Eleven Weeks Ago. 19th Precinct, Manhattan
Sherlock met with Detective Joe McGreavy during what would hopefully be his only full day in New York, needing to consult with the vice detective for two purposes. The first purpose was to get any information left out of the official arrest records for one Gina Wilson. The second purpose, the decidedly more uncomfortable task, was to enhance his knowledge of the "lingo" of soliciting prostitutes. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Gina to get spooked and reject or cancel the date, so he had to sound like someone experienced in "getting dates." Sherlock wasn't experienced getting regular dates, let alone these kinds of dates, so he needed all the help he could get.
Of Gina Wilson generally, Det. McGreavy only had one potential insight that might be helpful.
"Couple of years back, Gina stopped getting arrested. That's not terribly unusual. After a while, the pros, especially the higher-priced ones, get wiser and do better at detecting whether someone's police or not, but what's interesting is that rumor has it she was picked up a couple of times and was never charged—just released."
"Why would that be?" Sherlock asked.
"Only two reasons I can think of. One, she's someone's CI."
"CI?"
"Confidential informant. Some cops use them as an extra set of eyes on the street. If someone's CI is picked up for something minor or non-violent, sometimes we can arrange for them to go free."
"What's the other reason?"
"Let's just say, cops have needs too. Even ones in brass."
"In brass?" Sherlock struggled with the Americanisms.
"Those in charge. If a hooker has a customer higher up in the food chain, sometimes they get favors."
"Do you have any idea which possibility it is?"
"Personally, I don't see her as a credible CI. CI's tend to be, well, dirtbags: gang members, street-walking prostitutes, junkies—that sort of thing. Her? She's too corporate, too vanilla."
"I see."
When it came time for the educational portion of the talk with Det. McGreavy, Sherlock had to call upon Shakesperian-levels of acting ability to not appear disgusted and, quite frankly, horrified by the lingo and the sexual positions and acts for which the lingo stood. At least he finally knew what John had meant when he asked if he'd be "going around the world." Sherlock shuddered to think. His unwelcome education completed, he used his mobile phone to call the number Simon Forster had provided.
"Hello, this is Gina," a woman answered, in a husky voice, meant, Sherlock presumed, to be sexy.
"Hello, Gina, my name is John Watson. I'm in town visiting from London for just a couple of days and a friend of mine gave me your number. I was wondering if you were available for a date this evening."
"Where are you staying?"
"The London."
"How fitting."
"Yes. So you'd be available?"
"Would this be a short date or would you like have a nice, long date?"
"I should think I'd like the date to last well into the evening."
They then fixed the time she'd be arriving at his hotel room. There was no mention of money, which surprised Sherlock. Having made the "date," Sherlock bid the New York detective goodbye and headed out to find French Fries, which he was told were the American-version of chips. On thing he had to hand the Americans, they liked their potato products almost as much as Brits did.
Sherlock paced about his London hotel room, seemingly as nervous as a real "John" would be, "John" being the American term for one who solicits prostitutes. Adding to his nervousness, he wasn't sure that his plan on frightening the woman would be successful. He had planned to pretend to be a British MI-6 agent looking into the photos in a terrorism-related inquiry, threatening the prostitute with extradition for theft of state secrets. When the knocks upon the door finally came, he inhaled deeply, fortifying himself for the task ahead.
He walked slowly to the door, not wanting to appear too excited or too new at such dealings. He wanted to seem as poised and confident as an actual MI-6 agent would be. But all his poise, all his composure, and indeed all his breath left his body as he opened the door to find not the woman but "The Woman," Irene Adler herself.
"Hello, Sherlock. I'm impressed. I thought I'd have to send you more clues. But within the first week! You continue to astonish me," she said and walked past Sherlock into his room.
Sherlock turned, but he was so discomposed that the only word he could make his mouth say was "You?"
"No kiss hello? Oh well, you were always so strange about touching. I'd have hoped you'd somehow worked through your issues with sex, but there you have it."
"You? You're behind this?"
"Yes, do keep up Sherlock."
"Why?"
"I want to come home, Sherlock."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. I'm tired of being an exile from my own country, constantly worried if someone's coming to kill me or take me to prison. I want to come home."
"The second you step foot in England, you'll be arrested."
"Yes and that's what I want you to stop."
"I don't understand."
"You see, Sherlock, there's only one man in all of Great Britain that can guarantee my freedom from prosecution."
"Mycroft."
"Yes, your brother."
"He'll never allow that."
"Not even to spare his brother the heartbreak and torment of seeing the mousy little girl he loves murdered?" Sherlock's blood ran cold and he went ashen. "Now, I know what you're thinking, Sherlock."
"I should think not. If you really knew what I was thinking, you'd have a lot more concern for your personal safety right now."
"Ah, threatening to kill me already, are we? Well, that wouldn't solve your problem, Sherlock. In fact, it would just move up the timeline. Right now, you have eleven whole weeks to get me what I want: immunity from prosecution and freedom from any assassination attempts upon my triumphant return to home country. If I die for any reason, plans to kill Molly Hooper are put into irrevocable motion. And if I return home and am detained in any prison for any time or if my person is harmed, those plans will likewise be set in motion."
"I saved you!" Sherlock spit out angrily.
"Yes, for which I am very grateful. I do believe I offered you proof of my gratitude that night you saved me, but, well, you didn't take me up on my offer, did you? Are you really that scared of sex, Sherlock, or did you love your meek little pathologist even then?"
"Is that what this is about? Your hurt ego?"
"While literature tells us that 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' in my case, that's not true. I say what I mean Sherlock, I just want to come home. And my best hope is to use Mycroft Holmes's weakness for his baby brother to get there."
"You fucking bitch. Why go after Molly? Why not come after me?"
"Oh Sherlock, you are far too interesting to leave this world prematurely. And we both know I have an unfortunate weakness for you. Molly Hooper, however, is nothing to me."
"How did you know? How did you . . . "
"How did I know about your peculiar partiality? Dear Sherlock, I still have clients high up in the British government. I'm not an easy vice to give up, even with the distance of an entire ocean between myself and them. I read the report on what happened at Sherrinford. Your sister, Sherlock? She sounds delightful."
Sherlock was seething with rage, barely able to contain his desire to throttle Irene Adler, "Molly's already under protection."
"I know, of course, but, honestly Sherlock do you think well-paid professional assassins couldn't get to her? Really? I doubt she'd last a day after the order gets out to kill her."
"We'll send her away. Give her a new identity. You'll never find her."
"Maybe. Maybe she'll live out the rest of her life, far from home, using a name not her own. I know a little of that life myself. It's quite exhausting. But maybe you're right. Maybe she'll die a natural death as a little old lady. But maybe you're wrong. Maybe I have clients in MI-5 and MI-6 that can tell me where she is. Maybe she won't last a week in her new anonymous life. The question you need to ask yourself, dear Sherlock, is: can you live with the uncertainty?"
"How did you arrange to get the photos?"
"Oh the photos! Those just magically dropped into my lap. A few years ago, I made acquaintance with the woman who had a date with you tonight. Offered her my friendship in return for some legal protections. And she'd share information and secrets she gleaned from her clients. She didn't think she had anything of real value with those photos, but when I saw who was on those photos, I thought . . . "
"You unimaginable fucking bitch. I should have let you die."
"That's very hurtful Sherlock, but I suppose I knew you'd be angry. So what did you think of the photos? Did they make you want to fuck your little friend right there when you saw them or did you get scared and go running off, disgusted?
"I will stop you."
"I want nothing in the world more than for you to stop me, Sherlock. And it's so easy too: just convince your big brother to let me come home." She moved past Sherlock to leave the room. "You have eleven weeks, Sherlock. You can use them trying to find a solution that doesn't exist or you can use them to save Molly Hooper. It's your choice."
As she reached the door, Sherlock came up violently behind her and pinned her body against the door, his arm at her neck.
"Don't ever say her name again."
"Is this turning you on, Sherlock," she said, breathing heavily. He reluctantly released her. She smirked at him and said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I could think of no other way to get home. Eleven weeks, Sherlock. Eleven weeks." She left the room and he collapsed on the bed, hyperventilating.
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