Who: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes What: Brunch Where: Manchester’s, Summerbridge When: Saturday, July 1, 10:30 am Warnings: TBD Status: On-going
Shortly after her conversation with Mycroft, Irene had called to make reservations for her brunch with Sherlock. Of course, she knew that with a bit of persuasion, she would have her way. Granted, it had gone way easier than she had expected, but then again, she should have expected it, given whom had told her the proper place in the first place. While not as adept as the Holmes brothers in reading people, she had her own ways of ferreting out information, and thus managed not only getting a reservation (‘the name’s not important, you’ll know who it is when I arrive’), but also ensuring that it was secluded, so as not to be intruded upon by the masses.
It was as much for her sake as her brunch companion, given the likely discussions they were to have. Namely one Moriarity, and of course the ever so daunting problem of one Dr. John Watson.
Arriving a full 10 minutes early, she waited outside, looking around, but of course she wouldn’t be able to see whom she was looking for, oh no, Mycroft would have made certain of that. Any eyes and ears he had, if they were already there (she was betting they were) would not be so easily noticed. Exiting the taxi, she strode in, her usual in charge manner in place, informing the maitre ‘d who she was, and that she had a reservation. Once seated, she ordered a vanilla chai while waiting for her companion.
Sherlock arrived a minute late wearing his usual suit, sunglasses, and sipping what looked like a caramel mocha frappuccino. It was less elaborate than the disguise he'd worn when meeting Irene that first time, but it was a performance all the same. She'd see through it, of course, but it wasn't for her. This time, Sherlock needed a defense for himself to guard against what he anticipated would be a ... difficult conversation, to say the least.
"You look well for someone dead," Sherlock commented idly, taking the seat across from her. He flipped the sunglasses up to perch atop his head and flicked his gaze over Irene to observe whatever details he could. As usual, it wasn't very much at all. But he could at least offer her the information she'd clearly been thinking about. "The bus boy is one of Mycroft's. So is the woman sitting at the table to our far left. There's likely someone outside as well, but I didn't bother checking."
Irene merely nodded. Of course Sherlock would suspect Mycroft’s involvement. “I had figured that anyone outside would be too hard to notice,” she said. And there was no need to mention that there were likely countless wireless microphones and cameras recording everything they did and said. “At least for me, at least. My powers of observation are not quite the same as both of yours.” Although, from what she could tell, at least they were more attuned to certain things. But perhaps that was more to the fact that Sherlock was too close to the problem, and couldn’t see what she did. Or was in denial. It was always difficult to tell with Sherlock. “And I suppose I should thank the powers that be that watch over me, even in death.” Of course, her first death was something that he either suspected, or happened to discover by trailing John. The second… she truly did not know how he happened to be there when he was most needed.
That wasn’t what they were here to discuss though. And, given the nature of the subjects, one was quite preferable to the other. Especially for a starter. “So, tell me, Mr. Holmes. How is it that with your powers of deduction, you can not see what I do. Or is it that you do, and are simply ignoring it?” There was plenty of evidence, after all. She’d certainly pointed it out in slightly subtle and off-hand ways. Was he unable to connect the dots, or refused to do so? That was the mystery. “You say I’m meddling, but really, something clearly must be done. The poor boy is quite miserable, and I’m not certain he even realizes that he is or why. And you’ve done nothing about it yet?”
It was less the fact that Sherlock suspected Mycroft's specific involvement and more that he simply assumed Mycroft was always involved in his affairs. He would be surprised to learn that his brother had known about Irene's arrival some time ago and didn't think to tell him. But his current issues with Mycroft weren't why Sherlock had come, and he heaved a sigh when Irene started on the topic he'd hoped she might avoid. No such luck.
"You've misinterpreted. He's miserable because I faked my own death, not because he's nursing a crush. There's a difference." Sherlock sipped his frappe, seemingly calm despite how conflicted he felt about all this. In truth, there were days when he thought John might return his feelings, but those moments were fleeting and always superseded by the choice he'd made that day on the roof. There was so much between them now. And he wasn't about to risk their friendship over it. Not when he couldn't tell where they even stood on that front.
Well, that was certainly not something that she’d expected to hear, the surprise slipping through her normally cool and collected facade. “I’m flattered,” she replied. “Of both your misreading me and your copying me.” There was a story there, she was certain of that, but that was for another time. “While I’ve no doubt that what you say is true, I know that my… interpretations, as you put them, are indeed quite correct. Somewhere in there, you know they are too, you just have to be shown them for some reason.” Taking a sip of her tea, she set the cup down, fingers idly playing along the curved handle. “You no doubt recall our earlier conversation in which I implied a certain reasoning to a conversation with Dr. Watson. Something that you so easily brushed aside as circumstantial. Allow me to go back further than that. Do you recall our first meeting, Sherlock? How we were rather rudely interrupted? You’re words were something to the effect that ‘Dr. Watson doesn’t know where to look’. My reply being of course that he knew exactly where to look. Did it fail your notice where his glance happened to fall? And if that were not enough, take into account my comments when I called both you and Watson out on your little masquerade. Tell me, what was it I said, Sherlock?” Her words were of course well known to her, and she knew that Sherlock would remember them as well. But having him say it? Maybe that would help him realize the truth.
“You, I’ll admit, I’m still not certain about. Clearly you have enough interest to take notice of what was presented before you, though perhaps only insofar as you take notice of anything. Clinical and detached. But Dr. Watson? Clearly he has tendencies that he either does not recognize, or is afraid to recognize. I’m just trying to get him to see that. Given that someone else hasn’t yet.”
Sherlock stared at Irene intently when surprise actually registered on her face. It wasn't an expression he'd seen from her very often, and although he certainly hadn't wanted to copy her methods, Mycroft had made a convincing enough argument when they were already pressed for time. Now he was dealing with the fallout, and for some bizarre reason, Irene seemed motivated to help. That made him suspicious. His eyes narrowed as she continued, harkening back to when they'd first met.
"'Somebody loves you,'" Sherlock replied, easily able to recite their entire conversation if need be. But he didn't continue. There was no need when they both knew how the rest went, even if Irene was still fooled by the false front of 'clinical and detached' he presented to keep people at arm's length. If she knew just how deeply he felt things — how riddled with anxiety and stress he was — she might not find him interesting anymore, which was what Sherlock thought of everyone, including John. Especially John.
"I know why you think you're correct," he said, shooting the waiter a look that immediately sent the poor man in the other direction. "What I don't know is why you feel the need to intervene. How does this benefit you?" Sherlock leaned his elbows on the table and observed Irene, equal parts annoyed by this intervention and just a little bit relieved. He'd spent so long convincing himself that John couldn't possibly feel the same that it felt good to finally hear someone say the words out loud. Whether he believed them quite yet had yet to be seen.
Irene merely nodded. Both of them would be able to recite it verbatim, thus there was no further need to, at least for the moment. John, she knew, but Sherlock…. Now there was the issue. He was the one that no matter how many times she thought she had him figured, would completely throw her for a loop. Her interest in him was of course, purely professional, given that he was the one person to both infuriate and inspire her. They were equals, yet opposites. How close was that comparison, though? That was the question. “No, I know I’m right,” Irene countered. “At least insofar as John is concerned. The unknown element here, is once again, you. You I can’t figure out. After all, you knew where to look, it’s just the manner that you did. Close enough to notice what I was telling you, yet… not as one would expect someone else to were they in that position. I’m curious if you truly are capable of feeling anything, or if you insist on lying to yourself.”
She laughed lightly before taking another sip of her tea. “What, you don’t think I could have changed, that not everything is ‘how can this benefit me’ anymore? Oh, very well. You’re right, Sherlock. A tigress can’t change her stripes, no matter how hard she tries. Although, this doesn’t merely benefit me. Mycroft has informed me that there are certain things that I am unaware of yet that happened between John, Moriarty, and yourself. And if this remains as it is, it’s a distraction. One that Moriarty will use to his advantage. Granted, he will either way, but it’s more dangerous if it isn’t cleared up between the two of you. So, either admit that I’m right and see if you have a heart and deal with things, or be your usual self and keep everyone away and deal with what he’s feeling. I’ve got enough to worry about with not knowing what’s going on with someone I care about, I don’t need the same from you two as well, if indeed things are about to go to shit.”
Quite honestly, Sherlock was surprised to discover Irene seemed to have just as much difficulty sussing him out as he did her. He'd assumed it only went one way — that for all his observational skills, Irene was far and away able to decipher all his secrets when he could hardly puzzle out her most basic motivations. Sherlock said nothing while she discussed her theories, though. Did he want to tell her what he truly felt? Of course. But one hardly grew up a Holmes without learning to keep one's cards close to their chest. Irene knew as much, which was why he was initially so fascinated by her. She was a master card player, and with any luck, she'd be the key to stopping Moriarty. He could only hope, anyway.
In typical Sherlock fashion, however, he zeroed in on only one seemingly insignificant detail rather than addressing her whole point. Because it was easier, for one thing, but it was also relevant if they were going to be united in facing Moriarty. "You mentioned someone you 'care about.' Who?" At this rate, he'd need a list to keep track of all the people he was now responsible for. John, Mycroft, Irene, possibly the Jarvises, and now someone else entirely. It was really getting quite exhausting — like herding a bunch of wandering, hungry, bewildered kittens. Sherlock didn't understand how normal people were able to care this much without losing their minds.
With Sherlock, it was difficult to say. She could never really compare herself to him, given they played the game so differently. He was truly fascinating, intriguing to an extent. And she’d yet to meet anyone who challenged her the way he had. In time, perhaps, she’d eventually crack that shell of his, and have him completely figured out. But that would be a long time coming. Bits and pieces would have to suffice for now. But she wasn’t here to figure him out, at least not yet. She was here to get him to get John to admit to his feelings so they all could move forward. A united front without any distractions was more than likely going to be required. And quite soon.
“Oh?” Irene asked, leaning forward on the table. “That is a rather interesting surprise, Sherlock. I was certain that you would have known that a long time ago. Or is it that you’re more surprised that I care about someone? Something that you hadn’t thought me capable of?” Folding her arms before her, she leaned back in her chair. “So, go on, Sherlock. Impress a girl. Tell me who it is I care about.”
Sherlock had observed Irene interact with precious few people. If anything, he could count them all on one hand, and none of them were viable possibilities. There were the American gunmen, and that was laughable; there was Mycroft, which was an option that disturbed him on multiple levels; then John, of course, but they were hardly compatible and had expressed no interest in one another beyond antagonizing. More to the point: they were all men. Sherlock sat back in his seat and crossed a leg over his knee, pleased to have a task that didn't involve poking at an old wound.
"You haven't met someone here. If you had, you would be far more concerned about Moriarty using them against you. No — this is someone at home. Someone I met." He rewound their first meeting together like an old VHS tape, speeding through the event in only a few seconds for any clue as to the mystery individual. And then it hit him, his eyes alight with the realization. Sherlock looked positively delighted all of a sudden. "The redhead. Your assistant. Clever. Moriarty missed it, and she escaped unscathed. Where is she now?"
Irene gave a noncommittal inclination of her head as Sherlock mentioned someone local. Picking up her tea, she was about to take another sip when he did as instructed, thoroughly impressing her. “Well, I stand by my original comment,” she replied. “Brainy is the new sexy.” Taking the intended sip, she set the cup back down. “You must show me how you do that. Sift through everything in a matter of seconds.” Of which both of them knew the possibility of that was highly unlikely.
She thought for a moment. “To be honest, I’m not certain. I knew I was in danger, but thought that she would likely be safe as long as she wasn’t near me. Before fleeing before you rescued me that last time, I wired her instructions to disappear, along with a key to a safety deposit box with enough to see her comfortable for quite possibly the rest of her life. She should be safe enough. Then again, Moriarity was still there when I made arrangements to come here, and arrive to find that he’s been here for 5 years. So, who’s to say what has or will become of her?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes when Irene equated sex appeal with intelligence again, but it was good-natured. He wasn't actually annoyed for all the effort he went to pretend he was. "It's based on setting," Sherlock replied after a thoughtful pause. He was curious to see whether Irene had any vested interest in learning the skill. It's not like it was a secret. "Put simply: you associate whatever it is you want to remember with a place you're familiar with. For instance, I visualize the image of a particular building in my mind and sort specific memories into categories, which can be found in different rooms on different floors."
When Irene explained what had become of Kate, Sherlock watched her with an unreadable expression and sipped his frappuccino. He knew this story already because it closely paralleled his own. "You and I are more alike than you might imagine," Sherlock said, twirling his plastic straw between two fingers. "That is, essentially, what I did for John before I left. I just ... didn't tell him." He stabbed a bit of caramel with the straw, glaring at it for a moment, but offering no other anecdote.
Sex and sexy were two entirely different things. While her 'work' consisted primarily of sex, it wasn't always sexy. And sexy wasn't always physical attraction, but mentally stimulating, something to truly entice one's attentions. She nodded as he explained. "A mind palace, I believe is the term. Of course, I've always assumed that in order to recall something, one had to start at the front door, and work their way through each room until they get to the specific bit they are trying to recall. Yet you seem to be able to jump to any room, extracting any memory and evaluating it in... 4 seconds. Quite impressive." She stored her information on her phone quite similarly, each different type having it's own assorted place. Quite neatly organized for Mycroft once it had been delivered to him.
"Indeed," she replied. "Though the difference is, Kate isn't here and knows how I feel, whereas Dr. Watson is here and is still uncertain about his own feelings, given his latest blog entry. I'm curious as to why that might be. Surely you can admit to his emotional distraught. Is it perhaps your own that you're conflicted about that has kept you from saying anything?"