A/N: WOW! You guys and your comments... holy shit! I woke up to a full inbox this morning and it was fabulous! I'm so glad you guys are so concerned about Gabriel and love the story so much. You're all such darlings for it and I do appreciate it. Thanks so much! Here's the next chapter and I'll just say- its not over.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel and Scarlett.
The phrase 'silent as the grave' was what came to mind as the occupants of Ambergris stood around the lounge, gawking at the woman who had walked through their door. Almost as if everyone was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She stood there, a near-perfect copy of the Irene Adler that he had last seen more than seven years previous. Frozen in time. Even her hair was the same. The rest of them had been so changed by the passing years, but she was like a ghost from Sherlock's past. A spirit that now only existed in the recesses of his mind palace. He had locked her away there some time ago, no longer having use of her coy smiles and hollow promises. An adolescent fantasy that no longer existed.
"I can see that I've interrupted something important. Perhaps I should go and come back later…"
"No. No I don't think that would be a good idea," John said, taking a protective stance beside Sherlock. "In fact, coming back here ever might be a bad idea."
"Oooh… nice to see that Dr. Watson is still just as fiercely protective of you as he always was, Sherlock. It's heartwarming."
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice dangerously low and calculated. He peered over his shoulder, making sure that Molly was nowhere behind him. He didn't want to drop this complication on a day that was supposed to be just for her.
"Just to talk to you," Irene replied, casting sideways glances around the room. "In private. Please."
Sherlock nodded and gestured toward the corridor that led to the extra rooms. Her heels pounded on the hardwood floor, counting each heartbeat as they made their way toward the study. Each heartbeat gave him another second to deduce more about her. No longer did he draw a blank when he looked at Irene Adler. Experience or absence had deconstructed the air of mystery she'd held over him all those years ago. Makeup just a little thicker to hide the lines of age and weariness. The designer sheath dress the only posh thing she had left from the old days. He could tell by the hem. In fact, she had gone to a lot of trouble to look like The Woman today. Obviously she wanted something from him. She wanted it so badly that she was willing to put on a costume of the Old Irene. The Miss Adler that she assumed he still held close and would do anything to impress.
He opened the door to the study and held it for her, stepping aside to let her in. "How dare you," he said, pushing the door closed.
She laughed and sat down on the corner of the desk that stood by the window. "No hello kiss, then?"
"What the hell do you want, Irene? I was reliably informed that you were dead. But then again, I don't guess I'm too surprised that you aren't. What life are you on now, Miss Adler?"
She smirked. "Look who's talking. That little stunt you pulled—jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's? Pretty amazing."
"You heard about that?"
"People on Mars heard about that. I had a little fantasy that you would call me during your… internment, but alas, no such luck." Sherlock turned to her, looking stricken. "Does it surprise you to know that I still fantasize about you?"
"Surprised? No." He negotiated carefully around the desk, taking care not to come within reach of her, just in case her skin might be laced with poison. Reaching down, he opened a desk drawer and took one cigarette and a lighter. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw, then let it out slowly. "Not to rush you, but time is of the essence today, I'm afraid."
"Yes, what exactly did I interrupt?"
"None of your concern," he snapped. "Just make this quick."
She chuckled mirthlessly and pulled her gloves off. "Might I have one of those?"
"I thought you loathed cigarette smoke."
"Things change," she replied, taking the cigarette from him and leaning forward so that he might light it. "Speaking of which, you look very well for someone back from the dead."
"You don't," he replied.
"I can see you're still a charmer."
"You look desperate, Irene. You look so desperate that you're willing to put on quite a show in your second hand white linen and designer knock-off stilettos. So what is it? More people trying to kill you? Pissed off the wrong unstable government?"
"I want to see him."
Sherlock stopped cold, processing her statement. He ran through possible answers in his mind palace. His initial reaction glowed red, 'Go fuck yourself, Miss Adler.' Of course, that probably wasn't the best thing to say. And it would only make her more persistent. There was also the possibility of pretending he had no idea what she was talking about. Of course, for a man for whom honesty was almost an involuntary reaction, this might not be the easiest feat to perform. But then, the rage bubbling under his skin, making his blood boil forced him to blurt: "No."
She looked genuinely taken aback. "No? How can you say no?"
"Easy. One syllable. Now if that's everything, there's the door. Follow the path around the house to the carpark." He took her by the elbow and nudged her toward the door leading onto the patio.
"Please, Sherlock," she said, pulling away from him. "Please. Let me explain. When I'm through, if you still want me to go, I'll go and you'll never see me again."
He stopped to consider her words. He couldn't help balling his fist at his side, flexing his fingertips and then pushing his hands through his hair. It was an unconscious tic that he'd had since childhood. It was the only thing that kept him from punching her. "Six years. Six years you knew about Gabriel. What can you possibly say that would explain your not telling me?"
"Gabriel?"
"That's his name. A name that some nun who didn't know him at all came up with."
"Oh. I… I like it." She looked around the room and suddenly, a look of despair and abject terror crossed her face. Almost as if there wasn't enough air in the room. "No… no you're right. I shouldn't have come here…" She started for the door.
Her sudden cowardice only served to ignite his anger like a solar flare. He rushed her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcefully shoving her down on the leather sofa. "No, no. This is what you wanted. To explain. To make me understand how you could hide this from me and then abandon him like a scuffed up pair of shoes! So you and me are going to sit right here and you're going to make me understand!"
"I… I don't know where to begin…"
"How about when you found out you were pregnant with my child." He began to pace, hoping that they were at least stalling Molly. He nervously steepled his hands in front of his mouth as his brain raced.
"Well… after you left me there, in that tiny flat outside Florence, I started to get so bored. The romance of the city, the wine… without you there it started to fade. Being a nameless face in the crowd was never for me, so I left. I knew it would be dangerous. That insignificant terror cell in Karachi was most definitely not the only one looking for me. So I made my way in the world, switching names and cities, staying one step ahead. Hell, I didn't even realize I was pregnant for four months. When I found out, I wanted to go to you. I tried… but… they were following me. It was too dangerous to go to London or contact you. So I just kept putting it off."
"Skip to the part where you left Gabriel alone in a convent. Four hours from my home and still you didn't see fit to even send me a text."
She nodded and shifted on the sofa, sliding back from him a little so that it was easier to breathe. He watched her carefully and observed, with satisfaction, that her eyes, looking so black, still dilated at his close proximity. "I was running. I wanted to come to you. I did… but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to put you in danger anymore."
He snorted with disdain and lit another cigarette. Chain smoking might be the only way to get through this conversation without violence. "I've never been afraid of danger."
"I just… if I had it to do over again…" She sighed. "Oh well, it doesn't matter now, does it? What's done is done. Anyway, I just kept running. The night that our child was born, I was on a dark road in Halifax. I remember I wasn't feeling well, but I was determined to make it to London. I was trying to get to you. I don't know what happened but I blacked out… just for a minute, but when I came to, this old man was pulling me out of the car that I'd apparently crashed into a tree. He took me to St. Christopher's Convent just up the road. I was banged up and bleeding, but also in labor. The good sisters wanted to call an ambulance, but I'm afraid that it was too late for that. I barely held on long enough for the doctor to arrive and cut the cord." She took another draw of the cigarette poised between her fingers and then smashed it out in the ashtray. "I never even held him, you know. I was so ill. They took him from me as soon as I saw him. The doctor that examined me after said that I had cancer and that it was a miracle I'd been able to carry the child at all. He gave me three months."
"Obviously an exaggeration," Sherlock remarked.
Irene ignored him and went on. "I didn't want to put a child through that. Nor did I want to put you through that. So I wrote those letters and left them with a nun called Margaret. Five days after his birth, I was gone. I didn't have the strength to run anymore. I went to an old friend in Marseilles and stayed there—expecting to die, but he had a doctor friend that saw me and thought he could help. Which he did and here I am."
"You know, Irene… if anyone else was telling me this story, I wouldn't believe it."
"I know… maybe you've been right all this time and I do have nine lives." She smiled. It was a flirtatious and familiar smile.
"So why now? Why did you finally decide that it was safe enough to make your presence known? I mean, there was what… two years? Three between the time that you gave birth and when you were miraculously cured? Why not go back for him?"
She gave a hollow snuffle and rose from the sofa, going to the drawer where Sherlock had retrieved the cigarette before. "What would have been the point, Sherlock? They all thought I was dead. Maybe I wanted to be dead. Besides, I could never be sure he would be safe if he was with me. At least leaving him there, I knew they'd find him a home that would be safe. Where he wouldn't be dragged from one dangerous situation to another."
"Oh really?" Sherlock's eyes grew cold and he clasped his hands under his chin briefly. "Would you like to know how safe he was? The 'good sisters,' as you called them, didn't find him a home. Though that was probably a blessing in disguise as he'd have been sent to a children's home which is really just a factory for drug addicts and criminals. No, they kept him right there in a convent full of women with absolutely no idea how to relate to children. He didn't learn to talk until he was three years old and an old caretaker finally decided to talk to him. When he got to me he couldn't even recognize his name when it was written on paper. Not knowing how to communicate effectively, he was completely out of control, except of course when the Mother Superior beat him with a stick and locked him in a confessional."
Irene's eyes were downcast and a single tear slid down the ridge of her nose. She dabbed at it lightly with the back of her hand, trying not to draw attention. "Oh no, Sherlock…"
"Oh yes, Irene! Would you like to see the scar? It's about ten centimeters long across his lower back. Made when the thin, wisp of wood at the end cut into his skin and started to heal while he was locked away. Care to guess what sort of offense would warrant such a beating? He threw up in his bed. Tantrums and rages and crying so hard he made himself sick—that's what you've missed since his rescue, which by the way was purely by chance. The first few weeks he was at Baker Street, we had to literally hold him when he got angry to keep him from beating his head against the wall."
"Stop. Please… I don't want to hear anymore…" she sobbed.
"Why should you be spared?" he spat, snuffing his cigarette. "But you wanted to see him. Go ahead. There's a picture on the desk right beside you."
A small frame stood in the middle of the desk. A laughing Gabriel was snuggled between Sherlock and a smiling woman with long, auburn hair. All three of them looked happily sunkissed with the ocean behind them. "My God… is this him?" she breathed, picking up the photograph and brushing her fingertips over his face. Sherlock nodded. "He's… beautiful, Sherlock."
"I know."
"He looks just like you."
"Yes he does."
She stared down at the smiling face and couldn't help crying once more. Over and over she traced him with the tips of her fingers, trying to memorize every line. "When was this taken?"
"Last summer. He wasn't quite six."
"Who is the woman?"
"Her name is Molly. His mother."
Irene smirked. "You have changed."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well… you look… like you're in love. And here I thought you couldn't be bothered. What was it you said? Something about a chemical defect?"
"Funny how death puts things in perspective."
"Indeed. She's pretty. Not really your type, but—"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped.
"Nothing. She just looks a bit… mousey. Not at all who I'd expect you to hook up with. I'd think your mate would have to be someone more… explosive."
"Someone like you, you mean?" He chucked but no mirth reached his eyes. He closed the distance between them and took the picture from her hands. "There are more important things than always being the center of attention. Loyalty, compassion… common sense. Molly loves me for all that I am, but requires that I be better. And she's not afraid of anything. She doesn't run away when things are difficult. So you would do well to keep your glib opinions to yourself."
"I didn't mean anything by it, Sherlock," Irene said. "I'm glad that you're happy. And that she's been so good to Gabriel." She sighed and slid from her perch, feeling that she was in a danger zone being so close to him. "I'm not here to cause you any grief or create any friction. I'd just like to see my son."
"You have no son, remember? You left him before you ever even held him. You're like a fish that lays an egg and then waits for the male to swim over and fertilize it."
"I think you did a little more than swim over."
"Yes! And because I did I deserved a little more than a letter in a burned out house telling me that I had a child!" he snarled. "So convince me, Irene. You have two more minutes and then you're leaving. Convince me that you deserve to know him. And yes, you will know him. There is no in between, this time. He knows what you look like. It's not as if I can introduce you as some long lost friend—he knows who you are. He's seen your photograph and he will remember what you look like. So if you're going to waltz back into his life, you'd better be prepared to actually see him. I won't have you hurting him again. Not when he's finally gotten over you."
"I don't want to disrupt his life. Or take him from you."
"As if you could. Everyone thinks you're dead. Dead people don't make fit parents."
"I don't even want to make him come visit on holidays, I just want to see him. To tell him that I'm sorry and that I've always loved him. I've dreamt about my little boy—"
"He is not your little boy!"
"Please, Sherlock. Please. I'm not afraid to beg."
Sherlock sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair roughly and shaking it out. He paced back and forth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see them gathering outside on the beach, talking to the vicar who had arrived. They wouldn't be able to stall much longer. He could tell, even from this distance, that Molly was starting to get nervous. She looked back at the house every few seconds, probably wondering where he and Gabe were. Such a good boy. He had stayed in his room just as Sherlock had asked. There was no more time. "All right. You can see him, but not here. Not now. There's a restaurant in town called The Albatross. Meet us there tomorrow for din—tea."
A wide smile broke and she stood up, rushing to embrace him. "Thank you, Sherlock!"
"Don't thank me just yet. He may not want to see you. Molly may go completely mad at the prospect. But we'll be there." He led her to the door, opening it up and showing her the path that would lead to the roadside and avoid the beach. "If you don't show up, I swear that's your last chance. I will never entertain this notion again. Understood?"
Irene nodded, then smiled, placing a gloved hand on his cheek. "That's why I always liked you, Mr. Holmes. You were the only man I'd ever let dominate me."
He smirked. "Get out."
