A Cold Case
Chapter 17
You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone
(Joni Mitchell)
Hammering. Hammering on the door. He felt it reverberating through the wood even before he heard it, as he was leaning on the door. Which was probably still holding him up.
He could feel the thud, the vibration of it, and realised he had only vaguely registered, as if something far, far away, the scrape of a key in the lock, the sound of the tumblers trying to turn and not succeeding – because he had slumped forward with his face pushed into the door, both his hands clenching hold of the door knob on the inside, stopping the key from turning, and the door opening.
There was a momentary rush of fear then, of being forced back into the world of the living despite himself. And he swallowed down the disappointment of it. Of having to step back into the world when he was just too….exhausted by it all.
He might have been hanging there in some sort of extremis for ten seconds or ten minutes; he could not tell. Because the world was now wrenching him back into it.
It was still early morning in Baker Street. There were no dead bodies or torturers wielding lengths of pipe, he told himself firmly. London was waking up, and he was waking again to a new day that had already had too much within it.
Much against his will he stepped back, prised his hands from the lock and allowed the door to open.
"Ah. Mr Holmes, sir. Good morning. I start work. Yes?"
Dardan Sulemanji came through the door like a life force in overdrive. Solid muscular energy. Industrious not murderous. In grubby denim jeans, sweatshirt and work boots, a heavy roll of electric power cable looped effortlessly over one arm, toolbox in one hand, Mrs Hudson's spare front door key in the other.
Yes. Yes. Thank you."
He had forgotten. Forgotten that work was going on in 221C. How could he have forgotten? It had been his own idea!
He pressed back against the wall allowing the man who was not an assassin even though he looked like one, looked like his brother: their workman, their transformer of 221C, to get past him, from the cold and damp street to the project within the house.
"Work is going well. Yes. Soon the place will be shiny and new. You shall see."
Dardan Sulemanji grinned. Direct. Positive. Good natured.
Nothing to be frightened of. No-one to fear. A stranger with good intent. Unlike his late assassin of a brother…..who had died in the street when life had seemed simpler, and plainer, and preferable…..
Mrs Hudson, having heard the clamour at her front door, bustled along the passage from 221A. Dressed in her own housework garb of jeans and workman's smock over a turtle necked sweater, a souvenir tea towel from Margate flapping in one hand.
"Oh, hello, Dan! Did the front door stick shut? Does that sometimes in wet weather." She was smiling and welcoming and like sudden sunshine on a wet and gloomy day. "Have you had breakfast, or do you want to start with a cuppa?" She ushered him in, then spotted Sherlock Holmes behind him, leaning into the wall.
"Oh, hello, Sherlock. You're up early. Everything OK?"
She asked in a bright tone as if expecting nothing else. So he nodded in agreement. It was expected of him; and was easiest.
"Needed groceries. Went out earlier."
"Jolly good."
She turned to the door of 221C tucked under the stairs, and opened it for their builder.
"Right. Off we go! Another busy day!"
And she was gone, back to her lair. With a nod and another friendly grin, the Albanian disappeared down the stairs to the basement. And purposeful clattering started almost immediately.
After that flurry of activity beginning in the basement flat, present but muted by the closed door to the basement flat, everything else in the house was quiet again.
And for just one moment of madness he felt as if he had stepped into a different universe, a world where everyone and everything was normal; normal and mundane and peaceful. Where there was no crime, or mystery, or death. Where people did not wield words like swords and look for hidden meanings, veiled threats. Or deal in death.
He grimaced, smiled humorlessly to himself, and shook his head at his untypical flight of fancy. No: that was just the wishful thinking of a tired mind.
Turned back to the stairs and climbed them with a depressed, plodding determination. Looked at the remnants of the breakfast table he had shared with Joanna Moriarty – Powers – Lake – whoever, and thought he should put things away. Decided he couldn't be bothered, and left everything as it was. Crossed the passage. Looked into his bedroom as if he was the interloper, not the woman lying so neatly in his bed.
She had taken her hair down, the pins lying in his coin dish on the campaign chest, mingled with his loose change, pocket penknife, keyring. The beautiful black dress she had been wearing thrown negligently across the bedside chair along with a jumble of pashmina and underclothes.
She had showered and used his Penhaligon Endymion, and now the room smelt of her, smelt of the distinctive mandarin and coffee aroma of the body wash and of warm water. She was wearing the black linen pyjamas he had taken off earlier and she had retrieved from under his pillow, lying apparently asleep and relaxed under his duvet and in the centre of his bed, devoid of make up, hair a soft cloud upon his pillows.
He looked, and observed, and remined unmoved by the intimacy. Far from being the sleeping beauty as she was presenting herself to him, she was more like danger in repose, he thought. Beautiful, beguiling when she chose, a female of the species that could be deadlier than the male.
So he remained standing in the doorway, silently looking at her, registering her classic good looks and symmetrical features, the familiarity of her, trying to decide whether to let her lie, to go back to the sitting room and let them both rest independently for a while; or to just wake her and throw her out of his home.
She solved his dilemma by suddenly opening her eyes and looking directly at him. Clean, confident and relaxed, no indication of the impression she had given earlier of a little too much gin, with her eyes bright and clear, with sleep still far away.
There were many things he could say. Thought of saying some of them. But instead the words found themselves.
"I didn't go to Siberia. It was Serbia."
"Siberia; Serbia. Who cares?"
He was not correcting her, he realised with a small jolt of awareness. She knew. She had confused the two countries for Joanna Moriarty deliberately.
"I do," he still stated firmly. "The difference between truth and lie. Confession and alibi."
"So that worked then."
Her tone was icy, and so was her expression. But she lifted her head to him as if in challenge, and there was knowledge behind both. Because Irene Adler did not make basic mistakes. Or speak out of turn.
"Am I supposed to say 'thank you'?"
"Not especially." He could hear the shrug of indifference in her voice. Could not tell if that was truth or lie.
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"To come. To stir things up in the mix."
"But that's what I always do, isn't it?" Her slow smile was something between affectionate and predatory. "Stir things up? Stir you?"
He neither moved nor answered, did not smile back. And she watched him, assessing, as he stood before her in his good suit and his effortless elegance, erect and attentive in his armour, but so distant from her, physically and emotionally, one hand grasping the architrave of the doorway, face impassive.
"What are you doing here, Irene?" he said almost conversationally, without demand.
She rose up onto one elbow, looked closer at him. Beyond his impassive self control. He was tense, she decided. Tired, edgy. Too tense and edgy for the time of day. Despite of – or because of – her intervention? She put an arm out from under the duvet, patted a space on the bed beside her as if coaxing a child.
Come, sit," she said. "I can't talk to you with you standing over there. You're too tall. It gives me a crick in the neck"
"You mean I'm a pain in the neck."
"Not necessarily." She grinned at him, a brief impish thing. "Well, not always."
The truth of that made them both grin, and broke the mood. He took four steps towards her, hesitated. She patted the space again. Relaxed, open, almost caring. Nothing of her usual arch awareness, her brittle charm and power.
He looked searchingly at her, then without another word, sat cautiously on the edge of the bed. Turned towards her, but still just out of her reach.
"Have you hurt yourself?" she asked sharply, suddenly, watching him move without his usual feral grace.
"Yes. I'm fine, though."
His almost honest answer surprised her.
Moving slowly, as if to not to frighten him away, she slid closer towards him and slipped a little further down his bed, carefully putting her arms around his waist and her head in his lap.
Marvelling that he remained still and actually allowed that. Knowing that allowing intimacy and physical closeness was not his normal behaviour.
"Really?" she asked, and this time the question was honest; genuine.
Within the curve of her arms he remained still, frozen into immobility by her touch. Close up to the bodily warmth of him, far closer than ever before, he felt to her as strong, implacably masculine, and, surprisingly, as a safe arbor to relax into.
Lean and wiry under her hands, mentally and physically withdrawn as always. But perhaps, just for now, less so. Normally he would have fended her off with harsh words and bucked away, especially in the quiet privacy of his own bedroom.
The last time she had taken to his bed he had remained beyond touching distance, had remined remote, called her his 'client,' drew John Watson into the room as chaperone, as witness. But now they were alone. In the room, and in the flat.
And he was still not responding to her touch or her femininity. Even though he had offered himself to her at the hotel in exchange for information.
There was still no softness about him, just that familiar gaunt frame and an extreme physical tension only visible when so close. She knew he did not fear her, but she could still feel his instinctive recoil from her physicality. Yet still he did not move away from her, and she realised this was the first time he had allowed her to ever be so physically close, in any and every way.
"What's wrong, Junior?" The gentleness of the question was so softly spoken it was almost a whisper.
He did not look down at her, simply shook his head.
"Don't mind me, I'm just tired." The honesty of his reply made her bite her lip and tighten her arms around his physical warmth, his cold conduct. "But you still haven't told me…..why you are here."
"I saw your brother last night." She spoke softly, her head turned into his stomach; he was attractive; muscular, warm. But not inviting. Not responding to her invitation.
"Ah. Yes. The Foreign Office state dinner. And?"
"He is worried about you."
She felt the snort of disbelief ripple through his muscles before she heard it.
"Really." It was not a question. More of a cynical observation.
She tightened her arms around him again - something like a hug – because she could, and because she thought he might just need it - and marvelled that he still neither threw her off nor succumbed to her hold that was almost a caress.
Disturbing in itself, she reflected. As was his lack of any of the tart responses she had anticipated, or his typically dismissive huff of indifference.
"We were both at the formal dinner. Normally he ignores me when he sees me at such events, but last night he oozed himself over to me as if by accident. So I greeted him sweetly and very politely asked how you were. He actually deigned to answer, for once.
"Said you were just back from a little holiday abroad, and were tickety boo. Which set my alarm bells ringing."
"He said that?"
"Yes. Very much out of character. "
"Antiphrasis. Interesting."
"Well, yes. A holiday, he said. Did you go on holiday?"
"Not exactly. I went to Serbia and killed a man. One of Moriarty's best."
"Oh." She turned her head and looked up at him, expression serious. "Now I see why the Ice Man is worried about you."
"Stop it, Irene."
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from him, so she was then leaning out from him, still settled on his lap, looking up.
"Stop what?"
"Playing innocent and concerned."
She laughed without humour and lifted a hand lightly to his jaw.
"I don't remember ever being innocent. Bit I am concerned for you, yes."
"Stop it."
Finally he tried to pull away, to stand up, but she had her arms tight around him, and refused to let go. He struggled for a moment, and she felt panic rise within him, and be quelled. Then he stopped, acquiesced, settled back into her hold.
"Sherlock, stop. Just stop. I'm not here to score points over you, or to gloat, or even to seduce you. Well, not if that's not what you want, dammit." She risked a little smile, softening her words. "But I am concerned, OK? You saved my life. I am always ready to return the favour."
He looked down at her then, eyes almost angry, almost hurt.
"You worked with Moriarty. For years. Conspired with him against me. To shame me and break me."
"And that was then. But this is now," she said reasonably enough. "And that was before I knew you. Owed you."
"Very noble."
"Sherlock…" She tightened her arms around him. "Please stop doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Hammering me. Hammering yourself."
"Hmn." There was a small silence. "John says…" There was an uncomfortable pause. "John says you like me."
"Yes. And?"
"That you are…hmn…..to use a totally inappropriate colloquial phrase….a piece of the action I should get myself. He recommended a cheap hotel in the suburbs."
She let go of him and rolled away, laughing. When he did not speak she turned back to him, smiling, but serious now.
"That is what friends are for," she said lightly.
There was a hint of pink on his cheeks, and he refused to meet her eyes.
"But he doesn't know you as well as he thinks he does. You are worth so much more than a quickie in some anonymous hostelry."
"Erm; thank you?"
She flipped back a corner of the duvet.
"Want to come in here with me? It's warm and comfy."
"Stop it. You know I don't…." He shook his head and said no more.
"It's Moriarty, isn't it?" Question, not accusation. "The barrier between us?"
"You worked with him to destroy me. Destroy my brother."
"I have destroyed a lot of people. That is part of my job. But despite that, after you destroyed me, you still took one hell of a risk and saved my life. At no small cost to yourself. "
"I had to expose you. Thwart you. Regardless."
"I do understand."
"Thank you. But Moriarty…"
"I haven't seen him or spoken to him. Have had no contact from him for years. Not since the death plane fiasco…..but he is not a person to make threats lightly. You know that. If he threatens to turn people into shoes…that usually happens."
He made a small flail of his hand.
"That is not what you are supposed to say. You are supposed to say Moriarty is dead. Everyone else does."
Her eyes narrowed, intent.
"I find it hard to believe such a life force has gone," she admitted. What does his mother say?"
"You recognised her when you arrived?"
"Yes. I was shocked to find her here. Why was she here?"
"I was out earlier than usual this morning. Coming back, I found her standing outside, oscillating on the pavement. Casing the joint. Spying on me, if she could. Clearly here on Moriarty's behalf. So I called her bluff. Invited her upstairs for breakfast."
"Whyever would you do that?"
"To surprise her; put her off her stride. To show her, so she could tell Moriarty, that I may have come back from death after two years away, but nothing had changed; that I was still me, the flat was still my own, and the same.
"And that I am alone. No live in lover to be leverage against me. No platonic flat mate. No John or Rosie Watson. No weaknesses or chinks in my armour. The only way to get to me was to attack me. Only me."
"You made yourself vulnerable. You should not do that."
"No? When I am vulnerable anyway? Look at me, Irene. I am clearly not at my best. Coming down from drugs. Malnourished, weak, compromised. So he is targeting me. As you would expect."
He told her briefly about the trainers, the mobile phone, the baby shoes and the hit and run. "I am using my weakness as bait. To lure him in. To declare himself. Because he wants me dead. And this – me, now – is his best chance."
She sat up, shifted, sat erect and cross legged before him. In his pyjamas, hair tousled, eyes clear.
"Are you sure of that?"
"You need to ask?" There was a flash of the old arrogance and scorn.
"I worked with him for almost three years. Nothing big, nothing seriously nefarious, you might say. Just….mischief, I suppose you would call it. Blighting reputations, creating compromising situations. Things like that."
"Oh yes? When he was behind assassinations, bombing Parliament, major heists? "
"Check with your brother. He'll tell you how low level the plots were I did with him. Even targeting royalty was just gamesmanship. But to him, our Ice Man, that was a step too far."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Oh, Moriarty often spoke of killing you. But I always felt that was role play – bravado. More than anything I always felt he was envious of you. Wanted to be like you. Be you."
"And why would he want that?"
"I don't know. Perhaps because you are the upright and honourable reverse of his coin. Because you do good things without being a do-gooder. That you are taller and more handsome. That you have the respectable, entitled background he craves. And come from a remarkable family. A good and loving family."
"Bollocks."
"Is it, though? Think about it. He was always obsessed with you. Trying to get your attention. Impress you. Draw you to him. He had so many chances to kill you – but always drew back. The pool, the Great Game, victims that weren't you. The assassins he even pitched against each other to guard you. Not kill you.
"And he always called you The Virgin as if it was something derogatory. But he must have known that you weren't. Just by looking at you. At your eyes, your very body language. When I met you for the first time…..I knew you weren't a virgin, despite your pretence. You knew what you were seeing when you looked at me. You could even measure my figure by eye. That was not the observational skill of a virgin."
"How can you be sure of that? You know I repulse people…in that way. Repulse you. I am a virgin for all you know." His head was high, embarrassed and defiant.
Because she looked at him with a knowing quietness that disturbed him.
"Emotionally, yes, I think you still are. Sex as an act is nothing new to you, but it is always detached, transactional, just a move, an operation, a gesture. As with me. Never involving your emotions, your capacity for love."
"I don't. Love." It was a snarl; short, sharp, snappy.
"Yes, you do. Everyone does. But someone taught you sex in the worst possible way. Violation. Manipulation. And a long time ago. How to manipulate another person's mind and body. How to gratify without sharing pleasure. How to turn tricks, do tricks. Hold the power. And yes; you learnt the hard way."
He did not answer, and his face, so close to hers, was closed down, unreadable.
"Am I right?" she persisted.
"Shut up."
"But. When times were hard you knew how to use sex to your advantage and make it pay," she continued, regardless. "How to work the street."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. I do. You are talking to the best dominatrix in the business. Of course I know that."
He stirred, started to move away. And she put her hands out to stop him.
"Nothing to be ashamed of, Sherlock. So stop grieving for the boy you were, and never could be again." She caught his wrists as he moved, and saw them, looked at them properly for the first time. Silently bent her head to them and regarded the silvered scar tissue. And understood.
"That's how you got these." It was not a question, so he did not answer. "Broken in for business against your will, weren't you? Oh, of course you were. A pretty child as you would have been. A valuable target, an asset." He still did not reply. "And an outcast? Poor boy."
"The past is a foreign country." His voice was quiet, a whisper, closed down. "So it might not matter any more. It might be over and done and forgotten."
"Or I might be right."
Her certainty, and her unexpected empathy, caught him unawares. He shook his head.
"Might? Might can mean anything. I might have imagined it all. Might have been eager. I might have been kidnapped. I might have been sold into a child trafficking sex ring. I might have been forced to learn…."
"…how to make sex your tool." She did not question his words, or how he said them. Did not recoil or rush to sympathise either. "As leverage, as power, as an earner. The tool you were, the tools you learnt, however horribly, to use to your advantage when necessary. Despite everything."
"It's a point of view." His voice was bored, offhand.
"And something else Moriarty envied you for. That knowledge."
"Whatever are you talking about now?"
"Oh, come on. Can you imagine Moriarty ever being close to anyone? Loving? Tender? Trusting? No. Thought not," she added, when he did not reply. "I think there are some very simple things he craves. Things you have. Things you are."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Think about it. Yes: think about it, Sherlock. Because your gifts are utterly natural and unique. To you. Style. Class. Courage. Determination. High intelligence."
"Shut up. I've had enough of this conversation. Things to do." He stood up, almost shaky, as if he could not feel his feet. withdrew from her physically and mentally. "If you are going to stay here and sleep, I can give you a couple of hours."
"Oh yes? Renting this out as a hot bed?" She strove for lightness, to keep their connection.
"Hardly. My mother will be here later. She has a broad mind, but I really don't want her to find you here. Give her ideas."
She laughed, genuinely amused, and slid back down under the duvet.
"I agree. We can't have that. We've both got reputations to maintain. OK. A couple of hours for a quick zizz; I'm comfortable here. I'll be gone before she arrives." She looked up at him, eyes unusually warm and sparkling. "Your mother must be a very special someone."
"But of course."
"Hmn. That's not what Jim used to say about his mum. He always called her a witch."
o0o0o
"I couldn't find anything. Not a bloody thing."
Conrad Bourbon Monpensier sighed down the telephone, and Sherlock Holmes could picture him in his elegant office, scowling in frustration and doodling on a thick notepad.
It was quiet in 221B; surprisingly enough, Irene Adler had been as good as her word. Had simply turned over in his bed and went almost instantly to sleep.
For a moment he had just stood there by his bed and watched her. Unable to categorise his reaction to the conversation. It had been too deep. Too revealing. Why had it been so revealing? Why had he been so unusually candid and open and vulnerable?
Why had he said what he had said? And to Irene Adler? Of all people?
Because she – of all people – understood? Understood about the shock and the horror and the subtlety of sex? The potency of it? The warp and the weft and the weakness of it? The power, the pain, the passion? The humanity, the horror and the sheer vulnerability?
Understood more than he did? Yet did not judge or decry or humiliate? Why didn't she?
Had she understood he was not himself? Not yet. And in his current weak and shambolic state she had taken her chance to crawl under his defences? To see what darkness lay there? And to use that against him at a later date?
He sweated at the thought, humiliated. But it was too late now. Too late to take back his words and his reactions. Too late to regret them. Too wasteful of energy and effort to wallow in his guilt and lifelong shame.
But regret would achieve nothing. What was done was done. And perhaps he could use her unexpected empathy in some way later. He always got something wrong. But perhaps there would come an opportunity to use his weakness, turn it to his advantage.
So he had put his human weakness, his emotional conflict, to one side. Packed it back into it's box within the Mind Palace.
And had attempted to get back to normal.
He took the nectarines and some pain au chocolat down to Mrs Hudson; they knew about each other's sweet tooth but never discussed it. The offerings were an excuse to touch base with mundane normality, in the hope some of her optimism and pragmatism would rub off on him.
She was sitting at the little kitchen table doing something complicated with a needle and socks as he entered the flat without bothering to knock, and he placed his gifts before her, resisting the urge to present them with a childish flourish.
"Ooh! Goodies?" she said, genuinely pleased. "For me?"
"Who else?" he answered with feigned indifference. She twinkled an urchin grin up at him, pushed her mending to one side to flip on the kettle and make tea. Brought tea plates and paper napkins to the table and put a pastry and a fruit on each with a little silver dessert knife alongside.
"What a treat!" she enthused, making and presenting the tea. "Just right for an early elevenses."
He buried his face in the teacup, did not answer.
"You had an early start this morning," she said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. "A client, was it? For a breakfast meeting? You must be feeling more like your old self again."
"Must I?" he asked.
She narrowed her eyes, sharp small brown eyes that missed nothing. Took her time replying.
"There was a time there, when you were trying your best to rescue John from himself, that I thought you weren't going to make it." She pushed her hands apologetically forwards before he could protest. "No. I don't mean I thought you were going to fail. I mean that you were never going to be able to pull yourself out of that pit of drugs you had created upstairs, that whole mania. Screaming Shakespeare, employing Wiggins, making the whole flat into a crime scene.
"I know," he admitted instantly; because he wanted to get his apology over with." Sorry. But I could not have done that without you. Break free from it, I mean." He looked at her with a clear level stare that was more of a compliment than anyone else would understand. "Or dared to dive in that deep. Without knowing you were there to catch me. When I fell."
"Landladies are not normally given to pulling a gun on their tenants," she agreed calmly. "In the usual run of things."
"Or bundle them into the boot of a car, complete with handcuffs." He flickered a tiny wry smile towards her. "Where did you learn to drive like that? And acquire a taste for fast cars?"
"Even old ladies like me can have interesting pasts you know, young man."
"Yes, Mummy," he teased. But sobered almost at once. "Am I on the way back?"
"Can't you tell, you daft lad?"
So he got up and left.
Exchanged a few words with Dardan Sulemanji in the doorway of 221C, and was ushered eagerly downstairs to see the progress.
Dardan's enthusiasm and eagerness to please he found unsettling. He was very aware the workman felt obliged to make special efforts at 221B, to prove his worth to the only people who knew his brother had been an assassin, yet had still employed him. But he did not know how to breach the subject, tell Sulemanji to calm down, to slow down, to put down his guilt about his brother and let the matter be. Dardan needed to learn he was not, had never been, responsible for his older brother's path or past. And that he was a different person.
So he allowed himself to be ushered, and guided, and to see the work in progress. To see Dardan and Alexi, immigrants in a strange land doing their best to earn a living, and to fit in.
Everything downstairs looked grey and dusty and utter chaos. But Dardan was nodding and smiling and explaining, and introduced him to his assistant Alexi Lukas - younger, smaller, darker in complexion. Estonian from the looks and the accent, he thought.
Yet the two seemed to be a practised and hard working team, and he could tell all was going smoothly; new French doors to the sitting room already fitted, new plasterboard on the walls, electrical first fittings hanging, white goods propped in a corner ready to instal.
Back upstairs, Irene Adler was still asleep. So he rang Conrad for an update.
"I'm puzzled by this," the genealogist admitted immediately. "I can't find any damn thing to pick up on."
"You're intrigued,"
"Yeah. Could say that. This isn't my sort of thing, It's a police thing. Or social services, or the Salvation Army. I thought it would be pretty simple to locate paperwork on someone shot dead on a London rooftop. But that is not the case." He paused for breath.
"Did you know someone is reported missing in the UK every ninety seconds? And that going missing is not actually an offence?"
"Yes."
"Of course you know. " He tutted irritably down the line. "I have been unable to find any death registered under the name Powers, or Lake, or Moriarty that fits the profile of James Moriarty. Just the person hauled out of the Thames identified as his twin brother; and you knew that.
"And there is no unidentified corpse fits the description either. Well….I did find a body turn up by the side of a road in Argyll, but this guy had tattoos; and I couldn't imagine a precocious maths professor turned master criminal with tattoos somehow. Could you?"
"No."
"Hmn. If you have a mind for it, you can always lose dead bodies. You know this. So we have a dead end, thus far. I don't like dead ends."
"Nor me. But it is pretty typical for Moriarty. He's slippery, Conrad. But don't worry. Your findings – or lack of them - support my theory. That Moriarty is alive."
"Hardly a comfort."
"Don't worry. You have been a great help, even so."
"Don't feel like it."
"You're just a perfectionist."
"Sez you." A huff of laughter.
But if anything else should turn up…."
"I know. Shout out immediately."
"Just so. Talk soon, Conrad."
o0o0o
And then Lestrade arrived. Rumpled, unshaven, tired after a long night shift.
"Just dropped by," he mumbled by way of explanation, stealing a slice of cold toast and piling on butter and strawberry jam as he stood and talked.
"Nice of you."
He heard the irony, shrugged an apology.
"When I brought you those cold case files the other day and you gave them back to me solved (and thank you for that, by the way. Did I ever say?) there was one missing. Five instead of six.
"Have you seen it? Mislaid it? Is it in that eruption of paper on the dining table that passes as a very messy desk?"
For a moment Sherlock Holmes was paralysed.
Yes. He had stolen the file, the Carl Powers file that had been the start, however unwittingly, of his career as a detective. And the situation he was in now.
Lestrade had brought the file, as he so often did, pulling out cold cases at random for him to solve when active cases were few and the boredom level high.
Lestrade had never been involved in the Carl Powers case, had never actively known of the Sherlock Holmes' connection. Forgetful of trainers and assorted crimes that had not seemed related, he had just pulled out that one file along with several others because Sherlock Holmes had asked. And lit the blue touchpaper on a timebomb that had been simmering and ready to explode for too many years.
"Oh? Yes. Sorry. I suppose so," he replied vaguely, knowing only too well the whereabouts of the problematic file. Which had started the current situation. "Hang on."
He made a show of searching the desk, but not too noisily or too busily; he was very aware of Irene Adler asleep in the bedroom across the landing. And the complication of Lestrade discovering her there would be an embarrassment too far. He would never be allowed to live that down!
So he pulled out the file he had hidden with a flourish, as if it was a surprise discovery.
"Abracadabra!" he exclaimed, turning and waving it in the air.
"Hmn," Lestrade grumbled, unimpressed. "Hid that, did you? Because you haven't solved it?"
"I don't know what you mean, Inspector."
Lestrade snatched the file from his hand.
"Don't do that. Ever again. Or I won't bring you any more."
"It was a human error, Inspector. Even Sherlock Holmes can lose a bit of paper!"
Arch indignation made him feel better, and made Lestrade grin.
"Just for that I shall liberate some more toast and an apple to take home for my breakfast. Honestly. Why do I put up with you?" An apple disappeared into a coat pocket, three slices of dry toast into another.
It was a familiar grumble and they enjoyed the easy combat. Lestrade departed doing a good imitation of an annoyed and disappointed policeman. And Sherlock Holmes let him.
In truth he was relieved to be freed from possession of a physical file he had long ago memorised. And he was glad Lestrade had not teased or complained about his failure with the Carl Powers file. There were more important things to do as a result of that file.
o0o0o
He was still standing at the sitting room window when his mother arrived.
Irene Adler had just left. She had woken after two hours, just as she had said she would, and had appeared in the kitchen looking immaculate again, having done nothing more than twist her hair into a sleek bun, apply a slash of lipstick, and arrange his slate blue second best dressing gown into a tightly belted wrap around dress.
The McQueen gown and the pashmina were over her arm, and he found her a suit bag to contain the dress.
"Are you going to be OK?" she asked, scrunching the dress into the bag.
"I assume I am going to get that dressing gown back? I rather like it."
"What, this old thing?" she teased. "Of course you are. It gives me a good excuse to come back."
There was no answer to that, especially with her in such a flirtatious mood. So he simply shrugged and turned away.
"Or just put it in the post," he suggested.
"Now, what would be the fun in doing that?" She was teasing, hoping for reaction.
"I'm not into 'fun,'" he pointed out.
"What? Not even at a seedy hotel in the suburbs?"
"Especially not at a seedy hotel in the suburbs."
"Pity."
She rose up onto her toes to deliver a kiss to his cheek, but apart from a disparaging look, he did not react.
"Go home, Irene," The suggestion that sounded more like an order. "Should I thank you for your concern? And your visit?"
"Not necessarily. But we can always discuss that at a later date."
"You think there is going to be a later date?"
"Of course. Not even Moriarty gets the best of my consulting detective. I would put money on it."
"You may have to."
As always, many things remained unsaid between them, and he watched her leave the house, walking elegantly away in her ridiculously high heels, the suit bag held over her shoulder, the pashmina protecting her from the weather.
After about ten strides she looked round and lifted a casual hand back in his direction, a wave of farewell. As if she knew he was watching her from behind the net curtain. As if it mattered.
Even when she was out of sight he still lingered in place, deep in thought. One hand rested on his music stand, holding himself steady.
Had Joanna Lake recognised Irene Adler, just as she had been recognised? Had the mother even known any of her son's associates? And Irene Adler's place within them? Or did she think high class powerful women frequented Sherlock Holmes' bed and invited themselves there as if by habit?
H smiled at the thought. Irony, reputation, sleight of hand, power play. Irene Adler did them all, and all at once. And he could think of no other reason why she had turned up at 221B without invitation, just because Mycroft had told her he was tickety boo.
Which was neither a phrase his elder brother would normally use, nor would discuss his younger brother with an outsider. Not normally. And so she had heard and registered the concern there, and for some reason been concerned in her turn.
And yet: did he believe her? Was she still in cohorts with Moriarty, despite everything? He didn't know, and he couldn't tell. The void was frustrating, infuriating, puzzling. But Irene Adler had always been those things. And he was even more suspicious of her new kindness and gentleness towards him. As he was suspicious of any apparent kindness or gentleness that came his way.
For he knew he was not a kind man, nor a gentle one. And could not understand why anyone should offer him such generosity and vulnerability. Yes. It was a puzzle. And one he had to solve. But on another day. Today he was busy.
o0o0o
He was still leaning on the music stand, lost in thought, when a black cab halted at the kerb outside. And from above he watched his mother step out of the back, dressed in her old blue Burberry, her ash blonde hair tucked under a tweed butcher's boy cap, the rainbow coloured hand knitted scarf wrapped several times loosely around her neck.
She managed, as ever, to combine effortless chic with timeless practicality; black slacks, Chelsea boots, the battered old satchel that was used when a mere handbag was not big enough. And he wondered what was in there this time.
What she needed to see him and talk about.
Something in his soul shifted, and shrank away.
And then she was coming up the stairs; slow uneven steps, a bit ponderous. That arthritic knee should be sorted…
He opened the door to her before she could knock.
"Hello, darling."
A hand to his face, the whisper of a kiss to his jaw before he could pull back, step back, draw her inside and close the door. Take the coat, hat and scarf and endure the small talk of welcome as he put all on the coat hooks by the door.
"Lovely to see you. Martha still looking after you and making sure you eat? Qh! I see there was a very elegant breakfast laid and eaten this morning: excellent. That's progress. I've brought us a simple pasta bake for lunch."
She brandished a small cooler bag under his nose, and he obediently took it, went into the kitchen, opened the bag and put the contents in the fridge. Closed the door and reluctantly turned back to face her.
"What is it? What do you want? What's the problem?"
"Slow down! You are too cynical. Why should there be a problem?"
Astute violet eyes met his; and he looked away first.
"A sudden visit. Pretending to forget a dental appointment when you never forget anything. A little white lie to protect Papa. And here you are. So the evidence says there is a problem."
"Not a problem as such. And you have nothing to fear from me. You should know that."
"Yes. Sorry. Sorry."
"Relax. I'll make us a nice cup of tea…."
"The English solution to every and any problem. How quaint."
"Stop it. Don't be snippy with me."
"No. Sorry."
"And stop saying sorry."
He found himself sitting down at the scarred old kitchen table, pushing the remnants of breakfast to one side. It already felt as if breakfast had been days away. And he couldn't think of any topic of conversation. Knew she would only say what she needed to say when she was ready.
And when she sat down opposite him with fresh mugs of tea for them both, the old leather satchel at her side, she was ready. And straight to the point.
"Any progress on locating this Moriarty person?"
"Not exactly."
"You mean no. Be precise."
"No, then."
"Only I couldn't get your situation out of my mind. So I went through everything again. I thought there had to be more to it than a snotty teenager holding a grudge for the best part of forty years."
"Yes."
"So I thought about the other names: Powers and Lake. And I eventually came across this."
She took a yellowing glossy science magazine from the satchel, over 15 years old; already folded open at the right page. Handed it to him, tapped a photograph above a standard article about a science convention.
And there she was, the guest speaker, in the centre of three ranks of maths professors, mainly men, in caps and gowns, on what looked like a university hall stage. She was dressed in an elegant dark green suit, complete with hat, a broad brimmed straw boater with a ribbon that matched the suit.
"Looks pretty standard….."
"Read the caption. Check the people."
So he looked closer, scanned the caption. And there it was, the name: Professor JD Powers."
"He kept and used his original name back then. How interesting."
"Find him on the photo," he was told, and did so. Then could not resist a bark of genuine laughter.
"Oh, my God. He must have been incandescent. With his ego…"
For in the photograph young Professor Powers – second row, fourth left – was almost entirely obliterated from view by his mother's straw boater in front of his face.
"He wasn't tall enough, was he?"
He grinned at his mother, but she did not smile back. Was very serious.
"Seeing the photograph made me remember: I always used to wear a hat for major events like that. Just etiquette, didn't give it a thought. But the formal group photograph was taken, and he picked up on it immediately: that he was invisible behind me. And he complained. Frighteningly quiet and polite, but persistent.
"So we did the whole thing again, me with my hat off. Didn't bother me a bit; it was just the sub editor of Numbers Today preferred the more formal photograph, hat in place, and used that one anyway.
"It was nothing at all to do with me, but he still wrote a letter of complaint to the editor; it didn't get published in the next issue by the way, and another one to me, as if I had engineered it. Rather threatening, as it happened. And a bit silly.
"It left a nasty taste in the mouths of high table at his university, an old school Midlands college, if I remember rightly. So he went off in high dudgeon to some obscure new university in eastern Europe, I was told. And I never heard of him again. Had never thought of him either. Until now."
"Oh. Yes. I see." He looked at her blankly, thinking furiously. "You can't remember whereabouts, can you?"
"I've racked my brains, but it's a part of the world that is a bit of a void to me, what with wars and territory grabs and name changes. Sorry."
"Never mind. I'll get onto it."
The voice in his head was screaming "Serbia!" at him, and he tried to resist thinking the obvious.
And yet Serbia had been picking itself up again after the ravages of war. Tourism, cultural heritage, industry, education. A whole raft of new universities attracting students from around the world… yes. Serbia made sense, even in the most general terms.
"That's your answer? Aren't you supposed to laugh, tell me how ridiculous it is that this man is persecuting you and threatening to kill you all because your mother was wearing a hat on one formal occasion many years before? It doesn't make sense."
"No. It doesn't make sense. But that's not all there is to it, now is there?" He looked her in the eye, and something shifted: no longer a younger son chatting to his mother, but a consulting detective comparing notes with a renowned mathematician.
"It started with Carl Powers, and two precocious boys unwittingly and unexpectedly in combat over his death. Each in the gun sights of the other. Parallel careers on opposite sides of the great game. Although I did not know and understand that for a long time.
"Not until now."
"Hmn."
She looked at him over the rim of her mug of tea. Her beautiful violet eyes had no warmth in them. Just the same flinty calculation as the seastorm eyes of her child. There was a brief silence as both computed, calculated.
"You don't tell me about your work because you don't want to worry an old lady, or frighten your mother. I get that, yes I do."
She sighed with regret and recognition about the ways of the world. He had looked away from her as he spoke, and all she could se in his face was the flutter of impossibly long eyelashes.
"But now I think it is time to tell me all about Moriarty. What he has done. And done to you. The hold he has over you."
"He doesn't…"
"Oh, yes he does. So tell me, boy. Just tell me. Don't dress it up, or talk it down. Just tell your mother. Because, sadly, mothers do tend to know when their children are lying to them."
They did smile at each other then; sad, wise, knowing smiles that said much about their knowledge of the world and each other.
He wrapped both hands around the warmth of his own mug of tea. Took as his fixed point of focus the scar in the centre of the table made by the scimitar of a foreign swordsman caught in the act of burglary. And so long ago, it seemed.
So he told her. Slowly, plainly, from the beginning. About the taxi driver and the pills, about John Watson's interference and the great game. About Mycroft and Irene Adler. The swimming pool and the aeroplane, the second gunpowder plot. The confrontation on the roof of Bart's, and the suicide without a corpse.
About the mission of his time away, about trainers, and trying to return them to the Powers family. How the current persecution had started. And where it was now.
But he did not mention university or drugs or Dark Star. Not to his mother. Especially not to his mother.
She listened with concentration, without interjection. Understanding the timeline, the succinct words. And when he had finished, and was still focussing on the centre of the table, she let the silence settle around them.
He took a sip of his tea, but it was now cold.
"No comment? No questions?" he asked finally.
"He's mad," she declared with a quiet certainty.
You're just getting that now?
The logical, hysterical demand made on the roof of Bart's came back to him unbidden. He shook his head a little, angrily, to clear it.
""A true psychopath. Pretty rare."
"Yes."
"Obsessed. With you. Obsessed long term. And impossible to distract, or to second guess."
"Yes."
"You think he will ever stop? Get bored? Go away?"
"No. No. And not until he has killed me."
She nodded, deep in thought. And at that moment, looked remarkably like her younger child.
"Not if you kill him first." She looked up at him; face calm, eyes cold. A logical, not hysterical, assessment. An intelligence passing judgement, not a mother.
"I…I….that…" he stuttered, taken aback. "That was not what I would have expected you to say."
"No? Because you are my son? Because I have seen you – just once, but once is enough – in action? Because I know what you can do? Even if doing the right thing means killing someone?"
"Well…..Yes. Of course."
"No. Not just 'yes.'" She shook her head. "I mean – yes to all of that. But actually, in this case, the answer is 'yes' because I know more than you do about the lengths this madman will go to."
"What do you mean? Mother? Tell me!"
He heard his voice rise in something like fear.
In answer she shook her head slowly. Almost sadly. And bent again to the old satchel.
Drew out a standard cardboard backed A3 manila envelope. Her address on the front, stamped first class and franked. An envelope through the post.
"This arrived this morning. Photographs and a note."
She drew papers out of the envelope.
"I assume they were meant to disgust me. Embarrass and alienate you. Destroy you in my estimation. "
She splayed across the table a set of standard six by eight photographs. He would have been appalled if he had never seen them before. Was appalled now only because his mother had seen them.
Stills from a slightly out of focus sex video. Two young men. Both lean and dark haired. Both recognisable.
He put out a hand and drew the photographs towards him.
"I am so sorry," he whispered, voice deep and almost inaudible/
"What for?"
He glanced up at her. Her face was open, expression clear.
"I…what?"
"I asked what for. Be precise. For having sex? And with another man? For being stupid enough to be filmed? For such photographs being seen by your mother?"
"Yes. Yes. All of it."
She shook her head, put out a hand to him, grasped the wrist holding the photograph.
"I know you're not gay. I know you don't put yourself about; it's not in your nature. So what was going on here? These photos were clearly taken some years ago."
"Yes. At university. I was very unhappy. Conflicted. Mycroft had cut off my trust funds. I needed money to live. And because of Sri Lanka I knew…what to do and how to do it. Without it…touching me. Do you understand?"
"I'm old, not stupid." Her tone was caustic. She resented being elderly, and sometimes, because she was still so busy, and her intellect so acute, he often forgot that.
"I assume the top is Moriarty?"
"Yes. But I don't remember…..any of it."
"Hmn." She was looking at the photographs, but was distracted, her physical eye overtaken by her mind's eye. "So when this…." She strove for a word, could not find one, carried on regardless. "happened, he was already obsessed with you. Yes?"
She waited. He nodded. "He paid for you because you were for sale. Took advantage of you, then. Plied you with drugs. For his satisfaction. Then, after what he would consider the ultimate act of his obsession with you – you did the worst possible thing. Did not fall in love with him in return. Did not even remember the encounter."
"I…yes. Yes, I suppose…." He gathered his wits with a visible jolt. "I am told…he followed me around like a puppy. Broke into my room to display himself in my bed. More than once. I threw him out, each time. Caused a racket. Once I'm told I even threw him out of the window…."
"Oh, dear," There as a flash of humour in her eyes, a repressed grin. "Not the way to treat the love of your life."
"You could say that." He shook his head, rueful. "Put it that way….it sounds ridiculous."
"It IS ridiculous. He is unhinged. You do know that, don't you?
"You're mad….You're just getting that now?"
This is about you and me. We were made for each other, Sherlock.
I like to watch you dance….
"He always said we were made for each other."
"There you are. He was obsessed with you long before he had your body. And has remained obsessed. He will stay obsessed until one of you dies. He wants to kill you because he sees you as his only intellectual equal. But because of that he gets off on the conflict between you. And wants to spin that out; make you suffer."
I'm going to kill you one day.
We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?
The voice, the words, echoed in his head, as they had down the years.
"Yes. That works."
"One day it will come to that. You or him. Are you ready for that?"
"Yes."
She took both his hands in hers, as she had before. Sat back, nodded to herself.
"Has anyone else seen these photographs?"
"Mycroft."
"And Mycroft didn't tell me. Nor moved to protect you. I see."
He thought she did indeed see.
"He thinks Moriarty is dead. That I am being hysterical. Neither attitude is anything new."
"And yet. Someone sent these photographs to him, and then to me when sending them to him did not work. They are meant to prompt those that know you best into some sort of action. To defame and decry you, probably. But that has not happened. Mycroft is too bored. Me, too…" she sought for a phrase. "Too understanding of the ways of the world? Too appreciative of the unique ways of my younger son?"
She tilted her head as she looked at him, the slightest hint of a smile behind her eyes.
"These photographs make no difference to me. Do you understand? No difference at all. I don't expect my tall dark and handsome, charismatic and unusual child to still be a virgin in his thirties; that is not healthy. I could have hoped for better, but there you go. It is what it is.
"But I will offer you some advice. I think something is coming to a head. And I think you should start carrying. Even if it is only that elderly Browning you hide in the space between the floorboards under your bedroom window."
"What? How!"
She did grin at him then.
"I am your mother. Don't you know children try to keep secrets from their mothers at their peril? But take that advice. Because I do think something is coming to a head. And much as I try not to…..I fear for you. Just sometimes."
She released his hands and sat back. Watched carefully as he remained motionless opposite her, head down, face impassive. The silence stretched between them. Not an uncomfortable silence but the sort that between a mother and her child spoke volumes of understanding and connection.
She watched, concentration intense, as a single tear slid down his right cheek. But she did not comment on it. Merely asked….
"Are you alright? Was I right to come? I wasn't sure…"
"No. You did the right thing. It must have been difficult for you."
"You could say that." She graced him with a warm and genuine smile as he looked up without bothering to brush the tear away. "But more difficult for you, I think. I needed you to know…..how none of any of that stuff matters. In the long run."
"Thank you."
She got to her feet.
"Play me something on the Guarneri."
"I haven't played for weeks. A bit rusty."
"Then practice. Next time your father and I visit I demand a concert. Paderewski, at the very least. I always think he looked a lot like you. And how his music suits you so."
"I'll bear that in mind."
"Good! And now I need to go. Before your father thinks I have been delayed. Train cancellations are always a great excuse, however."
She looked searchingly at him, but he was still smiling at her, the rare, lingering little boy smile that came from both eyes and heart, and nodded, reassured. He watched her shrug herself back into the Burberry, wind the scarf around her neck, coil her silver blonde hair up and under the hat.
Darkness had crept in around the edges of the day, and with it dampness and cold.
"We forgot the pasta."
"So what? Eat it tomorrow."
"I'll ring for a cab," he said.
"Don't bother. At this time of day the Tube will be quicker."
"Fine. But let me walk you to the station."
"Chivalrous of you."
"I can be."
"Of course you can." She reached out and squeezed his arm. He had a sudden impulse to hug her, but made do with putting his hand briefly over hers. She understood.
He wrapped himself in the Belstaff, the blue cashmere scarf at his throat. Gestured for her to precede him down the stairs. She stomped, and slowly, cursing the knee that had stiffened while they had talked.
"You need to get that knee sorted."
"Oh, don't you start; your father is always going on about it."
"Then pay attention….."
They bickered gently about it down the stairs and out of the front door.
The cold struck them as they stepped onto the pavement.
"Regent's Park for the Bakerloo?" she asked.
"Yes. A stop less than Baker Street."
They turned, and started to walk together.
The wet pavement before them was almost empty, and a homeless person, unable to gender due to layers of clothing under an old duffle coat and balaclava, was shuffling along the opposite side of the road, pushing an elderly supermarket shopping trolley, muttering to itself and limping.
In a break in traffic, the trolley, complete with squeaky wheel, crossed the road in front of them.
"I can never get used to seeing so many homeless people around when I come up to town these days," Midge Holmes observed.
"You get used to it. And people tend to be more generous to them than you might expect."
"Oh!"
She had stopped walking, he realised. So he stopped too, and turned back towards her.
She was fumbling in her bag.
"There but for the grace of God….." she said absently, and he realised she was hunting for change.
"No, Mother, please don't. I don't know him. Her? Dunno. Not one of mine. Not of the network."
As he spoke he frowned; a tentative memory of having seen that walk, that duffle coat, before. Outside 221B.
"Sherlock, really. Not every homeless soul has to have your approval to be needy…"
The trolley creaked it's way towards them.
And that was when life moved into both high speed and slow motion.
Mignonette Holmes was just behind him, both fully occupied and distracted, concentrating putting her purse back into her satchel while holding out some money to the figure in the duffle coat.
So when the hand in the grubby mitten came out, she was expecting it to simply take the money from her. Not for that hand to move swiftly; to grab the long ends of her warm silly scarf, to yank it in, pulling her off balance and down with cruel determination.
At the same time, Sherlock Holmes was already moving, turning, spinning, shifting into action. A voice in his head silently screaming panic, danger, reaction.
One terrific push by the person in the duffle coat sent the metal trolley skittering in his direction, and as he swung his hips away from danger, he had his concentration focussed on his mother, who was arching forward and down with a little strangled cry of surprise.
So he did not see the cricket bat lifted out of the trolley and swung until it was inches from his head.
He felt the draught of it before it arrived, was aware of the shadow of it coming but could do nothing to avoid it.
"Mother!" Even as he cried out, he knew it was a waste of breath. But it was instinct. And it was a wail of defeat.
Best English willow, a slight aroma of linseed oil, a crunch of contact with the side of his head.
There was an exploding light bulb on contact of sharp pain.
And then nothing.
TO BE CONCLUDED…..
Author's notes:
Penhaligon Endymion: Why this famous old London brand? A nod to Cumberbatch, who used to work there!
Antiphrasis: Saying the opposite of what you actually mean, but in such a way that the real intention is clear.
Tickety boo: English slang expression for 'everything's OK.' Thought to be a hangover from the British Raj, from the Hindi phrase thik hai babu' – translating as 'that is all right, sir.'
"The past is a foreign country…..they do things differently there" is the famous first line from L P Hartley's The Go Between.
Zizz: English slang for a quick sleep or nap.
Missing persons details from the Missing Persons Unit of the UK National Crime Agency. Missing .uk is the charity that supports the missing and the missed.
Ignacy Jan Paderewski (1860 – 1941) was a Ukrainian born Polish composer politician and musician who was foreign minister and president of Poland, and who signed the Treaty of Versailles.
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