
He looked at Irene (rather than at Kate), who had taken trouble to conceal her identity and so must have been the person with the identity worth concealing.
"Yes." Irene confirmed, quietly.
"And you know who I am…?" Moriarty asked, just to make sure, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes." Irene repeated.
"I don't believe you." Moriarty challenged.
"What…?" Irene replied confusedly.
"You don't know who I am." Moriarty stated, "If you know who I am…say my name."
Irene's gaze darted out of the corner of her eyes to Kate whose face looked as perturbed as Irene felt at the moment.
Sure they had dealt with their share strange, creepy clients but that had always been on Irene's terms on her own turf.
What scared Irene about his behavior was not the deliberate blatant sexuality (which she was used to) but the fact that he seemed to intentionally be trying to unsettle her and not be taking this meeting (or her) very seriously.
"I can't. I'm not allowed to." Irene explained, "I was told—"
"And do you always do everything you're told?" Moriarty inquired, chuckling.
"No." Irene responded, and then added "But I do handle all my business with the utmost discretion."
Moriarty smiled widened at this. He was glad Irene had found her footing and decided to play along.
"I appreciate that." Moriarty said, "And I'm our mutual friend appreciates that even more. It's on his insistence, by the way, that I'm even bothering to talk to you so you should thank him."
"I will." Irene agreed, and then turned to Kate, "Kate, remind me later to call-"
"Ah-ah-ah…No names." Moriarty interrupted, holding up a finger almost to her lips, "'Discretion', remember? Besides…I don't like to hear it; his name...it just gets me so- Oopsies! I'm digressing. Back to the point. Just because I'm only attending this little date with you because you-know-who set me up on it, doesn't mean you should go home and cry yourself to sleep about not being special enough to get my attention all by yourself. I mean, not many people are. In fact, I can only think of one…"
Irene and Kate glanced at each other, both of them regretting coming to this meeting.
So far this consulting criminal who was supposed to help people commit the perfect crimes with whatever weapons of opportunity they might have (incriminating photos and sensitive data, in Irene's case) was doing nothing to help them and everything to confuse them, creep them out and waste their time.
Irene's direct connection (the one who she could also not speak the name of) to him had warned her that his behavior could come off as strange but this was really beginning to annoy her.
Well, 'you-know-who', as Moriarty had put it, did tell her to contact her if she had any problems…
So…
"I'm in no danger of crying myself to sleep because you happen not to find me special." Irene interjected, "In fact, I don't care at all what you think of me or why you decided to meet with me. All I care about is getting on with this. I told you over the phone what I have and now I've brought it here with me. So are you going to help me or not?"
"That's what I came here to decide." Moriarty declared, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head, "I'm practically dying to see just what would make a free-thinking, liberated woman of the twenty-first century, the tough, take lots of prisoners, dominatrix The Woman come running all the way to Mr. Handyman asking him to pretty-please fix it for her."
"The Czech government, The CIA, a sex slave trafficking ring involving multiple countries in the former Soviet block, the Chinese government, a sect of the terrorist organization Al Qaeda, and a local mob in Atlantic City, New Jersey." Irene listed matter-of-factly.
"My, my, Miss Adler, you've been a naughty girl." Moriarty said, both eyebrows raised in amused surprise, "I'm impressed. I mean, I've probably got contacts gunning for you myself, which might, by association, make me one of your enemies…"
"Hopefully not." Irene replied.
"Yes, you're right. I won't be so petty." Moriarty decided, "…So I take it all of your trouble is of foreign origin…"
"Yes." Irene nodded.
"That's going to change." Moriarty stated.
"By the way," he said as Irene and Kate were getting up from the table at the café to leave, "You do know it was me who was behind that bombing in the apartment building a couple days ago."
That explained the heavy police presence in the station.
"A confession?" Irene inquired, standing, "I thought we were practicing discretion."
"I have trouble sometimes." Moriartyadmitted with a grin, "Which can be trouble in itself given what I do…but sometimes I get bored, and when I get bored I like to play games. But games are no fun without an opponent…and opponents are no fun if they don't know who they're playing with and so…sometimes, I like to reveal myself."
"You're revealing this to me?" Irene asked, "Are you saying we are opponents?"
At that, Moriarty laughed so hard that he almost fell back in his chair.
"Oh god no!"Moriarty exclaimed, still chuckling, "You? Never! You're not nearly interesting enough…No, the one I revealed myself to…my opponent…is Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock Holmes?" Irene repeated, "That detective you said we'd need to decode whatever sensitive data I torture out of my prisoners or Kate retrieves from their phones and laptops while we're busy? That explains why you want him involved in this so badly."
"I want him because I need him." Moriarty confirmed, "He's the only one smart enough to figure out anything without silly little machines for decoding and running chemical tests and checking bullet trajectory and all that and he'll do it faster then them too…he's brilliant, he's amazing and so yes, of course, I want him. I'll proudly admit that."
"I see…" Irene said.
"No, you don't, you really don't…" Moriarty countered, "but you will, Miss Adler, you will…"
"If you want this Sherlock Holmes person so much…"Irene began, "Why not just go after him yourself?"
"I did." Moriarty responded, "Why do you think I blew up a building and strapped bombs to four people? I was waving my hands, screaming, 'ooh Sherlock, look at me!' And he looked. And it was wonderful…But then, of course, somebody had to go and get in the way, because somebody always gets in the way, and I had to tell Sherlock 'bye-bye' even though I really didn't want to."
"But you didn't kill him." Irene stated.
"No, but I almost had to and he almost blew us all up…" Moriarty explained, "And I have you to thank for that. If it wasn't for you calling precisely when you did…how serendipitous was that? That you-know-who, who by the way, had only the day before requested that I kindly stop interacting with Sherlock Holmes and who had been unable to connect you to me before, 'just happened' to give you my private mobile number right at the exact moment Sherlock had aimed a loaded gun at a bomb at a nice indoor pool that's had excellent security cameras since a fourteen year old boy mysteriously seemed to drown during a race many years ago."
"So you're saying that-" Irene stopped herself before she used the name, "-our mutual friend wanted to save Sherlock Holmes life?"
"I'm saying that you-know-who wanted me to stop playing hide-and-seek with Detective Holmes and putting my clients, and my crimes and my name out there." Moriarty clarified, "Which I was perfectly willing to oblige to…until, of course, I realized I needed him for your case, which you-know-who himself so kindly referred me to."
"And so…?" Irene replied, raising an eyebrow, wondering just why she needed to know all of what she had just been told.
(The truth was she didn't. Moriarty just liked to tell stories.)
"All this to say,"Moriarty simplified, "Sherlock Holmes makes a very entertaining playmate. Have fun."
The plan was simple.
Simple to those with a mind like Irene Adler or the man who had developed the plan or the two brothers it who would unwittingly become involved in it.
To all others it was incredibly (but very necessarily) complicated.
And it all began with a text message.
Greetings, your highness the Duke, this is Irene Adler (you might know me better as 'The Woman').
I would just like to inform you that I am in possession of quite a few photographs documenting your daughter and myself in various situations that could very well be labeled scandalous in nature.
I'll be sending a preview of one of them to this number.
Have a wonderful Easter.
-Irene
It would take several weeks for the recipient of that message to have it verified quietly, during which he would have many serious conversations with his daughter until she, tired of his disappointment and the expectations of her status, fled the country to some resort where she could have all the kinky, lesbian sex she wanted without worrying about how it disrespected her and her father's titles.
Then the recipient's efforts and resources would be devoted to finding her and bringing her back to her duties of attending parties and charity benefits and waving from the half-opened, tinted windows of slowly driving limo processions rather than dealing with Irene Adler for the next month or so.
When the recipient's reluctant to returns daughter was finally retrieved, she would be married to fellow nobleman in a vain attempt to put a stop to all this nonsense and so then his efforts and resources would be devoted to planning and paying for the wedding and making sure his daughter didn't run off again in the traditional year long engagement.
And then the recipient would remember the text and picture he received and how for this whole time he and his people had not been able to do anything about them or The Woman who caused them this trouble.
The recipient would then turn to his chief-of-staff to find alternate methods of covertly taking care of the problem.
His chief-of-staff would then turn to his associate who had a minor position in the British government and major influence, Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft Holmes would be successful in fending off all others that happened to be after his new target, Irene Adler, which would temporarily take care of Irene's troubles of foreign origin.
But when he decided that he was too busy (lazy) to go recovering pornographic photos from a dominatrix himself, Mycroft Holmes would enlist the help of his little brother Sherlock Holmes…
…and the game would begin.
(A few weeks after chapter five and midway through the events of 'A Scandal in Belgravia')
Sherlock Holmes stood in the Crimes Against Property division's office in Scotland Yard…
(wearing his standard coat and scarf as he had just come in from the cold but not that ridiculous hunting hat that he had worn once hoping he would not be recognized instead of that becoming the most recognizable thing about him)
…waiting for the young, overworked office-bound officer to bring him the files on the recent burglaries related to the murder of college student and (wannabe) artist Pietro Venucci.
His sculpted busts of Margret Thatcher, ironic with devil horns, Sherlock did not consider art but the way Venucci had been stabbed to death, the pattern of stab wounds and blood spatter, now that was art.
(Sherlock also thought it was tacky that the statues were made of clay rather than iron as Thatcher was called by many the 'Iron Lady' and-)
-Lestrade!
What was he doing here?
Lestrade was an Inspector Detective in the Murder and Violent Crimes division of Scotland Yard, not the theft…
He was coming out of an office, conversing with a uniformed officer while simultaneously reading information a file.
The file folder itself was a different color from most of the folders in this office indicating that for some reason it was special.
The information in the file was being read by Lestrade for a least the third time given that Lestrade was able to carry on a conversation and walk while at the same time reading it which he would be unable to do successfully if this was the first time he was seeing this file.
There was no way Lestrade would read an important file like this one for the first time while multitasking.
And so it also must have been extra important if Lestrade was looking it over again and again.
Sherlock's curiosity was already peeked.
"Lestrade." He called, striding up to the detective, interrupting the other officer mid-sentence and standing in-between him and his target.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, like a thief caught red handed, "What are you doing here?"
He was hiding something, Sherlock could tell.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked Lestrade's question back at him, "You don't normally investigate crimes against property. Not that you normally do any investigating at all…"
"I'm just picking up a file." Lestrade said, trying to play off picking up the file like it was nothing while at the same time closing shut so Sherlock could not see it's contents.
"What file?" Sherlock inquired, trying to play off his question as if he was actually uninterested and just making conversation.
"It's classified." Lestrade answered, trying to sound as if he didn't know perfectly well that Sherlock would never just 'make conversation'.
"And just how is that relevant…?" Sherlock shrugged.
"It's relevant because you, a civilian, can't just go around sticking your nose into whatever classified files you want." Lestrade explained, much more frustrated with Sherlock than normal probably because he was hiding something, "Classified means classified."
"I'm a consultant." Sherlock reminded, "I see classified information all the time—"
"With permission." Lestrade interrupted, uncharacteristically curtly, "When we ask you to. And I haven't asked you to take a look at this file and I certainly am not giving you permission."
"This must be Sherlock Holmes, then." The uniformed officer finally spoke, looking Sherlock up and down and then turning to Lestrade, "Is he always like this? I don't know how you put up with him…"
"He doesn't 'put up' with me." Sherlock declared, "I 'put up' with him. And the rest of this so-called metropolitan police service. Out of the goodness of my own heart I put up with their blind stupidity for the sake of solving the cases. If it wasn't for me—"
"Ha, ha, ha, joking again!" Lestrade blurted out an awkward, false laugh, "Sherlock's got his own sense of humor, he does…"
Lestrade's fellow officer didn't seem to buy Lestrade's attempted save of the situation.
"I'll talk to you later." He told him, turned and strode brusquely away back into his personal office.
Lestrade sighed, glad the crisis had been (semi) averted but still frustrated with Sherlock's antics.
"Sherlock you really—" he began but again was cut off.
"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.
"…What?" Lestrade asked, confused.
"Who is it?" Sherlock repeated, "In the file?"
"I don't know what you mean-"
"Yes you do. You've never been this clandestine when it comes to case files. The only reason you would be is if someone specifically asked you not to show me one, most likely their own or at least one involving them. And you, with that silly sense of honor, feel compelled to actually comply with that request and so you try to hide the file from me…. The only one who'd want the file hidden from me would have to be either someone that I know… or someone that knows me. And in the event that someone knows me who I do not know, I would very much like to become acquainted with that someone. Therefore; who is it?"
Lestrade took a moment to follow Sherlock's chain of logic before speaking.
"Like you said, I've got a sense of honor." He stated, "So I can't tell you."
"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed, "Can't you just—"
"No." Lestrade refused.
Sherlock and Lestrade glared at each other for a second, stuck in a stalemate before they saw someone walk towards them.
It was the young officer Sherlock had asked to retrieve the files he actually needed for him.
Seeing that Sherlock was having quite the heated discussion with somebody, the office worker said, "I'll just leave these here for you", put the files down on the nearest desk and backed away.
"Don't you do it, Sherlock-!" Lestrade shouted when he saw the look in the consulting detective's eye but he was too late.
Sherlock, with one hand, had shoved the file out of Lestrade's grasp and with his other hand had knocked the newly delivered files off the desk.
Now all the files lay in a jumble on the floor, papers strewn everywhere.
"Christ." Lestrade cursed under his breath, "Did you really just do that?"
"I'm so sorry." Sherlock smiled, "I'll get those…"
Sherlock bent to pick the files up.
"No!" Lestrade warned, but Sherlock already had his long fingers on the different colored folder.
Lestrade quickly swooped down, his spine joints cracking in complaint, and snatched the folder out of Sherlock's hands.
"Ugh…fine…." Sherlock groaned.
He picked up the normal colored files, straightened them and their papers and then turned to leave.
Lestrade watched him go.
Once Sherlock was gone he decided that it was safe to open his special folder again.
Lestrade opened the uniquely hued file to see the standard hand-written write up of a burglary report…
…and a photograph of a bust of Margret Thatcher with devil horns.
Lestrade shook his head angrily.
He didn't know how the genius had done it but somehow Sherlock had switched the contents of one of the files he had requested with the one he wasn't supposed to have.
Lestrade slammed the folder closed and set it down on the nearby desk, hurrying out of the room to catch Sherlock before he got too far away with the classified file.
Sherlock was standing in the hallway of Scotland Yard, flipping through a very interesting file when Lestrade came stomping up to him.
"Hello again, Detective Inspector." Sherlock greeted, not looking up from the folder he held.
The others were stacked neatly next to his feet.
"You have no right—" Lestrade started.
"And you should know better than to try to hide things from me." Sherlock said flatly, shutting the file with one hand, "…and so should Molly Hooper."
"Oh…Hi, Sherlock." Molly said when Sherlock entered the morgue, still in his coat and scarf (and not the deer stalker!).
She had recognized the sound of the way he walked into her morgue; echoing footsteps (further spaced than most people due to his long legs) against the floor (cleaned daily, not by Molly).
She was trying to ignore him, trying to be cold towards him.
('Trying' being the operant word.)
For some reason she was a bit mad at Sherlock (or, at least, trying to be) and so was not looking at him and instead continuing her examination of the corpse on the table.
"Hi, Molly." Sherlock returned.
"What can I do for you today?" Molly asked, her quiet tone of voice not nearly as polite as her choice of words, "Here for another body part? I've got some nice fresh ones. Or just to use the equipment? Whatever it is, help yourself, don't mind me, I just work here…"
(Okay, more than a 'bit mad' and definitely trying to show it.)
She laughed then, forced and abruptly like a shattering glass.
(Maybe she wasn't trying to show she was mad as much as she had.)
It was a joke, what Molly had said, or at least it was meant to be veiled as one but the veil had been more transparent than she had tried for.
Just what was Molly mad about?
And just how mad was she trying to be about it?
(John had told Sherlock several times how rude he had been to Molly but Sherlock (being so much smarter than John) hadn't seen it and if Sherlock didn't see something it just wasn't there.)
Still, it was possible that both John and Molly had been mistaken in their eyesight and so had 'seen' (hallucinated) Sherlock as rude…
And so maybe that's why Molly was more than a 'bit mad'.
…That and the fact that she was hiding something.
Over the past few months Molly had been the victim of a series of pranks that she, Lestrade and Sherlock (despite not even being supposed to know about all this) all knew that Jim Moriarty was behind.
For whatever stupid reason Molly (and Lestrade) had decided to try (and fail) to conceal this information from Sherlock and so far he had yet to deduce why.
Sherlock wanted to know why and that was why he had come to the morgue (not to pick up another body part or borrow the equipment).
But Molly had no way of knowing that Sherlock new about what had happened to her (Lestrade wasn't going to admit that he had been unable to keep her secret) and so her reason for acting this way (mad) had to be something other than that.
"Actually, Molly…" Sherlock began, coughing slightly, "John and I, well mostly John since it was his idea, are having, well, sort of a Christmas 'get-together'…not a 'party', I loathe 'parties'… just a 'get-together', as John calls it, and I was wondering if you'd like to go…"
Molly looked up.
"I'd love to!" she smiled, eyes wide in surprise. She was no longer trying to sound mad anymore.
Sherlock, on the other hand, sounded nervous.
He wasn't that practiced at inviting females anywhere, even (and especially) ones that he was not interested in (and that was all but one of them so far) and even though he had his ulterior motives for asking Molly to come to the party (finding out more about Moriarty's antics and because John told him to), Sherlock still seemed awkward.
And that was because he knew Molly liked that.
She had fell (two types of figuratively) for that 'Jim from IT' character Moriarty had tricked her with and Sherlock knew she would fall for it again.
She must have had some kind of thing for shy, socially inept men (probably because they reminded her of herself (and psychologically speaking people tended to be more attracted to those who both looked and/or acted like them)).
And so Sherlock knew this would work on her.
"Um…good, then." Sherlock responded, "It the twenty-fourth, eight pm…it's at my—and John's-flat, of course. I assume you're available..?
"I am." Molly nodded, too happy at being invited to Sherlock's party to be offended by his assumption, "Eight, you said? I'll be there."
"Good." Sherlock repeated, "I'll see you there, then…I guess."
"Yeah, I'll see you there!" Molly affirmed, still smiling and nodding and wide eyed.
The conversation after that was awkward goodbyes (boring) and so when Sherlock finally escaped that, the morgue and Molly, he pondered as he walked out of the hospital just what Molly's motivation was for hiding the events with Moriarty from, and trying to be mad at, him.
She didn't wear lipstick anymore, at least when he came around the morgue and was no longer flirting with, or displaying her obvious crush on, him and there must have been a reason for that too, Sherlock thought.
He knew she still had the crush, as she had to try to be mad at him and then regretted once she had and had been so ecstatic at being invited to his and John's Christmas 'get-together' and so lack of feelings wasn't the cause for Molly's change in behavior.
So what could it be...?
Guilt.
The reason was guilt, Sherlock decided.
Molly must have had a new boyfriend and that was why she was trying to avoid Sherlock as much as possible, that way her old feelings wouldn't get in the way of her new relationship.
That must be it.
Now the question was, of course, just who was Molly's new boyfriend…?
Well you all know who 'he'/'him' was. Why was Moriarty not referred to by name? Because Irene couldn't say it and, well, just cause I felt like it lol.
Now who was 'you-know-who', Irene and Moriarty's mutual 'friend'? ...You'll see...
(...if you review lol)
So please review!