Chapter Text
Irene carefully swung her legs over the window pane and buried her bare feet into the carpet. Her heels were clamped in her hands after she had taken them off to be able to move with more agility.
With a deep breath, she slowly began to shuffle down the hallway.
She recognized John's room immediately, with its neatly made bed and wooden desk, empty save for a lamp and two books. On the wall beside the left side of the bed was a framed collection of medals he had received for his military service. The closet and drawers were all tightly shut, and Irene imagined his clothes were as tidily folded as the bed covers.
She passed the lavatory and extra closet without giving them much thought and headed downstairs.
Her stomach tightened at the thought of the hundreds of possible sights she could be met with down there. She had been waiting for this- thinking about that living room and the kitchen and the doorway and the mantelpiece and even the bloody skull portrait on the wall with the outdated wallpaper.
Maybe they had refurnished it. She didn't like the idea of that; there was something comforting and homey about the random, scattered items and dustiness. It was quaint, and renewed and refreshed it would simply become generic. Besides, though immaculate was Sherlock's choice in dress, there wasn't a chance he would keep his living quarters uncluttered for long.
Irene kept her gaze cast downwards until she reached the last step of the stairs, though from her peripheral vision she had already seen what was a certainty now: the place was unchanged.
The fading image she had been clinging onto these past two years of 221B Baker Street was almost identical. Only the shadows were not so dark. She had forgotten how wide and transparent the windows were. They had a wide capacity for letting in light.
She walked around, running her fingers against the shelves and book spines; the papers, pens and oddly superfluous amount of printers; the couch and the chairs; and finally, what little was left of the kitchen counter tops- Sherlock's chemistry equipment and the usual kitchen appliances covered most of the green surface, though Irene thought perhaps it was better than way. Who knew what damage was being hidden underneath?
The angles of the image in her head sharpened- she managed to replace every uncertainty about the layout of the place in her head. Finally, she took a deep breath and sunk down into the boxy leather chair by the fireplace.
The trip to London had been exhausting, and though she had more than a week of sleep since she got back, she still felt as if the weariness had not left her. It wasn't a mystery as to why. Irene Adler was never one for denying the roots of emotional conflict, and she knew that the heaviness of her unremitting trips around the world was it. It hadn't been the foreign places or foreign people, but the threat of death looming over her head. It had been the minuteness of the hope to ever return to a cycle that resembled normality. Everything was unpredictable like before, but it wasn't thrilling. No goose bumps- only harsh shocks to the nerves and angry faces that kept her nights restless.
She only found comfort in two things.
One was the abundant amount of fags to inhale and exhale in a room, or even better, outside on the balconies, where she could better see the white smoke roll out of her mouth and into the air. It was soothing and hypnotizing and it made her feel numb.
Second was Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, she unintentionally indulged in quite compromising, explicit images of him, usually in her dreams. Who could blame her? Sexual endeavors had been nonexistent since a little before she met him, and it no longer mattered to pursue them with anyone else. It wasn't that she was particularly set on having sex with him. The image of anyone else's bodily structure and deftness, or of anyone else brushing their fingers against her skin, was insipid and colorless.
She thought more about London, and everything they had done there, together. She thought of John too, but felt that it was the same thing as thinking about Sherlock, because the two really were parts of one whole.
She thought most about Karachi. Karachi, where he had sent her off with a faux passport to Germany, where they had no time to savor each other's words for long because, before they knew it, they were running. Running, falling, pulling each other along. But there had been words. The night of her rescue, there had been many words. She thought about them often now, tried to make sense of them when she hadn't fully grasped them then. Sometimes she fidgeted and held her chest at the thought of how she'd never been as intimate with a person as she had been with Sherlock Holmes. Her heart was completely bared that night, and she blurted out confessions that she wasn't sure she would've made when not under the effect of the adrenaline high and the desperation for something as warm as him after so many days of living in fear and isolation.
In short, he was the small silver lining that had worried her and kept her going. Mainly the latter, because the former was only the worry that he would disappear forever.
Of course, it turned out to be a worry worth having- her flame had gone out at the headlines "FRAUDULENT DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE." The ashes fell outside the ashtray, onto the balconies, the carpets, the bed sheets. She had almost set a whole flat on fire when she disregarded the embers that fell onto the tail of the curtains.
Her assistant had confiscated the fags after that.
She stayed in bed for a few weeks after she no longer had anything to smoke. She never slept, only fell in and out of consciousness. Her assistant urged her to do something. Irene reassured her that this was voluntary and that she had control. She always had control. It was only on rare occasions that she remained immobile, and that had been a rare occasion.
She pushed herself out of bed one morning, did her makeup, put on her jewelry and a curve-hugging, backless dress, and drove around Prague like a tourist. This was all a reckless act, of course; she didn't bother to be discreet. But in a world where Sherlock Holmes had gotten himself killed, she didn't feel so afraid of death anymore.
Then, he had come back. On her television, at three o'clock in the morning, the only source of light in the night-engulfed room. She had said only one word: "Bastard." She was immensely tired, too, and had fallen asleep within minutes of finding out.
It was only in the morning, after the first drops from the shower head had stirred her senses and sent blood rushing to her cheeks, did she fully wrap her head around what she had seen.
Every physical act she had carried out that day had been mindless and automatic, which is how she ended up putting her sleeping robe back on instead of the clothes she had laid out to wear for the day and spilled coffee on her assistant during breakfast.
This disorientation continued for the entire week, and one day, while they were sitting at a café, Emilia snapped.
"What's gotten into you? You were functioning fine a few days ago. Even during your little depression episode, you were fine."
Irene glanced up at her as if she had just noticed she was there. She swallowed and answered, "Nothing."
Emilia glared at her suspiciously. "You're not getting the cigarettes back."
"Fine."
An awkward silence passed between them. Irene traced the rim of her tea mug and said,"I'm going back to London."
Her assistant's eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Are you sure-"
Irene stood abruptly, grabbed her bag, and gave Emilia a firm look. "I'm sure."
And now she was there, with London's air and the carbon dioxide of sleuths in her lungs.
After a few more minutes of sitting and thinking, Irene got up and took another tour of the flat. She took her time going through the books this time, pulling one out of its place every once in a while and flipping through the pages.
She toyed with all the items save for the possibly corrosive ones lying on the dinner-table-turned-lab-table. Then, she looked through all the cabinets and drawers.
She realized she had forgotten about Sherlock's room when she spotted it down the hallway, its door temptingly shut closed.
There were no shuddering breaths like there had been when she was heading down the stairs. Instead, her heart leaped into her throat. She took no pause before turning the knob and pushing open the door.
The bed covers were new, it seemed. She didn't remember him ever owning the ornate silk-rimmed duvet. Then again, he could've been keeping that in the closet before. So, really, nothing was new. The periodic table hung on the wall by the door, just like last time. Irene smiled, imagining how many times Sherlock must've stood in front of one, memorizing its trends and patterns with his eyes and tracing fingers.
By the window, the theme carried over, with a picture of Dmitri Mendeleev. Above it was a rougher, sketchier version of the periodic table, most likely one of the earlier models. Irene remembered asking him about it and why he had it. He had gone on and on about the importance and necessity of chemistry to his work. She had stared at him, or maybe ogled, with rapt attention.
Irene turned to look above the bed, where Sherlock's framed judo certificate hung. Neat, Japanese script spelled out his name. That brought up impressive memories. Sherlock's swift and graceful movements when he disarmed the American men on the day of their first meeting was proof enough that he was a trained fighter. She had asked him about that too. His mouth had not been shy about revealing the extent of his fighting capabilities, but his eyes had been. Though his tone was neutral and matter-of-fact, she picked up on the slight undertones of a desire to impress. Perhaps he avoided her gaze because he was afraid of seeing indifference.
An endless list of other items were all around the room, even though it didn't seem as jumbled as the living room and kitchen. A daguerreotype of Edgar Allen Poe, some detective books by the aforementioned author, a picture of a young Sherlock with a young (and morbidly obese) Mycroft, a mirror, a lamp, some case files, stacks upon stacks of papers (some with messy, rushed handwriting, some that looked like official documents), writing utensils, eating utensils- in short, as eclectic as the rest of the flat. Every item imaginable was buried somewhere in his room or somewhere in the flat. Irene was sure that, if she looked hard enough, she would stumble upon the hair ties and bobby pins she had lost as a little girl, too.
She had only just noticed something that had been lying there in plain sight: a phone on his desk. It looked strangely familiar. It looked a lot like…
No. It was.
The phone. Her phone. The one she had allowed her life to depend on until Sherlock destroyed its value with a clever follow up of the clues about her heart. It was in his flat.
It was in his room.
In plain sight, in his room, on his desk. It seemed wholly unchanged even after these three years. It was sitting in a skewed position, as blatant as an open file placed on top of its cabinet.
Irene picked it up and clicked a button. The screen didn't light up.
Maybe he wasn't using it. Maybe he was just looking.
What deductions could she make about that?
Before she had any time to deduce anything, she heard the unmistakable screech of the front door opening. On instinct, she shoved the phone inside her jacket pocket. Forgetting for a moment what she had originally planned to do upon their arrival, she froze and stared at the door with bated breath.
She heard Sherlock and John's voices downstairs, and once reassured that they weren't getting louder, she exhaled and went to stand by the door to listen.
She couldn't make out whole sentences, especially not from John. His voice was a soft, low drone, whereas Sherlock's was fluctuating and rapid, as expected. She could tell he was talking excitedly and could practically see him pacing back and forth, sending the flaps of his coat flailing behind him if he had not yet taken it off.
"-whole case, John-"
"I thought-"
"Yes, you would think…the whole world."
Irene had gathered herself quickly, having expected the silence thick with realization to settle over the place like it did now. She had originally planned to surprise them in the living room, but she had no problem adjusting to the situation. Either way, his bedroom seemed more fitting than anything else.
She propped herself down on his bed, gripped the edge with both hands and put on the most casual expression she could muster, despite the steep elevation of her heart rate.
Any second now, he would come through the door. Irene wasn't sure she could believe it. It wasn't the same, seeing him on the television as opposed to seeing him in the flesh.
A creak from just beyond the door was a giveaway that he was coming closer.
How different would he be?
He knew it was her, no doubt. Otherwise, he would've made sure she wouldn't be hearing their approaching steps.
He would try to act nonchalant, she knew. Nothing more could be expected from the great, reticent Sherlock Holmes.
She stopped breathing when she heard a soft thud against the door.
When it opened, she took a deep breath and let the corners of her ruby lips turn upward.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."
He let the door make its widest arc and slowly stepped inside. "Ms. Adler."
Behind him, John sighed heavily and put a hand against his forehead. "Oh, God."
***
"What the hell is going on?" John asked for the umpteenth time during his acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes.
"Irene Adler's not dead," Sherlock answered plainly.
"Yes, I can see that." John curled his fingers. The frustration was obvious in his tense shoulders. "How?"
"You didn't tell him?" Irene asked. She had taken a seat on the chair again.
Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, clad in his typical formal suit and trousers. His hands were folded behind his back. "I saw no need to. It would've only stirred trouble."
"Hold on- you knew?"
"Knew? Knew what? That Irene Adler wasn't decapitated in Karachi and is in fact very much alive, yes. That telling you about it would cause trouble? Also yes. You would've wanted to talk to Mycroft, and that would've led nowhere pleasant."
"You-" John couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence and dropped the accusing finger he was pointing at Sherlock so that he could place it on his hip to match the position of his other hand. He walked away from the sitting area to recollect himself.
"Oh, come now, John. The information wasn't crucial to your survival. The topic was irrelevant."
John turned back to face Sherlock. He looked more incredulous than angry. "But it did come up. You had me tell you she was in America in a witness protection program when she was, in fact, dead. I had to go through the trouble of being careful about that topic. Plus, you forced me to give you government property!"
"It's over now. She's alive. I saved her when she was seconds away from being beheaded. Gave her all the documents she needed to travel around the world and escape the bloodlust of her enemies, just until everything settled down." Sherlock turned to face her. "I would say your return is a bit early, but it's not a risk you can't handle. There. All questions cleared up."
"I thought it would be fitting to schedule my trip to London around the same time as your theatrical return."
John moaned. "Yes, everyone just rise from the grave at your convenience. Don't mind the man who had decided to move on with his life, and who doesn't care for bloody ghosts of the pasts giving him a heart attack. I can still throw a marvelous punch, Sherlock."
"What's he on about?" Irene asked.
"Oh, nothing. John just completely overreacted at my return."
Irene felt waves of scalding fury radiating from John and felt sympathy towards the man. Nevertheless, she had to suppress a smile at Sherlock's incredible ignorance and insensitivity and this married-couple fighting. She missed it. She never got to see much of it in the first place, but she missed it. Perhaps she missed human interaction like this in general, this pointless bickering back and forth. The total insignificance of arguments and anger and worries. It had been so long since she could argue or get upset without a soberly dark foundation.
"Oh, God. Did you jump out of nowhere and scare him to death?"
"No, no. Fortunately Sherlock didn't jump," John said with a sarcastic smile. "But he did scare me, and not only me, but my wife. Almost ruined our whole bloody relationship."
"It's not my fault you planned to propose to her that evening. But, as I recall it, her response was fine. She took it like a champ. Better than you did, in fact. Your relationship has had its ups and downs, some of them not at all to do with me, but I think, generally speaking, my return has only increased its endurance for life's challenges."
"I'm not talking about my relationship with her, Sherlock, I'm talking about my relationship with you. But that's not the point. Now, once again, my question is, what is a perfectly alive, un-beheaded Irene Adler doing in our flat?"
"No need to talk about me in third person; I'm right here. Though I suppose I wouldn't have heard much of what you're saying if Sherlock didn't nearly chop off one of my ears in Karachi."
"You didn't listen to me when I told you to move behind the car. If you had, you wouldn't have run that risk."
"Well if you haven't learned, I'm not that much of a fan of rules. Plus, had I done as you asked, you might've ended up headless yourself."
"I had it all under control."
"I could practically hear that machete screaming 'Off with your head!' But I didn't like the thought of blood being spilled on that divine neck."
"Be grateful my divine neck was there to resc-"
"All right, that's enough." John said, raising his voice.
Sherlock and Irene glanced up at him in surprise.
"I'm going out until you two stop flirting like schoolchildren and grow up." He grabbed his coat and put it on. "So, maybe, I'll never come back."
Sherlock frowned. "We're not flirting, we're having an argument." He didn't help himself by ignoring half of what John had said.
John's voice echoed back as he left through the front door. "No bloody difference!"
When the door shut closed, Sherlock and Irene remained silent for a moment.
"He's probably going to see Mary. He's being trying to make up an excuse to slip off and see her. Good thing you popped in." Sherlock came forward to the porcelain set of tea cups and saucers sitting on the living room table and poured them both a steaming cup of Earle Grey tea.
"Why would he sneak away?"
"They're trying to plan something special for my birthday. I'm surprised John still thinks I haven't noticed."
"Of course he hasn't- not when you're playing along. Which is rather sweet."
"Yes, well, I have to keep making it up to him somehow don't I?"
Irene throat felt dry. "For your disappearance?"
Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet hers above the rim of the cup. "In some ways, yes," came the muffled reply before he closed his eyes and took a sip.
They grew silent once more. Irene filled up the time by occupying her hands with sprinkling sugar into her tea cup.
She was relieved to see how normal he looked. For him, at least. His face was a healthy pale. He was incredibly handsome, as always. Curls dark and thick, body lean and agile, movements fluid and graceful, eyes observant and brilliant- reflecting all the room's light while still being the main source of it. They were grey, like the strict science of his deductions, and green, like life and eagerness. Irene wanted to look at them all day. She almost did, except doing so would make it too personal, and she couldn't pull off trying to look like she wanted to make him feel uncomfortable liked before.
She almost jumped out of her chair when they were arguing just before John left, though arguing was the completely wrong word to use. She knew he also felt the need to point out each other's mistakes, to tease, to cause the most wonderful kind of annoyance. She'd dreamed of it, dreamed of it so often because she had had so little of it and thought about how it made her heart flutter. She went to sleep smiling about it after the first time they met, and she hadn't even realized she was smiling until her cheeks began to hurt. It was like a silly schoolgirl crush, except she didn't bury her head into the bed sheets. She forced herself to stop, because she had barely known the man and was already losing the game she started.
Quick, determined, confident, and, as everyone had said, brilliant. But he was also on the better side- the moral side. Helping people.
She hadn't helped anyone in a long time.
That was made her falter. She had never felt she truly belonged in the circle of people she involved herself with. Cheaters, liars, manipulators. She was just as good at her job as they were.
Then why was she there?
She had to remember then, during that long night of contemplation, where she came from.
She looked at Sherlock and saw that his gaze had wandered down and his expression was blank, as if he'd just entered a realm in his mind that was far-removed from reality. As a result of his daze, his grip on the tea cup began to loosen.
"Care-"
Before she could finish her sentence, the tea cup slipped out of his fingers. It fell onto the carpet and rolled away, leaving behind a glistening brown scar that quickly seeped into the fibers and turned dark. Sherlock jumped from his seat, hands frantically wiping his trousers where the tea had left its mark and burn.
"Shit, how did I-"
Irene eyes widened slightly at his uncharacteristic use of vulgar language. Then, realizing her late reaction, she stood quickly. "Do you want me to-"
"No, no, it's fine. I'll clean it up." He didn't meet her gaze. "I'll, um, change first."
She gave a weak nod, and then, realizing he probably didn't see it, said, "All right."
He returned a hasty nod and then rushed out of the room.
Irene fell back into her chair, feeling the tension break as soon as he left.
It wasn't at all the tension they normally had- the one that she preferred and found easier to deal with.
The mention of his disappearance was what had done it. She couldn't just avoid it, though, could she? It had been his life for two years. It had been her life for two years. Like with two soldiers who had formed a friendship during a war, what else was there to talk about but what they shared in common? What they volunteered themselves to be scarred for?
The bombing, the screaming, the tears. It was inevitable for them to talk about. This is what it's been leading up to.
She saw it in his face, the panic over what to do now. They started off with the familiar banter, because it was the only way they knew how to start, but now that they had moved past it, now that they had to continue somewhere else...
She knew this was coming. They had to come face to face with being people. The purpose of coming without warning was because she thought he didn't need the advantage of knowing. She needed to know, because she had secretly wasted more time on smoking fags when she came to London, thinking about how everything's been leading up to this.
The biggest issue was appraising how real Karachi had been.
He saved her, yes. But then they had that one fin moment of peace before being sucked into a merciless storm without each other's help.
He had saved her, and then, they talked. Sat in a roofless car he had stolen, with the starry night spread out above for them to look at.
She asked him questions about some cases she wasn't sure about, and he forced her think it through, to come to her own conclusions after a bit of ostentatious guidance. She asked about John, and how they met, and he told her that too, making her smile at the loving way he said 'idiot' and 'much smaller brain' and the proud way with which he said 'army doctor' and 'pretty clever sometimes.'
It had gotten quiet at one point, and it was placid and nice. She could hear him thinking hard all the way through, though, not letting his guard down. It was only when he asked her about how she got herself mixed up with Moriarty that she understood why.
The mood had turned serious then, but she understood he needed the information. So, as calmly and distantly as possible, she began to explain.
To her surprise though, he had interrupted, as if he changed his mind, and asked about why she'd done it.
There was nothing on his website about motive, about asking questions that hinted at wanting to extract the emotions in the mix. He wasn't interested in that, right?
The way he asked her, so quietly and softly, with a twitch of his hand in her direction...She felt her eyes begin to water, because he had brushed over a sensitive nerve. She asked herself the same question so many times, and then shoved it out of the way, blaming the smudged mascara and wobbly knees and masochist turning of the tap to ice cold during the shower on being human, on needing an occasional release of emotion. She didn't cry often, after all. Only recently, for some reason, after each day of work had been completed.
She paused before replying, which gave him the wrong idea. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It was a personal question. It doesn't need to be answered. I can go off the information you were giving me previously."
"No. I'd like to tell you. I haven't told anyone and it doesn't do me good to keep things bottled up." She made it sound as if she always thought this, when it fact, she only realized it just then.
She looked at him, admired the curve of his neck and the way he narrowed his eyes, looking concerned (the first time she'd seen that) and concentrated at the same time. "Go ahead, then."
"Desperation," she told him with a sigh. "And fear."
She did it because she had to do what was necessary, and for a young woman with big, big problems, that could mean a risky position she wasn't sure she wanted to be in.
Her father, George, had been part of a crime web. A man always clad in a suit in tie, 'with a briefcase in his hand and a gun in his waistband', as her mother used to say.
He was rarely at home, in their large, three story flat. That meant she spent most of her time with her sister and mother.
Her sister's name was Amy. In an early memory of her, her sweet caramel hair had bangs. Their mother continuously trimmed them in a straight line for years, and the strands would always separate, so it was never hard to see they were done by an amateur hand. They were dirty with white spots and she was laughing, her smile glistening from the touch of the sun ray's coming from the kitchen window. She ran around the island in the middle of the room and trailed her hand along the marble countertops until it reached the smooth wooden cutting board dusted with flour. She grabbed a handful and ducked down, just as Irene threw the remains of her handful in her direction and missed.
Then there was her mother. Anna.
She gave them both her smile but Irene her eyes and hair and Amy her small, delicate nose. She had gentle hands, though Irene thought they thinned year by year. Perhaps that's why their father stopped touching them.
She worked in an office for some transport company, so she was always gone for a good part of the day, though she always came before Father.
She grew up with her sister and mother. That's what it felt like. Dad always came home late. Sometimes, he came back a day late. Sometimes a week.
It was only when Irene was eleven did she begin to understand. Especially the day when Daddy came home with his shirt stained crimson.
Irene had just been coming down the stairs in front of the front door when Father threw it open and dragged himself in. He didn't even see her.
"Anna!" he growled. He fell to his knees, his suitcase falling beside him with a loud thump. One hand flew to the area beside his waist, alarmingly red against his crisp white dress shirt.
Irene screamed. She dropped to sit on the steps of the stairs and tightly clung to the rails. "Daddy."
Their mother rushed in, hair in a messy bun and an apron tight around her small waist. She spotted her husband immediately. For a brief second, she looked at Irene crumbled on the steps of the stairs. Irene saw that her eyes were wide and heard her labored breaths. But she didn't see panic, and she stopped sniffling, something in the back of her head reminding her of what she had to do. What anyone should do.
Anna dropped to her knees and laid her husband on his back. "Oh, God. George, what have you done? Irene! Irene, call the police! Call the police now!"
Irene had already stood and ran down the steps. She was keeping her distance from the critical area and had been waiting for the instructions to leave the edges of her mother's lips. She had been hugging herself with one arm. Her knees were wobbly and the area above her upper lip was glistening, the result of a runny nose. Only seconds had passed and she could already feel the wound tightening, the pain intensifying. She was about to make the decision to act herself when her mother spoke. This left no room for a late reaction, and she fell into step towards the kitchen, where the phone was.
Father needs help. Father could die.
Before she could bolt pass the doorframe of the hall, her father's loud, urgent, "No!" stopped her in her tracks. "Don't call the police!"
"You need help. You'll die. Irene, do as I've told you." Her mother's tone was calm and assertive though she said the words with weak breaths.
Irene looked to her father with hesitation. She took a clumsy step back, instinct telling her to listen to the person she trusted most.
With an awesome briskness, George suddenly grabbed Anna by her blouse and said, through gritted teeth, "You. Won't. Call. Them." Not anticipating the pain that would come with such aggressive movement, he gasped and wholly collapsed to the floor.
"Upstairs. Upstairs...a number...in the first drawer of my desk...a white paper..."
Anna stood, determined to follow his directions, when Irene sprinted up the stairs ahead of her, taking the steps two at a time.
"What-"
"Oof."
Irene ran smack into a frowning Amy, who had just emerged from her room. Both of them fell to the floor, and Irene scrambled up and wasted no time apologizing, even as Amy shouted after her about how that hurt. Instead she cried, "Dad's been hurt!" before disappearing into his office.
Her hands were shaking and tears were still streaming down her cheeks, but she felt as if she had a target to work towards, or rather, a fear to act on.
Father's hurt.
Death. Death. Death.
She threw open the top left drawer of his desk and threw out the contents she rendered unnecessary. A black folder. A planner. She was careful when she flitted through the envelopes. She could very well lose the white paper Father mentioned if she wasn't.
Her heart sunk at the sight of the wooden bottom of the drawer, dusty in places she hadn't touched her fingers against. With one last attempt, she stuck her hand in the drawer and felt around inside in the deeper parts she couldn't see.
She froze when her fingers brushes against what undeniably felt like a thin strip of paper. She could see its smooth white surface inscribed with numbers before she took it out. A small smile formed on her lips. She ran downstairs.
Her mother was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, one hand wrapped around Amy, who had her face buried in Anna's shirt, and one hand holding the phone ready. There were red stains on her apron and red fingerprints on the side of her face.
Irene looked at her father and made a sharp intake of breath. He was still on the floor, though adjusted to a less awkward position. He was holding a cloth in his hand and pressing it against his wound. Most of the blood had soaked through. Irene looked away and blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the stinging in her eyes. He was lying so still, face distorted with deep frown lines, skin pale with a blue tint.
She couldn't think about that. She couldn't.
Instead, she shouted the numbers on the paper from the top of the stairs. Her mother dialed them precisely and steadily.
After the duty was done, Irene stood at the top of the stairs and watched as her mother gently pulled Amy away and walked into the kitchen, talking in a hushed but urgent tone. She stared nowhere in particular when she could no longer follow her mother's movements. It soon became clear that she was incapacitated. She couldn't bring herself to move. When Amy ran up to her and breathed out words in between sobs and tugged at her arm, Irene felt as if a rush of water was tuning out her sister's words. She jerked her arm away when Amy's pull became too pleading and almost caught her off balance. And then she was a tree again, with feet buried deep in the floorboards, one thin, frail branch crumpling the paper in a fist.
She was very conscious of her current state. Something lapped against the shores of her mind, telling her to snap out of it. But the plea was too gentle, and she felt inclined to ignore it.
She focused, instead, on the blurry image of her dying father at the corner of her eye. She didn't look at him directly because making the effort seemed the least tempting thing to do. She heard his deep, heavy breathing, and that made her acutely aware of her own. So she breathed, then breathed harder so that she could hear it better. Realizing that she normally couldn't hear people breathing made her realize that his breathing wasn't normal.
Dying. He was dying.
It was years later than Irene realized it was never the thought of her father dying that made her panic. It was the thought of death at her doorstep. The chaos of that day. No one her age went through this. This was a Serious Issue.
She had never seen so much blood before. She had seen her father hiss and wince when he stubbed his toe on the edge of a door or table. That made her feel uneasy enough. This was a whole new level of injury.
She was crying again. She didn't make a sound, but her forehead creased. The tears were hot.
When her mother emerged from the kitchen, Irene wiped her eyes and sighed shakily. She realized that Amy had come downstairs and was now sitting by her father, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. She wasn't sniveling anymore, but from in between the strands of her hair, Irene could see her red-rimmed eyes watching her father fixedly.
"He's on his way," Anna said, dropping down to her knees by Amy to wrap an arm around her while she addressed George.
He muttered a reply that Irene couldn't make out. There was a calming quiet that settled over the room that made the lights seem less dim and the shadows less big and the maelstrom in Irene's chest less severe, and mixed with her curiosity over what was being discussed, it made her come downstairs.
Her mother looked up when she heard her footsteps and outstretched her free arm to Irene. Irene dropped to her knees and fell into her mother's embrace though she did not return it. She stared at the red body of her father. She wasn't so shocked anymore. In fact, she was entranced, finding that she couldn't look away from the red. His eyes, usually a piercing grey, were now fading into the grey of his skin. There was nothing left to look at.
"Mummy's called a doctor," her mother whispered as she kissed Irene's head. "He said Daddy's going to be okay. It's a shallow wound."
"Why did he get shot, Mum?" Amy said, voice unusually high-pitched.
"Apply pressure," Anna told her husband, and unwound herself from her daughters to do just that. Then, more quietly, to Amy, she said, "I don't know." She gave them both a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay. Just go and look for more clean cloths, darlings. Clean. This one is all soaked through."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Irene and Amy rose quickly and bumped into each other as they both turned to go to the kitchen. They gave each other a look, and an understanding passed between them, an understanding that they should go look together, because this was a Serious Situation and it only seemed natural for them to stick together instead of separating. So, silently, they continued in their intended direction.
The doctor arrived before they brought the cloths. He arrived with four other men, all wearing scrubs, though there was something about their stocky builds and dark, furrowed brows that made them look different from the paramedics Irene imagined in her head. In fact, they looked a lot like Father when he came home from work, with a countenance that's been robbed of the sunlight that softened his face and made his eyes shine in the morning before he stepped through the door. Dark shadows were bedded in the creases of their foreheads and the hollow areas of their cheeks. Maybe the darkness that usually settled over London before he came home was stronger than the light, like carbon monoxide over oxygen. It looked like it suffocated him, too.
That's how these men looked, though they seemed to accept the hard shadowy lines on their faces.
The doctor was older, evident from the gray in his facial hair, which happened to also soften his features. He spoke in a gruff tone that suggested he was as serious as the rest of them looked.
They took his father into the living room and left behind a pool of blood.
Irene didn't remember much else after that. Nothing except that her father survived.
The next day, her mother sat her down in the kitchen.
"Irene. There's something you have to know about your father's work."
"Dad works against dangerous people?"
Her mother smiled weakly. "Something like that. Daddy...has a dangerous job. What you saw yesterday, it was because of the risks he was taking. Sometimes, people come after him. Dangerous people, yes. He-"
Nothing in her explanation told her it was an illegal job he was doing, or what exactly it was that he was doing. She only made it clear that it had to be kept a secret. No one in school was to find out about any of this. She would talk to Amy too, but Irene had to keep an eye on her younger sibling.
Over the years, Irene began to come to her own conclusions. Her own understandings. She mused for long minutes before she went to sleep about what his 'job' was. She had dreams about the night he came home with a hole in his body.
Whenever she brought up that day, her mother would work around a proper answer. She was too busy. Sometimes she was honest and told Irene that she'd prefer to save the subject for another day.
"If you're the woman I think you are, I hope it didn't take you too long to figure it out," Sherlock interrupted.
"It didn't. Well, it was years later. When I was thirteen."
Sherlock let out a huff.
Irene narrowed her eyes. "Sorry, why is it that you're here again? You traveled miles to get here, stole a car, put in the effort to find a good disguise and then risked your life to save me when it would really serve you no benefit. Not to mention, you went behind your brother's back and lied to your best friend. What word was it that you used to describe such an ambitious effort to rip open your chest and show your heart? Senti-"
"It wasn't. Sentiment," Sherlock hissed.
"Past tense. You're using past tense. 'Was not' implies that it is now."
"I-" Sherlock sat up straight and glowered at Irene. He looked ready to debate about the semantics of his words till the end of eternity, but then, his expression changed. He sighed and relaxed in his seat again, as if tiredly resigning. "Don't you have a life story to finish?" The bite in his voice was benign, unlike a second ago. The attempt to sound flat was failing too.
"That was the exposition. The rest I don't want to go into detail over, though I will tell you what happened."
"That's fine."
Irene paused for a moment. Again, he got mistook the silence for hesitation.
"If you don't want to do this, I understand. I could go my whole life without knowing, seeing as the information is unlikely to shed any light on any of the cases I may be involved with, assuming they won't be involving you. The probability is against such a thing happening. In fact, I don't know why I asked you the question at all, other than out of curiosity..."
He trailed off at the last part, and she saw him swallow from the corner of her eye, saw his gaze shift back and forth, as if he wasn't sure what patch of stars to focus on despite their uniformity to the untrained eye. To Irene's understanding, he wasn't an astronomy expert.
"Sherlock- I'd like to tell you. It's not really a secret. And maybe you'd trust me more when you hear the end of it."
"What makes you think I don't trust you?"
Irene quickly turned her head to look at him because there was no tell-tale lilt of sarcasm to make the question sound anything but sincere. "I wouldn't trust me."
"Hmm. Well. Maybe I'm becoming more like John. He's a naïve puppy."
Irene closed her eyes, hearing Sherlock's words but focusing so carefully on what she was about to say next that she they didn't register. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. "My father was murdered when I was twenty. And so was my mother."
Her heart picked up its already-quickened pace when the words left her mouth, the building anxiety finally reaching its peak and making her body feel weak. Having built up the courage to say the hardest part, she rushed on, not looking at Sherlock because she didn't think she wanted to know his reaction. Not yet.
"Me and Amy, we were left alone. But the people my father worked for, they knew we knew too much. When we were kept under my father's wing, we didn't pose a threat. Now that he was dead, they knew something had to be done with us. They gave us an ultimatum. End up like your parents, or work for us. They weren't threatening us with murder, but they knew it was only a matter of time before someone would realize it would be best to kill us too. Seeing as they weren't a charity organization, they weren't just going to let us live an ordinary life with their protection. Instead, they offered us positions within their organization."
She paused to take another deep breath. She felt her hands shaking. The panic had evened out through her body now, simply leaving her feeling shaken and in need of a cold splash of water against her face.
"You accepted," Sherlock suddenly finished for her, after the pause had stretched on long enough to sound conclusive.
Somehow, this made it easier for Irene to find her voice again. "We had no other choice."
"There's always a choice."
"If you knew everything that happened, Sherlock, you'd know that there wasn't."
"That's not what I meant." He met her eyes just as she looked up at him, his own a soft green. "You had a choice, but your sister didn't. Her promised position was for some indefinite, unclear time in the future. Until then, it was only you who could accept."
"Yes. You're right."
"She was too young."
"Sixteen. Not sharp enough or experienced enough to get hired. It would be a while before she could involve herself. So I did it. For both of us."
Sherlock frowned for a moment, but it took him less than a few seconds to understand so that the confusion cleared away from his face. He sat forward in his seat again and hung his head. He shut his eyes and turned his face away. "Experienced," he repeated.
"Yes."
"You became a sex worker as a teenager?"
"Not a sex worker."
Sherlock let out an indicative sigh at the words, his shoulders slackening and his drumming fingers stilling at his knee.
Irene continued. "I became a first-class juvenile delinquent. I learned things that would help me cause political scandals along the way, though."
"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.
Irene looked at him, really looked, tried to make out his eyes in the dark, though it was difficult with his face half turned the other away. She thought she understood this man because he was a reflection of her. Because she admired him, was overwhelmed by him, spent many nights thinking about him. She made sure to analyze every detail about him, though perhaps not in the way he analyzed other people, and had come to the conclusion that he wasn't the emotionless machine people could easily mistake him to be. He was, in fact, far from it. He could act compassionate, in his own funny way. Coming to Karachi was one way. But she had never expected to hear the gentility he used in his voice just then. As if the revelation had hit some nerve.
Irene shifted in her seat and leaned towards him. "I...can't really explain. Maybe I needed a thrill, just like you need your cases."
Sherlock finally turned his head. His expression was surprisingly soft, though his eyebrows rose in a dubious way. "And had it nothing to do with the despicable circumstances in your household?"
"What makes you think they were despicable?"
Hesitantly, Sherlock answered, "I merely...observed. Then did what I normally do."
"Well, you're right. They were despicable."
He looked at her with forehead creased. Irene was still so perplexed by his tone that she began to wonder if he was willingly letting himself show concern.
Then, something in her head clicked. Perhaps he looked so sympathetic because his past haunted him, too. Maybe it was hard to keep his usual distant cool because he could, in some way, relate.
When he didn't reply, Irene said, "Though do tell me how you knew. I want to see if you have the story right."
"Of course I-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "That is, I am, for the most part, certain that I've correctly filled in the gaps in your story going by what you've already told me."
Irene smiled, his attempt to steer away from pretension catching her off guard. "By all means, Mr. Holmes, do show off. If you do a good job, I'll be flattered that you were such an attentive listener. Maybe I'll reward you."
"Mmm. Incentive. Should I really be interested? You don't look like you have much to offer me. Clad in tattered clothing, no money on your person…"
"Go on, tell me."
"I thought you didn't want to bring up the details."
"I don't. But it'll be different hearing it from you."
You won't be giving a personal account riddled with emotion. You won't sound pathetic.
In fact, he wouldn't once falter, his baritone voice communicating his thoughts clearly and precisely. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath through his nose before he began. Irene could almost feel the static from the electric green spark in his eyes as he prepared to make another deduction. When he began, the wind found its place in the night and whistled through the holes in Irene's clothes, making her shiver despite its slight warmth and drawing her closer to the only other source of heat for miles in the middle of the sandy, flat terrain. The moon and stars reflected in her eyes as she listened to Sherlock Holmes' unwavering, smooth voice. For a moment, she didn't think the world existed- only the two of them did, along with the immediate surroundings, which were not, of course, just a piece of land that was minuscule in comparison with what stretched beyond. The silly thought was fleeting- she suspected it came as a result of the hypnotizing blue glow of the moon and the romantic unfamiliarity of a foreign country and the dangerous attempt at escape- but it did leave her with a strange, melancholy calm in her chest. Mixed with the weight of talking about her past life, she was a mess of emotion and feeling, so she found comfort in watching Sherlock's full lips form words in more attractive ways than she could have ever done.