A/N: So sorry for the delay. And as I work the next six days in a row, I can't guarantee there won't be another one. Thanks for everyone's comments. They really keep me writing when writing is rough. :) Oh, and the reason for the massive delay when I was writing all day Saturday? Yeah, I'm now 10,000 words into another, totally unrelated Sherlock Regency story, beginning when Sherlock spies John boxing at Gentleman Jackson's, gleaming, sweaty back and scar worthy of being licked like candy. It's nowhere near ready to post yet, but I thought I'd share the news.
A/N 2: For those keeping score, saccharine wasn't first recorded as a metaphoric term for something overly sweet until 1841, but the word existed in the 1670s meaning "of or like sugar." I like to think Sherlock capable of coining a metaphor. Besides, I already had to drop "mollycoddling" (1870) from the sentence, and saccharine just had the tone I wanted so I used it anyway. Yes, the etymological dictionary is getting quite a workout! :)
Also "sporting hotel" = brothel
Bond Street was a fashionable address in the Regency period, though it eventually fell out of favor. Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon was at 13 (Old) Bond Street, and next door was a fencing studio run by a man named... Angelo. I can't make this stuff up.
Lastly, Charles Darwin's grandfather Erasmus had written several scientific works on flora and fauna and even galvanism prior to 1802, so that's who I'm talking about, not Chuck. And one should not need this many notes to read a fan fiction. Jeez. LOL
Within an hour, they'd bundled themselves into a shabby carriage for hire and were underway towards Lady Adler's Bond Street address. They rolled through several intersections in silence, Sherlock thinking and John observing him from the corner of his eye, of which Sherlock was more than aware. Still, it surprised him when John lifted Sherlock's hand, turned it, and placed a small kiss on the bare inside of his wrist, just above the leather of his glove.
Sherlock's eyes flickered up and down over John but John just returned Sherlock's hand to his lap with a smile curving his lips and turned his attention out to the city passing by his window. He quickly assessed his own involuntary reaction to the gesture. So very curious, this thumping in his chest, this ache – but no, ache wasn't the right word as it was infinitely more pleasant.
"Now that I've agreed to consider incorporating a sexual component to our marriage, are you going to expect saccharine cossetting like hand-holding?"
"Does it bother you if I am sentimental?"
No. No, not at all. But Sherlock didn't put his answer into words. Sherlock had already put together that he was attracted to John no matter how much he would prefer for it not to be true. Even admitting it, however, did not make him refrain from repressing it or attempting to avoid the whole realm of emotion.
On the other hand, Sherlock considered that part of John's appeal was that he was an unknown entity, an unsolved puzzle, something that Sherlock had forbidden himself. Sherlock could only imagine how he would be – he did not know despite his fever dreams and this morning's unintentional proximity. Possibly the reality would disappoint. Perhaps if this were proven true, as Sherlock invariably found encounters of such magnified anticipation, then the desire he felt might dissipate. To this end, perhaps he ought to initiate intimacies at the first opportunity rather than hold off and continue to so sharply desire something that could not possibly live up to his fantasy.
"I don't expect anything, Sherlock, except that you are yourself," John said when it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to answer him. "As for hand-holding, I would need to be on your other side, to keep my gun-hand free. Practicality, you know."
Sherlock had little response to this but his lips twitched upwards.
"So is there anything else I ought to know about Lady Adler before we visit?"
Sherlock mused through the vast multitude of facts he'd collected about Irene Adler.
"I suspect you know enough to be going on with, John. She will likely play her games and tease, but she likes to be clever as much as I. If she knows something I do not, she will be inclined to share just to see the rare look of surprise on my face."
Sherlock had the carriage let them out onto the stone walkway several doors down from Lady Adler's, in front of a building that housed Angelo's Fencing Academy, next door to the famous Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon. John's eyes lingered upon the signs with more than casual curiosity.
"Have you interest in fencing or pugilism? I know the elder Angelo; he owes me a favor."
"I don't think I'd be terribly nimble at fencing, not with my leg."
"With proper instruction, it is quite possible that the exercise will be beneficial." Sherlock tucked John's hand around his elbow and guided John the correct direction to Lady Adler's door. "We could discuss it another time, perhaps in the spring when the weather warms."
Don't think about John in his shirt sleeves and breeches, sweat rolling down the back of his neck as the muscles of his legs and back and arms tense, advancing relentlessly towards his adversary. Don't think don't think don't think… Sherlock very deliberately began to categorize his surroundings.
The street was only beginning to bustle this early in the day. Many among the ton would have been at entertainments late into the night and would not yet have risen for the day. Later in the day, the walkways would be brimming with ladies and their parasols and other fripperies. After dinner, the young bucks would take over, perfecting their struts and bathing in the glory of being seen or going about unwholesome business. But for now, John and Sherlock walked easily around the merchants and their clerks arriving for work, the early risers who preferred to make their purchases before the busy part of the day, and a few gentlemen indiscreetly staggering home from a sporting hotel.
Sherlock opened a door set between two storefronts and started up the steep flight of stairs.
"Surely the Regent does not climb these steps, Sherlock," John said with a trace of self-depreciation as he struggled with the final few steps to the second floor. The Prince Regent was currently in his fifties and known for being a rotund gentleman.
"I believe not." But Sherlock had caught the humor and rubbed a hand comfortingly over John's left shoulder blade as he caught his breath on the landing. Then he realized what he was doing, jerked his hand away, and it became an awkward moment. He should not have jerked away, but couldn't take back either the touch or the alarmed reaction.
John cleared his throat. "Yes, well, which door is it?" He smiled and allowed Sherlock to step by and rap with gloved hands on a white door with baroque styling and gilt paint. "Of course."
They waited for a few minutes before Sherlock rapped again. This time there was a rustling behind the door and it opened to a simply dressed young woman, blonde hair tied back in a ribbon. Sherlock skipped the whole calling card convention and simply stated his purpose.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to see Lady Adler."
"My lady does not receive visitors at this time of day, gentlemen," the young lady said with a surprising amount of confidence.
"It is a matter of some urgency," Sherlock said, stepping into the doorway as if he hadn't heard her. "Go fetch your mistress or I shall be forced to interrupt the lady in her chamber."
Any other lady's maid or servant might have scampered do to Sherlock's bidding, or even called for a footman to assist the gentleman back out the door, but this one eyed him up before flinging an arm in the direction of a regal blue sofa. She marched off, head high and back straight, through a door on the far side of the room.
John removed his gloves and tossed them in his top hat. Sherlock did the same, but removed no more of his outerwear; it wasn't like they were staying for tea. He stalked quickly around the room, examining the walls, the paintings, the ceiling, the doorframes, even what appeared to be the amount of dust on the carpet. John watched him, getting comfortable on the sofa. He may as well. There was no telling how long the lady would keep them waiting.
It was hardly five minutes before the door on the far side of the room opened again. John stood automatically, turned to make a greeting, and froze. Sherlock turned from his inspection of a blue and white vase in the corner to see what sight had struck John mute when duty called for a polite salutation.
It was indeed Lady Adler entering the room. And she was quite nude.
"Gentlemen, what a lovely surprise."
"Irene, really, such a shameless display," Sherlock scolded as if completely unaffected. "John doesn't know where to look." John, after a bit of choking gasp, had turned his gaze deliberately towards the fireplace.
"I think he knows exactly where to look." Irene smirked and draped herself across a chaise with all the deliberate eroticism of Venus. "I find his shyness quite appealing. I suppose you haven't quite found the time to thoroughly debauch him yet, then?"
Sherlock paced behind her and with a sweeping elegance of his own, drew off his greatcoat and shrouded all her mysteries with it.
Irene looked a tad put out, but Sherlock smiled falsely and said, "We wouldn't want you to catch a chill."
"Why, thank you for your concern over my well-being." She claimed his greatcoat as her own, slipping it on and looking all the more naked with just a bare knee deliberately exposed by the arrangement of the wool.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his brain started churning. He glanced at Irene as he paced about the room.
"What are you hiding?"
"I could not possibly be hiding anything. You, on the other hand, are hiding me."
"Nonsense, Irene. You would not have pulled such a stunt unless you were deliberately trying to distract me from something. You've hidden something, something concrete. Something you do not wish discovered." A mere moment, a single stride, and he had it. "You've stolen something from the Prince, letters of some sort. Hmm, and where are you hiding them? In this room, surely."
Irene's face didn't change a whit, but that was as telling as any reaction. Her eyes flickered in a direction only briefly, but Sherlock was waiting for it.
"Tell me what I want to know, and I won't open the safe behind your poor copy of a Reynolds and return the contents to their rightful owner."
"You haven't asked me anything." Oh, she was so smug.
"Honestly, Irene, does history teach you nothing? I realize you were an infant when that actress tried to blackmail the prince, but surely you must know that it won't work."
"I would never stoop to blackmail. The letters are for my protection."
Sherlock snorted. "Protection from poverty, perhaps." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "They're not letters to you. You wouldn't have had to steal them and the Prince Regent would never be so careless again as to write anything incriminating to a rather temporary mistress. What precisely do you have?"
They glared at each other. John looked on, utterly speechless.
Sherlock suddenly gave a grin worthy of a sun-bleached skull.
"Fine. What do you want?"
"A name, or names. Has there been any talk, Irene, of someone doing experiments with embalming fluid? Or possibly of a regenerative nature? I'd be most interested in the lowest gossip, the inane accusations."
Irene made a face. "Embalming, so dull. What use is a chemical to preserve the dead?"
"What if it could preserve life?"
"Then perhaps I could keep a secret if such a miracle were promised to me. They say that beauty doesn't last forever, but I intend that mine shall."
"That is foolish, Irene. You'd be better suited to becoming the muse of some poor, talented painter in your quest for immortality. Though that would certainly disrupt your current comfortable arrangement."
"It's dreadfully dull sitting for portraits, Sherlock. I prefer to make my mark on life. Besides, if you are looking for embalming and regeneration experiments, you should not have left the dissection so early the other day on Victor's arm. The heart began to beat while completely outside of the chest!"
That he'd missed something so spectacular only served to raise Sherlock's ire; that, and the way her eyes slid to John, to gauge whether Sherlock's husband had spied Victor and Sherlock leaving together the way she had. John's visage remained relaxed and unchanged, to which Irene replied by twisting her mouth into a petulant little moue.
"I've already discounted the work Oliver has been doing in the anatomical field." Sherlock paced and waved his hand as if physically wiping Oliver's presence from his mind. "There is no indication he has a skill level commensurate with the work we've been seeing."
"The bodies found yesterday?" Irene's eyes lit up. "I do so love a mystery." She straightened up on the lounge, arranging herself quite primly. "Will you share?"
"No."
"Selfish."
"Yes. Now, who else has dropped whispers of such dealings? Who has shown undue curiosity on the subject?"
"Undue curiosity, my dear Sherlock? The subject is all the rage, as well you know. Even Byron and Shelley muse about the natural philosophies."
"Many may wax poetic on the subject, but few would have the chemical skill to design such a compound."
"Well, then, if I had to name three, they'd be you, Victor, and the Professor." Her eyes glimmered with mirth.
"That's hardly helpful, Irene."
"Truthfully, Sherlock, I haven't the foggiest. There are those who seek to continue Galvani's work on anatomical electrical impulses, such as Volta. Or you could speak with Gerdy or Gratiolet, but they've not been in London to my knowledge." Irene smiled again. "Perhaps you ought to ask at a bookshop to see if there have been any suspicious characters purchasing Galvani and Darwin."
"Have you been following me?" Sherlock himself had purchased one of Galvani's works and The Temple of Nature by Erasmus Darwin just the other day. How had she known? Of course, in spite of her cloying femininity, Irene would have won an argument with Plato himself.
"I hardly need to. You are nothing if not predictable."
Sherlock squeezed his long fingers into tight fists, trying to control his temper. He would not let this woman crawl into his head and make a home there. To get the information he needed, he must outwit her.
"Very well, then. Let us examine your suspects. I know where I've been these past weeks and I am certainly not the murderer. I know you've been carousing with the Regent, so you're unlikely to be experimenting with chemicals between fetes and banquets. The Professor has likely been engrossed in building his electrostatic generator for weeks now. We all know how bewitching he finds new toys. So then what has Victor been up to?"
"Oh, so now you're asking me about Victor? You could simply stop by. I'm certain he would be absolutely thrilled to see you. You could even bring your husband; I'm sure Victor wouldn't mind." Irene's tone remained playful, but Sherlock couldn't quite see from his position what sort of look that she gave John to make him blush and fidget on the sofa. Sherlock paced back behind John so that if Irene looked at John, she'd have to look at Sherlock directly as well. She preened under his withering glare.
"Irene," he warned. She smiled and continued on in her puckish tone.
"Before the dissection, though, I hadn't heard from Victor in weeks. He has withdrawn from Prinny's circle, has hosted none of his usual entertainments. I gather he has found a new lover over whom to obsess, a soldier." Irene eyed John. "Perhaps I ought to try one. Apparently, they're utterly captivating."
"Have you met this soldier of his?"
"No, as I said, I hadn't seen him until the morning of the anatomical demonstration. I take his solitude at the event to mean that his new friend is somewhat rough and uncouth, or he would have attempted to use the man to inspire your jealousy."
"Hardly possible."
Sherlock was frustrated. His conversation with Irene was getting him absolutely nowhere. He wandered over to the window, wondering where else to go, who else to ask. Perhaps he ought to spend more time with the children on the streets. They certainly saw more than anyone else in the city, and would enthusiastically turn their observations into coin. Or perhaps the resurrection man Corbeau was charged with sending along with turn out useful, if he ever showed up.
He paced to the window, hearing Irene engage John in low conversation while Sherlock thought and turned things over in his mind. The culprit simply had to be a man of science, someone educated. He would make a list of all the scientific men in London if he had to, search each of their homes for proof…
Sherlock paused by the window, watching the people stroll past. Just then, a hack paused to pick up a lone passenger. The young man hopped into the carriage, testing the no-doubt aging springs. When the carriage didn't drift back into traffic immediately, Sherlock ducked his head forward to peer more closely at the driver and his head thunked against the glass.
Irene's titter and John's "Are you alright?" registered, but Sherlock paid them no heed. The would-be passenger exited once again only to shout something at the driver which was roundly ignored.
"Would someone be looking for those letters you stole, Irene? Because there is a very suspicious driver intent on remaining in front of your door."