The Amateur's Deductions

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Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes said nothing as they drove away from Baker Street, leaving the consulting detective behind. She didn't look back, and if she had, she would most certainly have had a harder time trying to keep herself together.

Mycroft was staring at his shoes, his eyebrows flexing up and down his brow. It was like he was trying to work them out after they had been sitting down for too long.

He noticed Irene's speechlessness, and while he didn't want to take the role of a "comforter," he understood that this was not easy for her.

"At least you've gotten the recording. That's what matters now, Miss Adler."

"I know," Irene replied, putting her head against the back of her chair and staring out at London, which was a blur as they drove through.

"Doctor Watson is going through with it?" she asked, still looking out the window. She didn't feel like looking into Mycroft's deadening glance.

"Yes. I've spoken with him only five minutes ago. He's perfectly capable and is willing. He'll be around to see you tonight at around five o'clock."

"Fine," she said, drumming her fingers on her purse.

She was incredibly bitter. She wanted to strangle Sherlock Holmes, bang his head against a rock, shake him by the shoulders and tell him to wake up. Dear God! What had possessed the man? She would soon know. She both feared and anticipated this knowledge.

Arriving about ten minutes later at The Langham, Mycroft led Irene up to her room, seeing as only he had possession of the key. At the door, he returned it to her, wished her a good night, then walked down the hall toward the elevator, swinging his umbrella the whole way.

It was nice to be back inside her room: she now had her clothing, her soaps, her perfumes and infinite supply of red lipsticks. The room was all neatly done, the bed made, the air smelling of something sweet, and the windows drawn. Sighing as she looked out of it, she fancied she could see the rooftop of Baker street in the distance; it was only a thirty-minute walk and a ten-minute ride from The Langham.

Taking off the yellow pastel dress she was wearing felt almost sacrilegious, especially since it had been a gift from Sherlock. She rubbed her shoulders and felt the texture of the fabric. What a beautiful dress it was. He really did have such good taste in clothing.

Nevertheless, she took it off and settled into one of her thin, satin nightgowns. It was a childish thing, but she never liked pyjama sets with a button-up shirt and a pair of trousers. Ever since she had been a child, her mother had always gotten her nightdresses for bed.

Her mother.

This thought reminded her of Sherlock's deductions. How could he ever have known that she had grown up without a mother? Or that she had been abused?

She pushed the thoughts aside, determined to enjoy her night in. She had a light dinner brought up to her room and sat on the bed cross legged watching reruns of Poirot. It had been years since she'd seen this show. She had only been a little girl when she'd first watched had been one her and her mother had always sat down to watch together.

"Come and sit down, darling," Victoria Adler calls to her daughter. The five-year-old girl clambers onto the sofa next to her mother and snuggles into the blankets. Smoothing over the child's sleek, brown hair, the mother kisses her daughter's head, cherishing the precious moments they have before the night begins.

"I'll be back in a few hours, Vicky," an old woman calls from the front door, putting on her coat. Victoria beams at her mother, and the mother returns the smile as she watches her daughter hold her baby girl...her granddaughter.

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