This is something I wrote a while back for @randombiochemist ‘s AU where Irene is the forensic pathologist at St. Bart’s instead of Molly. God I wish I could come up with a better title. Thank you again, darling, for letting me hijack it and hack it to pieces like the gleeful weirdo I am.
I know a lot of people won’t like it, but this is what Irene told me to write (blame her, lol), and it’s what I felt was in character for her in this universe. Don’t hate on me for it.
In this AU, Jim from IT still exists, and Irene works with him.
I thought at first maybe Jim was blackmailing her, but then i thought nah, Irene wouldn’t let him get away with blackmailing her for very long, so I thought, maybe shes a private contractor
Irene is something of a chaotic neutral in this situation. She works in the morgue as a “cleaner”. Like a money laundering business except she deals with dead bodies. She disposes of them for the government, the mob, etc.
And “Jim from IT” is just one of her clients.
Shes basically the go-to pathologist in London if you want to dispose of bodies that perished from dubious circumstances without leaving a trail that can be investigated. That’s why shes perfectly positioned in the morgue.
If the mafia kills someone and wants to dispose or hide the evidence, or maybe make a poisoning look like a stroke, they go to her. She’s the best in the business.
She’s not an “evil” character, but even in Molly’s role, I don’t think Irene would ever be “good”, she’d still find a way to unapologetically misbehave.
In one scene, Jim is talking about her work for him, and maybe Jim makes a casual threatening remark (something about making Irene into shoes):
Irene levels him a cool glance “Careful, Jim darling, I know where the bodies are buried. Literally.”
Jim smirks at her in amusement, his features transforming into a warped version of delight. “I must admit, that was a spectacular job you did with the Ambrosio cleanup. Inspired. I do wish you'd reconsider my offer and come work for me.”
Irene smiles slightly, recalling what an absolute mess Moran had made of the three men on her table last month. Brute, that Sebastian, lacking in any finesse whatsoever.
“It's a business, darling, and it's my business. That's the beauty of being a private contractor, I can still pick and choose my own clients.”
To Jim’s “offer” she responds with nothing more than a wave and a dismissive smile. “Besides, who would dispose of your dead bodies if I'm a dead body myself? Your little lapdog Moran can't fake his own death to save his life. Who would you go to? Perlmutter? He can barely tell the esophagus from the trachea, or ammonia from nitroglycerin.”
“But the thought of you wasting your considerable talents for those idiots at the MI6...” Jim shudders delicately and gives her a dramatic sigh, which Irene ignores until his tone changes into something more treacherous, more familiar.
"Speaking of which, I've heard you let a certain little detective run around your morgue?” Jim’s face is smiling, but Irene can see his eyes darken. “Naughty, naughty, honey."
Irene tenses minutely, but she keeps her tone and expression carefully neutral. “Sherlock? He's useful. Occasionally. But you know I like to keep my men on a tight leash.”
She can feel Jim scrutinizing her closely, even with the casual leer on his face. She meets his eye and gives him a playful look. “I like my distractions the same as you do. Life gets a little boring sometimes, as you well know. Why? Does he make you nervous, Jim?"
Jim eases off slightly, pulling away from her desk. “Let's just say I'd like to play a little Game. Introduce me?”
Irene feels her pulse jump slightly, and she narrows her eyes at Jim’s back as he walks away. “I know your games, Jim, dear. And you'd better return him to me nice and whole. Don't think I'll let him be your sloppy seconds.”
_________
By SorrowsFlower
Great, now I’m doing a rewatch again with this AU in mind. Aaand I’m thinking of how Sherlock would react when he finds out his favorite forensic pathologist (the main reason he comes back to St. Bart’s instead of anywhere else, even if he won’t admit it) is actually working with and is just as dubious a character as Moriarty.
This is an Adlock / Clexa / Supercorp AU, and there is no excuse for this AU other than my apparent compulsive need to make one GIANT crossover of my 3 most beloved OTPs.
Also, I know not everyone likes these ships (especially with all my experience as an Adlock shipper) but please don’t shit on my AU if you don’t ship them. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I’m really just putting this up because it just will NOT get out of my fucking head!!!! and I need to be able to focus again.
So, basically an AU where Lexa is an Adlock child. Title is from Sherlock’s whole Love is a “chemical defect found in the losing side”. Which is basically a variant of Lexa’s “love is weakness”.
I adore Irene Adler, and I can’t get it out of my head that she’s Lexa’s birth mother, especially since The 100 never actually shows Lexa’s parents or gives any background from before Lexa became Commander. Here’s my Irene in this AU:
Not too much of a stretch to see her as Lexa’s birth mother. Also, their personalities are quite similar. They both have a commanding presence. They’re both highly intelligent, ruthless, calculating, and make an art form out of compartmentalizing emotions. And they’re just both really badass. Also, CHEEKBONES.
So, here we go...
As in the show, 97 years after nuclear war ravaged the earth, and rendered it supposedly uninhabitable, there are 3 groups of survivors:
The Mountain People/Maunon, who live in Mt. Weather, a bunker facility where diplomats and high ranking officials were kept. Three generations on, this is where Irene, Sherlock, John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly all grow up together.
The Grounders, descendants of people who survived the apocalypse outside Mt Weather. In the show, the higher ups at Mt Weather kidnapped Grounders to use their blood (Harvest Project), since they have the immunity to radiation that the Maunon do not.
The Sky People/Skaikru, descendants of the people who survived the apocalypse in the space shuttle, the Ark.
Anyway, when Irene is in her early 20s, she and Sherlock find out about the Harvest Project, which was initiated by Mt. Weather’s President, Dante Wallace (in my hc, he was quite ruthless and cold as a young man, but became remorseful with age)
Irene distracts Dante Wallace, pretending to ally herself with him, while Sherlock investigates the experiments and tries to find out how to stop them without endangering their fellow Mountain people. Mycroft is part of the President’s advisory council and tries to deter Sherlock’s investigation.
Sherlock brings John and Mary into the investigation but doesn't tell them about’s Irene ruse because of course, John can't keep a secret. They both just think Irene betrayed them all by forming an alliance with Wallace.
Soon, rumors spread that Irene and Dante are lovers, which worsens this betrayal, and even Sherlock is affected by this.
Things accelerate when Irene finds out she's pregnant. Dante thinks the baby is his. Sherlock, plagued by doubt and jealousy, isn't sure what to think.
He thinks, and on some level, knows, that it's his. But there's that kernel of doubt - the grit in the lens - that says it's not. So he forces their hand and reveals to Dante that he knows about the Harvest Project.
This is extremely unfortunate because several months into the pregnancy, Irene discovers that the baby she's carrying has a genetic mutation.
In the show, the Grounders have a Commander, whose spirit they believe is passed from one Heda (Commander) to another. The Spirit/Flame is actually an AI that gets implanted in them
All Commanders, however, are born with black blood (they have to be, for the AI to work inside them). They're called Nightbloods / Natblidas.
During the course of the pregnancy, Irene (with Molly’s help) discovers that the baby is a Nightblood. Maybe a near miscarriage reveals this, when Irene starts bleeding black blood mixed with red, I dunno.
It's unprecedented, a child descended from Mountain people, having Nightblood. Irene knows that she can't deliver the baby inside Mt Weather, because the minute Dante and the others from the Harvest Project find out that Irene is growing a Natblida in her uterus, they'll want to experiment with her and the baby
Also, in my hc, carrying a Nightblood gives Irene an immunity to radiation (don’t ask me why, I have no idea what the fuck is going on in this AU). What this means is, unlike the other Mountain people (including Sherlock and Dante and the others), Irene can actually walk out of Mt Weather without suffering the effects of radiation
So, Irene reluctantly goes to Mycroft for help to escape Mt. Weather, and Mycroft reluctantly helps her (because it’s family, and the kid is his niece).
Irene flees Mt Weather and Sherlock is arrested. Outside the mountain, Irene meets a young native Grounder, Anya of the Trikru clan. I haven't thought up how yet, but she saves Anya's life. In return, Anya hides her until she gives birth.
^^(Though Anya would probably be much younger when she met Irene)
In the meantime, Dante has Sherlock arrested and wants to execute him, but Mycroft persuades him not to kill Sherlock, but imprison him instead
Dante then begins to hunt for Irene outside, and as he closes in on her, Irene begs Anya to take the Nightblood baby and hide her from the Maunon (the people from Mt Weather)
Before Irene is captured she gives Anya a sigil (from a necklace she got from her own mother) and asks her to give it to the baby.
It’s the one on Lexa’s forehead: she later wore it there when she was chosen as Heda
Anyway, Irene is captured but she's critically injured in the process and ends up in a coma. Mycroft tells Sherlock she's dead. He also destroys all evidence of the baby being a Nightblood, and for Sherlock's safety, all evidence of his investigation against the harvesting
John and Mary are effectively scared into silence when Rosie is threatened (yes, Rosie is in this). I’m thinking, maybe Mycroft told John that Sherlock was dead too, not just imprisoned, to deter him from investigating as well.
Outside the mountain, Anya takes the Nightblood baby to the Trikru clan, names her Lexa (Alexandria after her older sister), and when she's old enough, brings her before the present Commader so she can join the guild of young Natblidas
When Lexa gets older, Anya begins training her as a warrior, and Lexa becomes her Second.
There are 12 Grounder clans and they were all at war at the time young Lexa joins the guild of Nightbloods
When the Commander dies around the time Lexa is 11 or 12, she gets chosen as Heda when she beats all the other Nightbloods at a Conclave (literally a fight to the death in which she's the only survivor; this is canonical in the show, including Lexa’s age).
Upon her Ascension Day as Heda, Lexa begins to unite the 12 Grounder clans under a single Coalition.
Except when she's around 15 or 16, she meets this girl, Costia, and she falls in love. Lexa is utterly devoted to her
BUT one of the Clans, the Azgeda (Ice Nation) is resistant to Lexa's Coalition. The Ice Queen, Nia, kidnaps Costia, tortures her, beheads her and delivers Costia’s head to Lexa’s bedside.
This is where Lexa begins to see that "Love is weakness" and becomes hardened to emotions. Despite Costia’s murder, she extends an alliance to Queen Nia, because it will unite the clans and prevent further loss of life.
As in the show, the space shuttle, where the Sky People live, is running out of supplies and oxygen after almost 100 years in space. So to see if the Earth is inhabitable, they send 100 juvenile delinquents to Earth.
Long story short, once they land on earth, one of the Delinquents becomes the leader. Clarke Griffin:
But at some point, Clarke gets captured by people from Mt Weather, who try and experiment on her to see if they can use Sky People for the Harvest Project too
In Mt Weather, Clarke meets Anya (who was captured by the Harvest Project too). They form a reluctant alliance, and try to get out. While trying to escape, they discover the Harvest Project, as well as Irene. Anya recognizes her.
I don’t know how but Clarke manages to wake her up, and Clarke gets the message to Sherlock that Irene is alive and they all attempt to escape Mt. Weather
Unfortunately, Anya gets killed in the attempt. Before she dies, Anya tells Clarke about the Commander who was once her Second, and that she needs to build a truce with the Heda to keep her and the Sky People and the Trikru safe from Mt Weather
In the meantime, Lexa sends 300 Trikru warriors to neutralize the threat of the Sky People (I mean, from the Grounders' POV, a piece of the sky just dropped down in their lands, bringing 100 potentially dangerous strangers in their midst; Lexa has to answer that threat)
So, anyway, the Mountain People (Irene and company) strike a deal with the Sky People, to help them free all the people in Mt Weather (cos there were other Sky People there) in exchange for blood transfusions, to enable the Maunon (Sherlock and the rest, Irene is still immune), to survive outside until their bodies adjust to the radiation
And since there are both Skaikru and Trikru trapped in Mt Weather, Clarke approaches Lexa for a truce.
So in the show, their alliance is a very fragile one, Lexa and the Trikru being ruthless and distrustful of strangers for their own survival (their clan motto is Jus drein Jus daun "blood must have blood"). A lot of shit happens.
The Mountain People and the Skaikru think the Trikru are savages. But also there’s bad blood especially, between Lexa and the Mountain People because Mt Weather has been kidnapping her people and harvesting them for blood.
When Irene, Sherlock and the rest of the Mountain people first approach Lexa with Clarke to help them bring down Mt Weather with minimum casualties, there's a scene where Irene tells Lexa what happened. That she had a baby who was born a Nightblood, and that her hope is to find her daughter.
Irene immediately recognizes Lexa on their first meeting when she sees the sigil on her forehead. But Irene knows she can't tell Lexa the truth yet on their first meeting, because she wouldn't believe her. Also because of Lexa's animosity towards Mt Weather.
Instead, to prove that she had indeed given birth to a Nightblood, Irene slices her own hand open in front of Lexa to show the black blood mixing with her own red blood
This is older Irene, btw:
In the show, Clarke and Lexa grow closer as they plan their assault on Mt weather. They're basically teenage girls called to lead their people, with enormous responsibilities on their shoulders
Lexa, has been Heda longer than Clarke has been leading the Skaikru, so she offers Clarke advice. At times, the lessons she teaches Clarke are harsh and ruthless, but as she tells Clarke one has to make tough decisions to be a good leader, one her people look up to
One of my favorite scenes in the show is when she tells Clarke "The truth is, we must look into the eyes of our warriors every day and say, 'Go die for me'."
There’s a mutual respect between them and even if Clarke feels that Lexa's decisions are harsh, she knows they're right. That they have to make sacrifices in war for the greater good of their people
In the show, Lexa eventually betrays Clarke. On the night of their assault, Lexa and Clarke get separated, and one of the men in Mt Weather offers Lexa a deal, to get the Trikru inside out safely without casualties, if she'll deliver Clarke and the Skaikru to him. She took the deal, because it results in no casualties for her or her warriors or the Trikru hostages. As she says, Clarke would have done the same thing. Lexa leaves them at the Mt Weather, and Clarke is forced to irradiate everyone inside
I DO have a version where this happens, BUT for this AU, I prefer my other version, WITHOUT the betrayal because I just need to give my little baby gays a hug:
They develop a plan of attack that gets the Trikru and Skaikru out alive.
(I feel like with Irene and Sherlock's help in there too, they could achieve that). It helps that Mycroft is still inside and quite high up the chain of command in Mt Weather.
As a compromise, since they helped take down Mt Weather, Lexa spares them (Sherlock, Irene, Mycroft and everyone else who helped) and all the children. Everyone else she has killed in a giant pyre.
They begin talks to make Skaikru (and the surviving Maunon) the 13th clan in Lexa's Coalition.
Lexa takes Clarke and several of the Skaikru/Maunon delegation (including Irene and Sherlock) to Polis (the Coalition’s capital city) to seal the alliance.
Quite a few things happen in Polis.
First off, Lexa names Clarke the Ambassador for the Skaikru, and Irene the Ambassador for the Maunon. (The scene where Clarke kneels to Lexa, hell yeah, that’s happening).
THIS most definitely happens:
Also, shortly after this (because I keep wanting to spoil Lexa’s happiness), I have a scene where Irene tells Lexa the truth about her.
"That child I spoke of in our first meeting,” Irene’s voice is cautious. Quiet but firm. “The Nightblood child I bore and surrendered in exchange for her life..."
Lexa holds her breath. Everything freezes, and she knows what the Maunon will say even before she speaks the next words.
"Do you know the name of the Trikru girl I left her with?"
Lexa holds up a hand, to stem the flow of words that make dread settle in her stomach. But Irene forges on.
"Her name was Anya kom Trikru. She promised to care for my little girl. She promised to protect her with her life."
Lexa whirls around, dagger in her hand, its tip pressed against the older woman's throat before she has even finished speaking.
"Lies!" Lexa hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously. She has killed bigger prey than this slender Maunon with her fragile body unhardened by the harsh punishment of Trikru lands. "All lies!"
Irene’s eyes are calm, displaying the same unshakable certainty that Lexa so often exudes with her own gaze. "You can kill me, but you know the truth. Just as I knew it when I first saw you, sitting on your throne with that sigil I left Anya on your forehead. I was so proud to know you were my daughter, just as I am proud of you now..."
Lexa grits back tears as she presses the dagger's tip closer, but her tears are not summoned by affection or pride, but by denial. She all but spits out the next words at the older woman
"You lie! I am not Maunon!"
Sherlock interrupts them before Lexa can harm Irene, bringing news that an Azgeda messenger has come with a message from Nia.
The Ice Nation disagrees with the Skaikru/Maunon becoming the 13th clan, and even though they brought down Mt Weather, the Azgeda see it as a weakness on Lexa's part - her teaming up with Clarke and the Mountain People and the Sky People to accomplish this.
Also, her sparing some of the Mountain people is also seen by the Azgeda as weakness (since "blood must have blood")
Also, Queen Nia's always been out to destroy Lexa and wrestle control of the Coalition from her (which is why she killed Costia) so she's just looking for a way to ruin her
Nia sends some of her Azgeda soldiers to attack and kill Lexa. Lexa is shot in the chest with a gun, to make it seem as if it was a move from one of the Skaikru or the Mountain People (Grounders don't have guns) and she falls down a very high waterfall (no, not Reichenbach)
Everyone thinks she's dead. Including Clarke
(Because of course all Adlock children must "die" and come back to life at some point, otherwise their DNA is questioned)
Clarke is wrecked, after what happened to Lexa. But she knows she has to make sure that the Coalition and her people are safe.
In the show, Lexa trains her own guild of Nightbloods, to succeed her as Commander upon her death
In one version of this AU, Lexa's favored successor is an 8 year old Nightblood named Lena
(Because of course I need Supercorp in this as well)
Lena is Lexa's most promising Nightblood. She's a little prodigy, just like Lexa was. She has a sharp, strategic mind, she’s been training with her fellow Natblidas since she was a little girl and is quite mature for her age. Lexa sees a bit of herself in Lena, when she was that age.
I have a scene where Lena and Kara are playing together, along with the other Skaikru kids (Alex, Winn, and James. I’ve decided Brainy is a Mt Weather kid. Nia is Trikru and Sam is maybe Azgeda), and Lexa appoints Lena as her temporary successor in Polis before they attacked Mt Weather, which I might post later (this thing is getting too long as it is).
Upon Lexa's "death", Lena is appointed successor to protect Polis until the Conclave can begin, and a new Commander is chosen
But since little Lena doesn't have the Commander's Flame (the AI, which is still in Lexa's body), her power in Polis and the Coalition is fragile, so Clarke rushes to help her.
Lexa made all her Natblidas promise to honor her alliance with the Skaikru and the Mountain People, so Clarke has to protect Lena's place as the new Heda to secure it
Sherlock, Irene and John join the hunt to find Lexa's body, ostensibly so the Commander's Flame can be secured. But actually, Sherlock and Irene are still hopeful they can find Lexa alive (even though it seems impossible she could have survived the fall) and they bring John with them because he's a doctor
Molly and Mary stay behind to offer Clarke support and protection (respectively). Clarke decides to make a deal with the Ice Nation for safety of the Skaikru and the Maunon, as well as the rest of the Coalition.
Molly asks her why she's making a deal with the woman who had Lexa killed. Clarke responds "I'm doing what Lexa would have wanted. The same thing she did when her lover was killed by the Ice Nation. She would want her people to be safe."
Irene and Sherlock manage to find Lexa and rescue her from the waterfall. John has to dig the bullet out of her and stitch her up. He insists that she needs to rest, but Lexa is determined to go back to Polis. The other three accompany her.
Meanwhile, Clarke is attacked in another ruse by Nia, who knows that as Lena’s self-appointed protector, she is the biggest obstacle to the her takeover of Polis.
Basically, Lexa returns from the dead by saving Clarke SEE VID 1 (let’s just imagine those are Azgeda attacking her; I just need a badass return for my baby without actually KILLING her off):
After it’s revealed that Lexa has “come back to life”, she calls out Nia as a traitor and issues a challenge to end their conflict. Nia summons her son, Roan to fight Lexa for her. (Also, that scene where Lexa says “I am the Commander. No one fights for me.” oh yeah, that’s totally happening) SEE VID 2
VID 1
VID 2
Yeah, so Nia dies. Titus dies (cos fuck you Titus, I might just have Irene kill him). AND THAT’S IT. NONE OF MY BABIES DIE! LEXA IS HEDA AGAIN, LENA EVENTUALLY SUCCEEDS HER (at some point), KARLENA/SUPERCORP WILL EVENTUALLY BECOME A THING (that’s a whole ‘nother story, fuck) AND CLEXA CAN HAVE ALL THE SMUTTY SMUT THEY WANT WITHOUT ONE OF THEM GETTING KILLED OFF FIVE SECONDS LATER!
OH MY GOD, I finally got all of it out in one fucking long-ass post. At least I think that’s everything. I might post that scene with little Lena and Kara later, and then hopefully I will be rid of this AU for now. Congrats to you if you got this far down the rabbit hole. If you did, please tell me what you think, thanks!!!!!!!!
Now maybe I can get some work done. See y’all next time!
The entrance hallway at 221 Baker Street was empty when Sherlock walked in, devoid of Mrs. Hudson's usual bustling welcome and offer of tea. A mild disappointment to follow the much larger one Sherlock had received this morning with his last lead.
The new case he had been working on was not proving to be easy. The dead body found yesterday near Bethnal Green station had yet to be identified -- though Sherlock had a strong suspicion that he was a homeless man from Croydon by the state of his shoes and fingernails. He would utilize the talents of his own homeless network, but they had been surprisingly difficult to track all day. Even Wiggins was nowhere to be found.
Sherlock sighed as he shook off his coat. He was just about to hang it behind the door when he spotted the first irregularity. Two of the hooks on the rack were already occupied, both with children's coats -- Belstaff, both tailored miniature versions of his own: one a girl's size 6 and the other a boy's size 12.
He smiled. The girl was always small for her age -- took after her mother, that one -- but the boy had had a recent growth spurt. Any more and he was likely to be taller than his mother before he turned thirteen.
"Mrs. Hudson?"
There was no answer, and Sherlock ventured further into the house, noting further irregularities along the way -- a carelessly discarded bag on the floor behind the stairs, the Nikon D5600 he'd given the girl for her last birthday in its neat little purse on the table, an orchid in a pot near the east-facing window of the living room.
They'd come from the Azores, then. And by the looks of things, the Woman had stayed behind. It was unusual that she wouldn't come to see him or summon him, even for a day at the very least, when the children were in town. Which meant that Sherlock wasn't the only one who was busy this weekend.
Doing his level best to convince to himself that he wasn't disappointed, Sherlock moved off in search of his landlady. He found Mrs. Hudson snoozing on the kitchen table, next to a plate of biscuits and two cups of tea. The biscuits hadn't been polished off, which was another irregularity in itself since Nero loved Ginger Nuts.
Sherlock gently nudged his landlady awake. "Mrs. Hudson."
The old woman's eyes popped open and she blinked owlishly at him. "Oh! Sherlock. I must have dozed off."
"Mrs. Hudson, where are the children?"
"The children?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was thick and slightly groggy. "Oh! Well... Nero and I were just having tea. He was telling me about his new plant, and I must have nodded off. I was cleaning all morning, and I must have been more tired than I thought--"
"And Mercy?"
Mrs. Hudson straightened her blouse and started cleaning up the table, smiling at the mention of his little girl. "She said she was going upstairs to play with her new doll, the little dear."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He took one of the cups from the table and surreptitiously dipped his finger into it. The tea was cold.
"Are they both upstairs?"
Mrs. Hudson gave him a distracted smile as she took the cups and plates to the sink. "I'm sure they are, dear. I told them they could stay there and wait till you came back."
The last word was barely out of her mouth before Sherlock was bounding up the stairs two steps at a time. He hurriedly unlocked the door to 221B, but found the whole place empty, apart from the designer luggage and two pairs of children's boots, one pair smaller than the other, sitting behind the door.
"Nero? Mercy?" He called, wrenching doors open as he went around the flat. Every room other than the sitting room was devoid of any signs of his children. "Nero! Marciana!"
No answer.
Forcing down his panic, Sherlock raced back downstairs, grabbing his coat along the way. He fished his mobile out of the pocket, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's surprised voice calling out to him from the kitchen as he rushed out the door. He strode down the street rapidly, pulling a familiar number from his contacts.
The Detective Inspector answered on the first ring. Sherlock didn't even give him time for a greeting. "Lestrade. I need your help."
"Sherlock? Wha--"
"It's an emergency. My--"
Sherlock stopped short as he passed by the mouth of an alley a few blocks from 221B. Another irregularity. A rather glaring one, this time.
"Shelock?" Lestrade's confused voice issued from the phone as Sherlock lowered it from his ear. The other man was all but forgotten as Sherlock ventured farther into the alley.
"Sherlock, what’s going o--" Lestrade's voice cut off as Sherlock dropped the call and slipped the mobile back into his pocket.
There it was. A single scrap of white cloth lying beside a skip bin. Sherlock's heart thudded thickly in his chest as he picked it up.
It was a lace appliqué from a child's dress, ends frayed as if it had been torn off. Sherlock recognized the pattern from the dress Mercy had worn when he had met them in Florence last summer.
Sherlock's eyes rose to the skip, heart caught in his throat, fearing the worst despite his earlier suspicions. What would he find in there?
His hands felt clammy and his forehead was cold with sweat as he grabbed the edge of the lid. Sherlock was the farthest thing from a praying man, but he found himself silently begging as he jerked the lid up to reveal the contents of the skip.
Please... Don't let it be...
It was empty.
Well, not entirely. The skip was strewn with a few crates and the expected trash. But what mattered was the fact that his daughter's little body wasn't among the contents.
Relief flooded through Sherlock's system, making him feel weak and slightly ill. He let the lid fall and stepped away, the scrap from Mercy's dress still clutched in his hand. He took a moment to brace his hands on his knees and even out his breathing.
As he collected his bearings, a laugh and a tiny voice rang out from the other end of the alley. Sherlock's head shot up.
"Full house! I win!"
He recognized that voice. Mercy!
Sherlock rapidly straightened up and ran to the end of the alley. He turned round the corner, almost slipping on a discarded plastic bag in his haste, and stopped short at the sight that greeted him.
His six year-old daughter was sitting on a crate, her white dress spread out around her, her feet in beribboned little shoes dangling at least two feet off the dirty ground.
She was laughing in delight as she revealed her hand of cards, and her heels made little thumping noises as she swung her feet back and forth, as was her habit whenever she was sitting on any seat that was too big for her -- which was often, given her size. Her brother stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest, chewing his lip in amusement.
Mercy appeared to be surrounded by at least half his homeless network -- which would explain why Sherlock had been unable to find them all morning -- most of whom were throwing down cards and grumbling as they surrendered various items to a considerable pile at his daughter's feet, which included -- from what Sherlock could see -- money, several watches, two cheap mobile phones, six packets of cigarettes, three pocket knives, and to his surprise, a cat.
Sherlock was caught between the relief of seeing both his children unharmed, and the confusion as to what the hell was going on here.
Nero was closest to Sherlock and the first to see him. His face revealed a very familiar mixture of surprise and guilt upon seeing Sherlock. "Dad! We can explain..."
Mercy looked up from her winnings with a wide smile. "Daddy! How did you find us?"
Sherlock exhaled loudly and held up the scrap from her dress, and added, "You told Mrs. Hudson you were going to play with your new doll, when I know for a fact that you hate dolls, and the last one you had became the victim of a violent crime. If you're going to lie, Marciana, at least make the lie a believable one."
Nero snickered. "Amateur."
Mercy glared at him from her perch on the crate. "At least I'm not the one who lost the first five games."
Nero opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock cut him off, pinching the skin between his eyebrows.
"Would either of you mind explaining to me why you drugged Mrs. Hudson and snuck out of the house? To what end? So Marciana could steal from my homeless network?"
"I'm not stealing!" Mercy had the audacity to look affronted. Sherlock could feel a headache coming on. "I won them! And we were helping."
"Helping?" How was taking years off his life helpful?
"With your case, Dad." Nero volunteered, to commute the sentence he was sure to receive after all of this. "We found out the name of your victim."
"His name is Pete Marshall, Daddy. He lives down in Croydon. But Dot says he has a mum who lives in Bethnal Green." Mercy turned to one of his Irregulars, an older matronly woman who smiled fondly at her. "Right, Dottie?"
"Right," Dot nodded before turning to Sherlock. "Clever kids you got there, Mr. Holmes. 'Specially that little girl. Cleaned us all out. Took my cat too. Can we keep her, Mr. Holmes?"
At the mention of the cat, Mercy lit up and shimmied down from her perch on the crate. She landed with a smart tap of her neat little shoes, dislodging most of her precarious mismatched pile, and picked up said animal.
"Daddy, look what I won!"
Yes, that was definitely a stress headache forming right between his eyes. "We're not keeping it. Give it back to Dot, Marciana."
"But, Daddy, I won him! He's mine!" Mercy hauled the cat up to her chest, clutching it with both hands. She looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. He recognized that stubborn look, the one that very clearly said that his daughter was determined to have her way. "See, he has only one eye. His name is Polyphemus!"
"Actually, his name is Frank." Nero chipped in.
"You call him whatever you like, dearie." Dot chuckled unhelpfully, and Sherlock glared at her. "He's yours now."
"See, Daddy?" Mercy looked up at him with hopeful eyes.
"Mother won't have it in the house." Nero remarked offhandedly. "It's ugly."
"Your face is ugly!" Mercy rounded on him with a sharp glare, clinging to the cat ferociously, rubbing its fur to soothe it from Nero's teasing. She turned back to Sherlock with wide eyes, her expression changing from murderous to adorably beseeching in a disconcertingly short amount of time. "Please, Daddy?"
Oh, he knew that look well. And he knew his daughter. Once Marciana decided she wanted something, come hell or high water, she would find a way to get it, and woe betide anyone who stood in her way.
Wonder where she got it from.
"Please, Daddy?" Mercy asked again, tugging at the leg of his trousers, her blue-green eyes wide and her lower lip pushing out into a charming little pout. Damn. He never could say no to her.
"Fine!" Sherlock groaned and exhaled loudly. "Take the wretched thing. But leave everything else behind. No knives, Marciana! Dot, the address in Bethnal Green, if you please."
Dot laughed as she typed it onto Sherlock's phone. "Yes, sir."
Nero scoffed. "No fair! She always gets her way because she's the baby."
"I've half a mind to consider Dot's offer and let them keep you both." Sherlock muttered to himself as he shepherded both children out of the alleyway and onto the street. "And that cat--"
"Polyphemus." Mercy chimed in.
"-- Polyphemus -- won't be staying here. I won't have him coughing up furballs on my experiments. You'll have to be the one to tell your Mother about your newly acquired housemate."
"Yes, Daddy." Mercy beckoned him with a finger and Sherlock leaned down closer to her.
Mercy released one arm from Polyphemus and slipped it around Sherlock's neck. She kissed his cheek, and despite the annoyance of cat hairs now transferred onto his Belstaff, Sherlock smiled begrudgingly. "Thank you, Daddy."
"He's still not staying here."
By the time Mercy and Nero returned to Baker Street again six months later, Polyphemus was a permanent fixture at 221B.
_________
By SorrowsFlower
I know, it’s ooc. Sorry. I just want a fic of Sherlock and my babies.
The rules are as follows: Go to page 7 of your WIP, go to the seventh line, share seven sentences, and tag 7 more writer-bloggers to continue the challenge.
I was tagged by the lovely @equusgirl Hope this makes up for the other times you tagged me on meme stuff and I forgot :(
This one is from Chapter 5 of my Adlock fic Beautiful Children.
"Spiro!"
The command, sharp as a whip, cracked the tension and both boys turned toward the Girl, who glared at them from across the deck. Spiro, who had still not backed away from Sherlock, hesitated.
The Greek boy was still itching for a fight, Sherlock could tell. But Irene stared him down, waiting, her hard blue eyes piercing the lesser man with a cold glare.
Sherlock kept his stare forward, not acknowledging his offender -- but he could feel Spiro wavering, vacillating between his venom toward Sherlock and his need to please the Girl. Irene lifted her chin, arching a demanding eyebrow at the boy, who finally broke under her hard stare.
With one last snarling frown at Sherlock, Spiro retreated -- an attack dog dismissed by its mistress.
I’m tagging basically anyone else who wants to share their work. :D
Adlock AU, in which Sherrinford is the middle Holmes brother.
DISCLAIMER: Irene may seem ooc in this, or at least closer to ACD canon in personality than BBC canon.
The funeral was on a rare cloudless Sunday morning.
The wind was crisp and smelled of freshly-mown grass and overturned dirt from the cemetery outside. The candles and incense gave off a smokey, slightly heady aroma that filled the entire church. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the casket and the veritable mountain of flowers beside it with a myriad of colors.
The church was so packed, one almost couldn’t see the casket. Everyone had come to pay their final respects to the beloved novelist, Sherrinford Holmes. The handsome, charismatic weaver of tales who, just three weeks before his untimely death, had been dubbed “a literary genius” by the New York Times, and “this generation’s Ian Fleming” by the Guardian.
The whole absurd tableau was so perfect, it made his brother feel sick.
Sherlock Holmes stood, unseen, in the shadows of the alcove behind the pews. Alone and unnoticed, he blended in with the mourning crowd, as was his intent.
His mother, eyes rimmed red with sorrow etched into every line of her face, had implored him to come today -- to sit with the family in the front pew, to bid one last farewell to his favorite brother. Which, of course, was the reason why he was hiding here in the very back where his family couldn’t see him.
Sherrinford, of all people, would understand.
Sherrinford had always been known to everyone -- even to their parents, though they would never admit it -- as “the better brother”. Always the best at everything he did; Brilliant, precise, athletic, always sharply-dressed, with an irresistible smirk that made every woman -- and more than a few men -- in the vicinity melt with adoration. Sherrinford was the silver-tongued prince, the golden child of the Holmes family.
To Mycroft, five years his senior, and well on his way to becoming the British government by this time, the comparison had less of an effect. But Sherlock, being the youngest and closest to him in age, had always borne the brunt of his older brother’s legacy.
As a child, Sherlock had seen Sherrinford as a shining demi-god who could do no wrong, and worshipful little Sherlock had both treasured the moments when his Apollonian brother had deigned to spend time with him, and aspired to be like him when he grew up. By the time he was a teenager, Sherlock had stopped trying.
Still, there always seemed to be a patina of easy superiority and prestige around his brother that Sherlock could never achieve. And though he and Sherrinford always got along better than he and Mycroft did, it was this yawning gap of expectations and pressure that kept Sherlock away.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he’d maintained his distance.
.... And there she was. Sitting in the front pew, between his mother and Mycroft, her face pale and cold, like a marble Madonna.
She had lost weight, Sherlock observed. Her black dress was elegant, immaculate and tailored, but he could see where it hung from her slim frame. Her face was tight and drawn, and the usual clever sharpness in her eyes had been diluted somewhat by sadness and fatigue.
Still she stood erect in front of the casket, unbowed by grief. Something in his chest ached as he watched her, as if it had been hollowed out. It might have been his own grief, it might have been something else. But it came hand-in-hand with the guilt that clawed the pit of his stomach every time he looked at her.
He couldn’t do this. Not today, of all days.
The funeral mass was about to end, and mourners would be spilling out of the church. The pallbearers lifted the casket -- Mycroft, with his wan, apathetic face, and his father, with his hunched, defeated back, at the lead. His mother broke into a fresh bout of weeping, sobbing into her handkerchief. The youngest Holmes brother was notably absent.
Without letting any of them see him, Sherlock slipped soundlessly out of the church. He was craving a cigarette, and he lit one far enough that Mycroft and his mother wouldn’t detect it. He took a deep drag, and let it fill his lungs, as if the cloud of smoke could somehow fill the great gaping hollowness in his chest.
Sherlock watched as the mourners crowded to the newly-dug grave in the family plot. She followed the casket, unspeaking.
He could still remember the first time they met.
It was as though he had been struck by lightning. The moment her eyes had found his and saw through his disguise, recognition sparkling in that translucent gaze, it was as if a current had passed between them.
“Disguise is always a self-portrait...”
She had seen through his disguise within seconds -- the new violinist in the orchestra for the theatre production she was in, replacing the old violinist who had mysteriously gotten “sick”.
“You didn’t poison him, did you?”
He had smiled, the first and last time he ever did in her presence, one corner of his lips quirking upward. “Just a little bit.”
And when she had laughed, a thrilling, delighted sound, he had known in that moment that he was in danger of losing to this woman.
“I knew who you were the moment I saw your watch. Besides, Sherrinford told me you play the violin.”
The mention of his brother had brought home the reason why he had been there in disguise in the first place -- to observe Sherrinford’s new wife. The woman who had secured his brother’s affections in a whirlwind romance, and encroached on their family without any of them knowing.
That had been two years ago.
Today, she stood at his brother’s fresh grave, and he watched her as he always had since that day he met her -- from afar.
He waited until all the others had gone, and the crowd dwindled down to his family. He let his mother glimpse him for a second as she and his father drove away -- just enough to ensure that she wouldn’t bombast him with a diatribe tomorrow for not attending his own brother’s funeral.
Mycroft went next. Just before he left, he stopped a few yards away from the tree Sherlock was leaning against. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course.
“Well, it looks like it’s just you and me left, brother mine.”
Sherlock blew a puff of smoke into his face. “Piss off, Mycroft.”
“Charming.” Mycroft pursed his lips into a dour smile, but Sherlock noticed his eyes flick from him to the lone figure standing at the family plot, then back to Sherlock. His only remaining brother wisely said nothing more, merely climbed into the car where his assistant was waiting.
As the black car pulled away, Sherlock discarded his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
He should go.
This was exactly the sort of situation he was better off staying away from. The reason why he had seen his brother so infrequently in the past couple of years.
Before he could leave, however, he couldn’t resist one last look at her.
She stood silently at his brother’s grave, unmoving. Her face was perfectly still, perfectly composed. Her eyes were distant and glassy. It was almost as if her body was here, but the rest of her had followed Sherrinford wherever he was.
He should go.
Almost against his will, his steps shifted, and his legs carried him closer to her. Closer. Closer. Until he was almost standing behind her. But she remained oblivious of his presence.
He stretched out his hand, fingers just millimeters from her elbow. His usually steady hands trembled slightly. Just before he could touch her, he stopped, remembering whose grave it was they were standing on. He pulled his hand away, but in a quiet voice, he said her name.
Lestrade took one look at the strange assembly in the living room of 221B and his jaw dropped. He saw Irene sitting in Sherlock’s chair, perfectly composed and quite unharmed, and his face turned a rather nasty shade of purple. Sherlock opened his mouth to head off the inevitable explosion, but Lestrade got there first.
“Oh, you bastard!” Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, glaring severely at him, since he couldn’t glare at Irene. “So this is why you wouldn’t take the case? ‘She’ll turn up’, you said. ‘Probably in a ditch’, you said. ‘Cause a nice little international incident’. You prick! I’ve been scouring all of London for her for the past 48 hours! I’ve had officers on standby, tapping phones for a ransom call, and you’ve had her here all this time????”
“Well done, Lestrade.” Sherlock shot him a sly, unfazed grin. “I knew you’d get here eventually. Took you longer than I’d hoped, to be honest. Bit disappointing for the Yard, but well...”
“Mycroft told me!” Lestrade bellowed, face still somewhat purple. “He’s been on the phone with her father all day, trying to keep him from starting a war. I’ve had her security detail on my arse since yesterday, and there’s a pack of reporters outside your door!”
“Yes, well aware of that, thank you.”
Sherlock's face remained calm, but he shot a look at Irene sitting across from him. She, too, seemed to be outwardly collected, but he saw the minute tightness around her eyes, the tension at the corners of her lips. Her body language remained loose and relaxed, but her fingers contracted ever so slightly, digging into the armrest of his chair.
Mycroft... He would murder his brother the next time he saw him. On the one hand, he supposed he should be grateful Mycroft had bought them an extra day before sending Lestrade. But on the other, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if it was Mycroft who had sent the press to their door as well, just to teach them both a lesson.
“Thank you for your concern, Detective Inspector.” Irene stated coolly, the rich, cultured tones of her voice making Lestrade shift a bit, disarmed by the charming smile she sent his way.
Sherlock thought it was distinctly unfair that Lestrade was angry at him, but not at her. She was, after all, just as complicit in her absence as he was. But then again, it was impossible to resist her, Sherlock himself was proof, and Lestrade was only human. Irene’s smile never faltered. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll be happy to let you escort me to the consulate.”
Lestrade bowed -- bowed -- in Irene’s direction, making Sherlock chuckle. The detective inspector glared at him one last time before heading toward the stairs.
Irene rose from his chair and Sherlock followed suit. She exchanged small niceties with everyone else, polite goodbyes and promises to stay in touch that would likely never happen. Sherlock refused to listen, and instead headed into the alcove by the stairs, her coat in his hand.
She joined him not a minute later, and he held the coat out to her silently. When she slipped her arms into the coat, she allowed his hands to linger over her shoulders and arms under the pretext of smoothing out invisible wrinkles they both knew weren’t there.
He could feel the tension that had been gradually building in her muscles the closer they got to the moment of goodbye, tension that had been absent over the past 48 hours.
When they could no longer pretend, Irene slipped quietly away from him and his arms dropped to his side. She gave him a wry smile, her ‘public’ smile. "Well... It's been a lovely little holiday, darling, but I’m afraid duty calls.”
Sherlock’s hands clenched and unclenched awkwardly at his side. He was aware they had an audience. From the living room, he could see the others -- John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson -- trying not to seem as if they were eavesdropping and failing miserably. From the bottom of the stairs, Lestrade was shifting uncomfortably, trying to keep out of sight of the reporters outside.
The unrelenting clicks of the cameras and the rising voices outside disturbed him. As she turned to go down the stairs, Sherlock caught her wrist. He debated even asking, but his fingers unerringly sought her pulse and found it to be elevated, and the question slipped out anyway.
“Will you be alright?”
Irene turned toward him, and though she wasn’t offended by the question as he thought she might be, the smile she shot him was teasing. One eyebrow raised, she asked “Are you worried about me?”
He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on her, and his hand over her pulse. When Irene realized he was serious, all the teasing disappeared, and something shifted in her eyes. She moved closer and lifted her hand, letting one finger stroke gently down his cheek. He leaned unconsciously toward the feather-like caress.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes...” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She, too, knew they had an audience, and while neither of them really cared, he knew that she was just as selfish and greedily protective of the intimacy between them as he was. “How perfectly sentimental of you...”
There was just a touch of teasing in her eyes as she kissed him on the cheek, careful not to let her lips touch his. Resisting temptation so as not to make the withdrawal worse.
It took all of Sherlock’s restraint not to turn his head to catch the kiss, to take it further, make it last. Instead, he focused on preserving everything else: the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her, the fit of her body against his. He hadn’t known how vital it was until she pulled away.
From the bottom of the stairs, Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly, and Irene disengaged herself from Sherlock, pulling out a pair of sunglasses from her purse as she did.
With a deep breath that he echoed, she slipped the sunglasses on and that familiar icy smile appeared on her face. As she walked gracefully down the stairs, her body language shifted from the careless languor of the past two days to the carefully constructed poise of her daily demeanor.
Lestrade opened the door for her, and she walked out into the sea of reporters outside 221 Baker Street with her head held high. As the door closed behind her, Sherlock pushed past the others and sprinted to the window, careful to keep himself hidden from the reporters below.
He watched her as she got into Lestrade’s car and shut the door, hiding her partially from his view. Still, he watched as the car pulled away from the mass of reporters. He watched the silhouette of her receding as the car made its way up the street. He watched even when he almost couldn’t see her anymore, and the car turned the corner and disappeared completely from sight.
She never looked back.
____________
By SorrowsFlower
Ugh. Just take me out back and shoot me. Seriously, I can’t believe my writing has gotten this bad.
Adlock AU, where Sherrinford is the middle Holmes brother
DISCLAIMER: Irene may seem ooc in this, or at least closer to ACD canon in personality than BBC canon.
A/N: Enjoy ;)
It was a minor miracle that the thud of tangled bodies hitting the wooden door didn’t wake the whole house. The sound, however, went unnoticed under cover of harsh, heavy breathing and soft moans.
"Oh God...” She gasped into the dusty air of the library, as his teeth found the soft, vulnerable triangle between her neck and collarbone. A particularly sensitive spot, it seemed. He lingered, teeth nipping with just enough of a sharp edge to make her fist her hands in his hair.
They stumbled inside, shedding clothes with increasing urgency. They were making too much noise, but fuck, he didn’t care. The whole world could walk in on them in here, but he wouldn’t give a damn. He abandoned her neck and sought her mouth for a deep, drugging kiss that made his head swim.
“Desk.” She panted into his mouth, peeling off his shirt, just as he pulled up the material of her dress. The fabric was silky, but its smooth, luxurious texture was forgotten under his frantic hands as he pushed it up. Her legs hitched around his hips and he lifted her onto the desk where he had spent so much of his childhood, reading and studying. His mother would consider what they were doing to it now tantamount to sacrilege, but hell, who was he to deny Irene Adler?
There was no time to dispense with all clothing. He was too keyed-up from the delicious torture of watching her from across the table at dinner, her stilettoed foot trailing up his leg, while his family carried on with their inane chatter, entirely oblivious.
Clothes were pushed aside without ceremony, and without breaking the kiss, he pressed into her. She moaned into his mouth, her breath hot and heavy against his lips, and he gripped her thighs with desperate fingers. God, she felt amazing...
Her breath came in short gasps as their hips rolled together, the repressed excitement and hunger that had built up all evening demanding a rapid, greedy pace. He pulled away from her mouth to groan into her shoulder, hips snapping, hard, into hers. The desk beneath her groaned in protest, but he didn’t care. He could feel her tightening around him, her whole body demanding, pushing. Close. So close...
His right hand released her leg and found her clit, pressing hard. Her hand clenched around his hair, and she cried out, his name exhaled from her lips in a sound that was half-moan, half-gasp.
“Oh, God...! Sherrinford...”
He followed quickly, hips stuttering almost violently into hers. He had enough presence of mind left to pull out quickly at the last moment, spilling into the tight, hot space between them.
His forehead fell against her shoulder, and all his breath left him in a rush. When he had strength enough to speak, he breathed a small chuckle into her skin.
“We should have dinners with my family more often if it has this effect on you.”
That made her laugh, pushing him playfully off of her, and he helped her rearrange her clothing. As they fixed themselves and the poor desk where he had written his first story, Sherrinford noted a small, seemingly insignificant detail that had escaped his notice earlier -- hardly surprising when his insanely attractive wife was all over him.
They had forgotten to close the door.
...
“Irene...”
At the sound of her name, Irene looked up, turning her head toward the familiar voice. She heard more than felt Sherlock’s presence behind her as she stood beside her husband’s fresh grave.
It was as if she had been in a haze these past few days -- a thick, stuporous anaesthetized miasma that shifted only vaguely as mourners, Sherrinford’s family, friends and fans limply clasped her hand, kissed her cheek, and offered paltry condolences that couldn’t penetrate the numbness around her.
She couldn’t feel anything.
None of this seemed real. It seemed impossible to her that from now on, when she woke up, his side of the bed would be empty. That his face would no longer smile at her from across the table. That she’d never be able to kiss him, that she’d never get to feel his touch again. Her mind couldn’t seem to process that Sherrinford was --
Steeling herself, Irene mustered a smile for her husband’s brother. "I didn’t think you would come.”
Sherlock shifted, looking away. He stood uncomfortably behind her, hands shoved into the pockets of his Belstaff coat. His tension was palpable, even to Irene.
Looking past her own numbness, Irene recognized what it had taken for him to come here.
Sherrinford had told her how close the two of them had been when they were younger. Over the past two years, however, that relationship had become somewhat strained, and Irene wasn’t naive enough to think that she wasn’t part of the reason for that.
Sherrinford’s brothers had never warmed to her. His father and mother adored her, but his brothers... They were tricky, these Holmes men.
With Mycroft, it was apparent from the very beginning that it was not going to be an affectionate relationship. As Irene had once described to her friend and former lover, Kate, when she had first met Sherrinford’s brothers, “every word out of Mycroft’s mouth was a secret wrapped in a lie.” And disgruntled at having his questionable nature so exposed to her, Mycroft knew well to steer clear of Irene.
But Sherlock... things were less clear-cut with him. It was obvious that he didn’t like her. But the reason behind his dislike was not. He had studiously avoided her presence since that night she had seen through his disguise at the theatre. On the rare occasions that he could be forced to spend time with her, he was terse, agitated, and he barely spoke to her.
With any other person, Irene’s first reaction would have been to draw him out, tease him, her mischievous streak rising up to meet the challenge of such a taciturn personality just begging to be played with.
But Sherlock never gave her the chance, always taking every opportunity to leave her presence as soon as possible.
At first, she’d thought his dislike was a reaction to her sudden and unexpected marriage to his brother. After all, given Sherrinford’s fame, his considerable assets, his reputation as a ladies’ man, and the fact that they had barely known each other two months before Sherrinford had proposed, it was inevitable that people -- especially his family -- would raise their eyebrows.
But Irene had made her name in theatre and film long before she had met Sherrinford, dispelling the notion that she had married him for his fame. And God knows she didn’t need his money. Theirs was no marriage of convenience, and Irene had made that clear from the very beginning.
Still, the youngest Holmes brother remained elusive, and his visits to see Sherrinford had become far and few between.
And so seeing him here, at her husband’s funeral, despite his obvious discomfort around her, was not only highly unusual, it was practically unheard of. The least Irene could do was shake herself out of her numbness to acknowledge his presence. She touched his arm lightly, but when Sherlock stiffened, she withdrew her hand.
“Sherrinford --” the name caught in her throat, and Irene blinked rapidly, trying to collect herself. “... He would have been glad you came.”
Sherlock’s jaw clenched as he looked down at her hand, then flicked his gaze away, staring down at the dirt now covering his brother’s casket.
“He’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”
As he looked down at the grave, his dark hair fell forward over his face, and Irene was struck forcibly by how much he looked like Sherrinford.
This was not new to her. Both brothers shared the same dark curls, pale complexion and prominent cheekbones. Sherlock’s features were less angular and austere-looking than her husband’s, but Sherrinford’s face was more used to smiling, especially around her. Sherlock was slightly taller than Sherrinford, but both had approximately the same build.
How strange that even though she had noted these physical similarities before, it still shook her now, looking at Sherlock.
It hurt. God help her, it hurt to look at him.
... And it was the first thing she had felt in days.
Irene turned away, and they stood at the grave for a long moment without speaking. Sherlock kept his hands buried in his pockets, his face partly hidden by his scarf. He stared down at Sherrinford’s casket, as though trying to see his brother there. Irene did the same, a part of her vaguely wondering how a human being -- one as brilliant and vital as Sherrinford Holmes -- could be reduced to nothing more than an empty shell in a wooden box.
Their tense silence was interrupted by the arrival of her car. Her driver parked just beyond the little hill, waiting for her. Sherlock saw the car, and without a word of goodbye, turned his coat collar up and began his familiar retreat from her.
The stuporous haze was still there, still threatening to suffocate Irene with its anaesthetic fingers... but somehow knowing that there was someone who had loved Sherrinford as much as she had -- who, perhaps, felt the same way she did now -- helped ease some of the numbness.
“Sherlock?”
The retreating figure stopped, reluctantly frozen a few yards away from her. He looked ready to bolt, but he turned his head very slightly toward her.
“I was thinking -- Sherrinford’s things are still at the flat,” Irene’s voice was stronger this time when she said her husband’s name. She took a deep breath. “Would you like to come over tomorrow and pick some of them up?”
Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. She could see the muscle in his temple twitch, but he was otherwise still. Finally, he nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
By SorrowsFlower
If you wanted to hit me after that little nsfw scene, I did my job right. LOL.
He kept the photograph, along with the letter, neatly pressed within the small book. It sat in his shelf -- filed, secure and contained -- amidst the various biographies and references, to be kept there until work required its reappearance.
And that, he had decided, was the end of that.
Yet weeks later, while perusing his indices for a case involving tobacco ash, he found his hand reaching for the small bound book instead.
Why he should be reading it when he had more pressing matters to attend to, he couldn’t say. The case was closed. There was no more information to be gleaned from within her letter, or from the photograph itself. The Woman’s face stared at him with condescension, and just a touch of mischief, between the pages of the book. He snapped the book shut and slid it back into its place.
It did not stay there for long. When Watson was out, he found himself reaching for the book and the photograph, absentmindedly at first, then with increasing urgency, and a mild sense of guilt -- as if he were engaging in something illicit or sinful -- with every encounter.
It was as if the Woman within refused to be contained inside the book and shelved. He should have known, truly, that she was simply too much -- too clever, too real, too unsolvable a mystery -- to be boxed into a single photograph, a simple footnote.
Every time he opened the book and stared at her face within, studied her handwriting, it seemed to him that she came alive and taunted him. And yet, he could not leave it alone. She would not let him.
The next morning, he packed his luggage. Unwilling to leave the photograph which had so enslaved him, he plucked the item from its home in the shelf, and without thinking about it, he placed it within his watch.
With a hurried goodbye to his landlady, Sherlock Holmes set off to Montenegro.
