A/N: I do apologize for the delay. I suppose that's the problem with WIPs, sometimes the author's brain turns to mush and nothing gets done. This is shorter than I had intended, but I didn't want to let it lag a month like some of my other works! :)
"Captain Watson, despite my teasing, I do wish you and Sherlock the very best," Irene said as Sherlock strode to the window and immersed himself in the passing traffic. She spoke softly as not to be overheard.
"Thank you, Lady Adler," John replied politely.
"You are much more confident in his presence this morning." Her gaze had focused on John again.
"Am I?"
"You do seem to have reached a sort of accord. I must say, I didn't imagine anyone would be able to reach him." She glanced behind her towards the window, gaze lingering on Sherlock's stiff posture.
John suppressed his surprise. Everyone in Sherlock's world seemed to be far too clever. Still he wasn't about to be provoked into sharing intimate details of his marriage with this woman.
"I have no idea what you mean, Lady Adler."
"You're in love with him."
"You're mistaken. We met less than a month ago."
"If you say. But I see how you look at him." She grinned with her usual playful intent. "I see how you look at me when I look at him."
John didn't like her observation one bit. "I believe Sherlock and I will suit each other, Lady Adler, and that is all I mean to say on the subject." John edged forward in his seat, hoping Sherlock would decide it was time to leave very soon.
"Captain Watson, do forgive me if I am unkind." She leaned forward towards him, clutching the wool of Sherlock's greatcoat around her neck to imply modesty. "I am afraid I have grown bitter and it escapes me at times." Lady Adler looked sincere but John would be foolish to trust her.
"I do not presume to know what you mean." John eyed Sherlock pacing near the window, but the man gave no indication that he'd heard. He was lost in his own thoughts as usual.
"Sherlock was always the man none could tame. Victor came the closest, but in the end he misjudged his manipulations and lost. I don't think he has ever forgiven himself for that. And I have no one but myself to blame for my imprudent heart."
"Lady Adler, I really don't think we should be having this conversation."
"Captain Watson… John, please. One would think a man like him would be difficult to love. Even he believes it. But he is a brilliant sun, burning those who don't bask in his glow. So few truly understand him and he understands no one. He refuses the love given to him and I suppose I cannot blame him – I had nothing but selfish love, Victor, obsessive love, and Lord Sherrinford lorded over him since childhood. He throws off us all for those imperfections. Do not be 'dutiful' love, cold and cheerless, I beg of you."
John stiffened. "Lady Adler…"
"Just pray don't give up on him. Just love him even when he won't allow it."
Just then, Sherlock knocked his head against the window glass with a loud thunk, and gratefully, without a tinkling of shattered glass. Lady Adler's nervous titter and John's, "Are you alright?" were ignored and Sherlock sprang away from the window.
"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."
John marked a rapid blink of Irene's eyes, the only indication she was worried at all by the implication. She stood gracefully, fastening the coat's buttons to keep it closed over her naked form more securely.
"Kate," she called, her voice not the least bit tremulous, "Beta." The maid, or companion, or whoever she was appeared a moment later with a satchel, a sturdy pair of shoes, and a large swath of sheer veil.
Stuffing her feet into the quite un-Irene-like shoes, she progressed to the painting Sherlock had indicated before, swung it on hinges hidden in the framing, produced a key from whence John could not possibly guess as she'd not been wearing so much a necklace, and turned it in a safe box recessed into the wall. Irene swept the contents into the satchel without a modicum of interference from either Sherlock or John.
"Sherlock, my dear, I'm obliged to borrow your coat awhile. I shall return it when I can. Captain Watson, our chat was lovely. I do hope we meet again."
With that, she ran lightly across the room to a small half-door Kate had opened in the wall, the entrance completely disguised by the lines in the wainscoting, ducked into it with the woman, and was gone.
"Should we follow her?" John said after his startlement had eased.
"To what purpose, John?" Sherlock replied drily. "Capture her for the sake of justice or offer gentlemanly assistance to a lady who has no need of it?"
Since John didn't really have an answer, he remained silent, allowing Sherlock to reveal his purpose when he chose.
"Besides, John, it is the driver we are interested in!" Sherlock gestured towards the window. "Hurry now, John, we must catch a hack."
Sherlock burst out the door and was down the stairs. John followed as swiftly as his leg would allow. He clomped heavily down the steep staircase after Sherlock, glad they had little need of stealth since he could provide only one or the other.
"Why the hack, Sherlock?" John panted as he caught up to Sherlock, who was peering out the door onto the street. "Surely if it is someone the… that was sent after Lady Adler, it is not a situation in which we ought to interfere."
"It's doubtful this man was sent after Irene. I simply wanted to see if I was right about where and what she had hidden in her apartments. The papers were most precious to her, so of course she would save them. I suppose I could have set a fire, but such extremes proved unnecessary."
John blinked. "Sherlock, that was reprehensible!" But when Sherlock glanced back at him uneasily, he surely saw the irrepressible mirth on John's face. When John began to let his laughter sputter out, Sherlock returned the smile. "Oh, I shouldn't be laughing, Sherlock, but I suppose she deserved a fright."
John was wiping his eyes, still giggling, when Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his upturned lips. The action silenced him immediately. It was a chaste kiss, just a press of lips, but John's heart felt like it flopped onto a bed in an overly dramatic swoon.
Sherlock hastily pulled back, clearing his throat and letting his eyes flutter back to the sliver of light from the street. "Yes, well, she will return when she realizes she is not in danger. In the meantime, take a look at the driver and tell me what you see."
John shifted towards the opening in the door. Sherlock didn't relinquish his place, so John tucked himself very closely against his husband. The contact made him smile, aware of where his body touched Sherlock's: his left shoulder was tucked up against Sherlock's arm; Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his chest against John's back; and now John's ear was nestled against Sherlock's jaw as they shared the view out the narrow gap in the door. John almost couldn't be bothered to use his eyes, so distracted was he by Sherlock's body.
It took him nearly a minute to see the driver and several long seconds before he understood what precisely Sherlock was trying to point out to him. When he realized, he started, almost knocking his head into Sherlock's.
"That's the man we chased off Westminster Bridge the other night!" The recognition had hit John all at once, though he could not have described the man in much detail. There was simply something in the way that the man's hat was pulled down low over his face, his shoulders were hunched and the collar of his coat was drawn up around his ears. There was just the sense of awfulness, wrongness that John recognized from the bridge as if it were a smell.
"Yes," Sherlock replied in a low voice close to John's ear. "Shall we see if he gives us a lift?"
"Sherlock!" John hissed as Sherlock swung the door open and strode out into the sunlight. Sherlock paused, but it was only to offer John his arm.
"Come along, husband. We don't want to be late." He winked and grinned at John's grimace, but John took a deep breath and went along gamely. They strolled up to the still-empty carriage and Sherlock greeted the man perched above.
"My good man, can you take us up to Baker Street?"
The driver turned his head slowly and observed the two gentlemen standing before him. Sherlock had scooped up his hat and gloves on his way out of Irene's but was still without his greatcoat, though the chill wind didn't seem to bother him. John leaned heavily on his cane, free arm looped around Sherlock's elbow, peering up to give the driver a false, friendly smile. The driver's head jerked in assent.
"Excellent," Sherlock said, opening the carriage door and handing John inside. He clambered in himself and shut the door. By the time he was settled in his seat, the horses had begun to tug the carriage out into traffic.
"Do you suppose he will actually take us to Baker Street?" John muttered under the noise of the horses, a multitude of wheels on cobbles, and the general cacophony of London.
"I do hope not. Have you got your gun?" John did and he checked it now before sliding it back into his coat's long pocket. "It is too much to hope that he will take us to his master, I suppose, though that would be a lucky turn in the mystery." Sherlock glanced out the window to ascertain their route. They were heading neither north nor west towards Baker Street and they passed several streets where their course could have easily been corrected had the driver intended to do so. Sherlock nodded at this with a pleased smile.
"Clearly, he was waiting for us. I do wonder how long he has been keeping apprised of our movements. The encounter at the Westminster Bridge could not have been mere coincidence."
"We can only assume that it's been all along, Sherlock. Given the letters addressed to you, and these encounters, is it not likely that this entire puzzle is for your attention alone? One wonders why he bothered to involve Mr. Lestrade or Bow Street at all."
Sherlock didn't seem to consider this a question worth an answer, just nodding absently, but he did continue to mark their route through London. John tried to pay attention as well, but certain sections of London were basically unmarked mazes of streets and alleyways, and John had only ever learned his way about Smithfield when he trained at Bart's. Sherlock likely had a better map of London in his head than anyone could possible print.
So it was little surprise that John had no idea in which dank rookery the carriage finally rolled to a halt and Sherlock stepped from the carriage with an appraising eyebrow.