Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXXII - Black Tongue

Mary looks the shabby house up and down. "I thought you said she was an entrepreneurial millionaire."

"She was," says John, uncertainly. "I suppose circumstances have changed."

"She had to leave it all behind. Perhaps a sponsor or partner paid for this accommodation," I suggest, avoiding a waterlogged takeaway tray in the gutter.

Sherlock grows impatient with our pre-entry speculation and approaches the metal staircase, ascending it with little care for the clanging crescendo his footsteps make and the effect it has on the inhabitants of the people in the flat below. It is with some reluctance do we follow him.

The door is opened before we reach the stairwell.

Irene leans against the doorframe, still unfamiliar in her satin skirt and comparably simple unbuttoned blouse, cigarette in hand.

"You're late."

Sherlock pushes past her, without invitation, into the flat. "You don't smoke."

"I do now."

"He's been like this all day. Blame it on the journey," says John, stepping into the entrance.

"Not to worry." Irene exhales lazily. "Stubborn Sherlock is a sexy Sherlock."

"Questionable," I say, wincing as I follow John into the hallway.

"A matter of opinion."

Mary is the last to enter the flat. The two women look at each other in silence; Mary in her patterned shirt and red overcoat, hair ruffled and baby in tow, Irene effortlessly seductive – albeit a little worn around the edges.

Eventually, Mary attempts a smile, trying not to lose her balance as Addy twists and turns in her grip. "Sorry we took so long. The traffic was murder."

Irene does not return her smile.

We half walk, half stagger into the adjoining living room: Irene watches from the door as we divide ourselves amongst the three sofas, all cream leather and plush interior.

"It's a bit of a squeeze, I'm afraid," she says. "I've had to downsize. Makes a change from Belgravia."

The flat itself is small but with an air of priceless selectivity, clearly worth double our yearly Baker Street rent; there is a central chandelier – cut crystal, strung with beads of black glass – a sizeable dressing table, exposed floorboards, cream rugs, delicate plaster work and a surrounding wallpaper of softened white, embossed with pearlised flowers and hung with a mirror that weighs more than Sherlock and I combined.

"It's lovely," says Mary, sitting down beside John.

"You should have seen my place in Eaton Square. Sherlock liked it very much. As did your husband. They spent a fair bit of time on their knees in my living room."

Mary blinks, taken aback.

"We were being held at gunpoint," hastens John. "Trying to get into a loaded safe."

Irene smiles. "You're making me nostalgic. Such a shame you and Millie weren't there," she says, addressing Mary. "I'd have whipped you both into shape."

"What did you say you did again?"

"Oh, you know. Some gambling, some drinking, a little bit of bondage here and there. And yourself?"

Mary shrugs off her coat. "I'm a nurse – at John's practice, actually."

"Strange," says Irene, tapping her cigarette against her finger. "I'd got it into my head that you worked for the government."