One Day Ago. The London Hotel, New York City
Sherlock dispensed with any ruses this time in his call to Gina Wilson's number. It was the middle of the night in New York City, a time when she would doubtless be plying her trade, so the voice mail picked up.
"Tell Irene Adler that Sherlock Holmes would like to speak to her at The London hotel, Room 1230. I'll be here all day."
At 7:30 pm, a knock at the door sounded and Sherlock steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation. When he opened the door, Adler looked triumphant and not a little smug. As she entered the room, she swiped her hand gently down Sherlock's cheek, a gesture of familiarity and tenderness that made the detective shrink backwards.
"Oh my dear Sherlock, you didn't need to provide me an escort back home, but it is such a lovely gesture. I must say I am a little surprised. There are still seven full days to the deadline. I had thought you wouldn't give up until the last possible hour."
"Sit down, Irene."
"Yes, I should think there are some guarantees in paperwork form that will need to be examined and signed." She sat down at the desk and watched as Sherlock pulled out not papers from his jacket pocket but rather his mobile phone. She knitted her brow in curiosity.
Sherlock placed the mobile phone down on the desk in front of her, the photo of a lovely ten-year-old girl displayed prominently on the screen of the phone. Upon seeing the photo, Adler drew a large intake of breath and her look changed from one of slight curiosity to one of instant fear.
"I believe you know this young girl as Georgiana Simon, the adopted daughter of George and Yvonne Simon of Belgravia, London. She's quite a beautiful girl, but, then again, she does carry fully half of your DNA, so beauty was probably never going to be an issue. If conscience is inheritable, however, that's something to worry about. Every Sunday when you lived in London, you'd forgo being lavishly paid for the whippings and nipple-twistings you'd visit upon the wealthy and instead enjoy a day in the park with Yvonne and her daughter. Except, while to the world Georgiana is Yvonne's daughter, to you, she is your daughter. And that is why you want to come back to England, to resume your relationship with her. That's also why, I imagine, you set the deadline for achieving your desired ends as such: her birthday is next week and you wanted to make sure you can be there for it."
Irene Adler had not looked up from the photo displayed on the desk since Sherlock began speaking. But now the phone had gone automatically dark and she finally looked up at the man she only moments ago thought she had bested. There were tears in her eyes.
Sherlock, apparently unmoved, continued, "To regain access to one that you love, you threatened to remove from my life the one that I love. So, because you determined the rules of this game—not I—I am going to tell you what's going to happen if this game of yours continues." Here he stood up straight and looked her with all the defiance he could muster. "If anything happens to Molly Hooper, something commiserate will happen to Georgiana Simon."
"You're threatening the life of an innocent little girl?" Adler asked, equal parts indignant and horrified.
"You're hardly in a place to judge, considering you threatened the life of an innocent woman."
"You wouldn't. You're bluffing, Sherlock. You don't have it in you to kill a child."
At that, he nodded his head and began pacing in front of the woman. "Perhaps. Perhaps the Sherlock Holmes you see here may indeed not be able to do it. But, think Irene. Call to mind all those operas, those epic poems, classical novels, and Greek tragedies where some kind of extraordinary loss has been visited upon someone, a loss, for example, of an adored lover. Think of how many of them lose their minds, become someone unrecognizable, even to themselves, and end up committing horrific crimes in retaliation for their loss."
He stilled his pacing and once again resumed his pitiless gaze upon Adler. "Maybe that won't happen to me, though. Maybe my conscience is too strong. Then again, maybe it's not. Maybe the loss of Molly Hooper will push me to do the unthinkable. The question you need to ask yourself, Irene, is: can you live with the uncertainty."
Tears were spilling out of Irene Adler now. She attempted to wipe away her tears. "I should imagine that British agents are outside that door right now, ready to take me back to Britain to face punishment. But, if by any chance they are not, Sherlock, I know I have no right to ask, but I have to anyway, let me have a head start on them. Please, I beg of you. You'll never have to hear from me again. I . . . "
"Do shut up, Irene." She did. He continued, "This is what we are prepared to offer you: one week every six months, you will be allowed to travel to London, under strict government security, to see your daughter. At night, you will sleep in a government detention center and, when the week is done, you must depart immediately. If you abide by these rules and have no further incidents of assisting terrorists or blackmailing anyone ever, you shall remain free from prosecution from the British government." Here he took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket outlining this deal and continued, "Read and sign here, Irene. It's a better deal than you deserve."
His first call after Irene Adler left his hotel room was, of course, to Molly. She probably turned off her phone for the night because her voicemail picked up.
"Molly! Molly! I did it. I found Irene Adler's pressure point and brought her to heal. You're safe. You're really safe. We don't have to leave. Tell your family, everyone. You are not going anywhere. Ever. I love you. I love you so much."
Then he texted John and Mycroft with the news and requested that his chartered flight back to London be scheduled for as soon as possible. To say he was over the moon would have expressed only minimally his three-fold joy: his joy that Molly's life was safe, that they didn't need to live secret, anonymous lives in a country far away, and that he had triumphed once again—he had won the game.
And the key, the key to this entire case from beginning to end had been emotional connection. He had told Dr. Doyle in one of their sessions that he preferred motives such as greed, power, and revenge. Yet, nothing about this case intersected with those basic, comfortable catalysts for crime. This case had as its genesis a woman's emotional connection to her daughter. The woman's plan involved an attempt to exploit the emotional connections of a brother to a brother and a man to a woman. Even the key to the case's eventual solution came through emotional connections: Euros's clues came precisely because she desired even the small emotional connection afforded by Sherlock's regular visits to her.
For someone like Sherlock, for whom emotional connections always came with so much effort and so much fear of rejection and misunderstanding, this realization gave him something to think about if he were really going to be the great detective he had always dreamed of becoming.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.