Sherlock and The Woman

The Mental Deterioration Of Mr Holmes

The doctor frowned down at the screen as if it was his enemy. "You confiscated my laptop again, didn't you? How did you...? I'm not even here every day with it anymore! You have mail, Sherlock."

He held out his hand with the computer for the other man, who, upon realizing Irene wasn't about to give up the kitten, had opted to glare down at both cat and woman. Without saying a word in reply to John, Sherlock reached back a hand to receive the computer.

He swiftly turned on his heel in stiff frustration that neither John nor Irene seemed to have his back, and walked over to the desk with the laptop. The tall man sat down and John glanced over at the consultant detective. There was the slightest hesitation as Sherlock opened his mail. A wide image suddenly consumed the screen and John frowned as he stepped closer. He noticed the stiffness to his friend's shoulders and how the man seemed to have paused living as he glared, without blinking, at the image before him. The blond man leaned over his shoulder to have a look himself.

The image was of Moriarty and Sherlock, the sooner appearing joyous and the latter drugged and confused. The whole thing seemed bathed in the unappealing glow of the camera's flash and on the detective's dark curls rested the same party hat that now dressed the skull upon their mantle piece. John realized it must be an unwanted memory of the latest new year.

"Sherlock…" the blond man started slowly.

"What is it?" Irene asked but her her voice held no interest and she didn't join the men by the computer.

"Moriarty sends his love," Sherlock replied at length and there was something off in the man's voice. John desperately wanted to be able to read his friend, but knew it was pointless. The tone could mean anything from anger to fear to excitement of a challenge. The doctor just had no clue.

"There's a quote," he remarked instead and squinted at the text written in the bottom hand corner of the image. He quoted the words, "'I think it's time, don't you?'"

There was the soft sound of fabric moving as Irene stood from her armchair and walked over to the boys. Wordlessly, she handed the cat over to John's unsuspecting arms and leaned down until her face was close and parallel to Sherlock's. The short man could see she pretended to glance at the image out of boredom when curiosity clearly shone in her pale eyes.

Sherlock suddenly stood up swiftly and without warning, and both the others jumped out of the way as he crossed the room. The detective took out a pack of nicotine patches from his coat pocket without showing a single expression. John sighed at the melodramatic response to the received image as the man rolled up his sleeve and pressed four patches to his forearm.

"A little redundant, don't you think?" the blond man tasked and held onto the kitten, which uncomfortably moved about in his arms as if restless. Sherlock didn't reply but merely closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if micro-mediating on his problems. When he opened his eyes once more, there was serenity in them for a brief second before a storm gathered in his bright, blue eyes. His gaze immediately found Irene's and he pointed a finger in her direction.

"You know something about this," he accused simply.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the brunette said and shrugged her eyebrows. "I've told you already; I don't work for Jim Moriarty anymore."

Sherlock shook his head in obvious disbelief and crossed the room in three steps until he stood close in her personal space. There was something in his eyes that tried to penetrate Irene's barriers but failed miserably. Not accepting his defeat, the tall man took a rough hold of the smaller woman's arms.

"Why? Why did you return when you did? I need answers."

Irene confusion deepened as she saw the man's desperation. "I've already told you."