-Millie-
~~~~~~
"Sherlock."
I get no response.
"Sherlock. That's my leg."
"I know."
I try again. "I'm not very comfortable."
"I am," he says, shifting in the car seat – and in doing so digging the heel of his shoe into my thigh – to prove his point.
I sigh and attempt to move to one side, succeeding only in knocking my head against the car window. John insists on sitting in a seat that is pushed back to its limit, restricting what is already a chronic lack of leg room to a veritable constriction device; my legs are currently bent at the knees and lifted to my chin in an effort at maximising breathing space. Sherlock sits between Addy and me, using my hip as a foot rest, back to Addy's plastic car seat and coat collar turned up in petulant irritation, oblivious to the discomfort he is causing.
Without warning, Mary tugs at the gear stick, cursing under her breath as the vehicle slams to an ungainly halt at the red light. Addy rouses, blinks at the unexpected audience, frowns – and then opens her mouth to commence a screaming session so grating, I consider forcing open the car door and walking the rest of the distance to Irene Adler's apartment.
Sherlock recoils. "My God. Has it ruptured an artery?"
John passes a white bottle through the gap between the seats, sighing heavily. Sherlock looks down at it, then at Addy's purple face. "Can't you turn it off?"
"Just give her the bottle."
I watch as Sherlock takes the bottle from John and, in complete earnestness, places it in Addy's lap – whereupon it rolls from her tiny, outstretched hands to the floor.
"Sherlock."
"You told me to give her the bottle. I gave her the bottle."
"For the love of-"
"I'm not a transportable milk dispenser. You should train her to feed at certain times. They do that with dogs."
Frustrated, John reaches back – whether he is grabbing for Addy's discarded bottle or Sherlock's throat, I'm not sure – and Sherlock twists in his seat to avoid the incoming hand: I get an elbow to the side of my chest and, following a kick to the ribs, make a noise of startled discomfort, consequentially fuelling Addy's choked screams further.
Mary slams her foot down on the break; the rubber tyres screech in protest, the car jerks to a halt, and we all snap forwards in our seats.
"For God's sake," she shouts, over the disgruntled mutterings and Addy's howls. "I'm trying to drive."
"You're doing a poor job of it," says Sherlock. "We've stopped at a junction. Is that legal? I don't think it's legal-"
"Do you want to become Molly's next autopsy?"
"Not particularly."
"Then shut up, sit back, and let me concentrate."
Sherlock scowls and resorts to a stony silence; Mary takes a deep breath, smooths her hair and starts the car again, leaving Sherlock nursing an injured pride, me a bruised rib, and John looking stolidly out of the window.
~~~~~~
"This is the place."
It was blunt curiosity that coerced us to accept Irene's ambiguous invitation. Her sudden resurrection is not sitting well with any of us – Sherlock in particular. He has spent sleepless nights in his armchair, dressing gown creased and feet bare, attempting to force proverbial puzzle pieces into place with little success. I think it is fair to say he would rather perish than let the opportunity for answers slip him by, and today is no exception.
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."
"I suppose you could count my NHS days as government service."
"Not what I had in mind." Irene turns to John. "You have your own place, I take it?"
"Yes," he says, surprised by the abrasive nature of her enquiry. "We do. Why?"
"What's it like?"
"Victorian villa. Small. Homely. Not like this," interrupts Mary. Her words conceal a pointed undertone.
"How quaint."
John clears his throat. "It needs some work doing. I've got to get someone to re-tile the roof. The internet's down at the moment. Little things. It's far from perfect."
Irene raises an eyebrow. "I know someone who's very good with technology."
"Do you?"
"Guaranteed to have your internet connection running at breakneck speeds. Programmes defensive software, too. You won't have to worry about viruses."
"How much does he charge?"
"She," corrects Irene.
I sense where this conversation is heading, but am too slow in my realisation to stop it from progressing.
"As for the price... you'll have to negotiate with her on that." Irene takes a drag from her cigarette. "An apology would act as sufficient payment, I'm sure."
Her words have a catabolic effect on the group mentality: Mary's entire countenance darkens, her mouth straightening from forced smile to blank indifference. John's face sets in a similar expression. I feel Sherlock tense beside me, his hands clasped with determined rigidity, and I swallow, sinking further back into Irene's sofa in an effort at folding in on myself and away from the inevitable guilt this conversation will bring.
"I didn't come here to discuss Emily Schott," says Mary, coldly.
"No? Well, change of plan. I think she makes wonderful conversation."
"We've moved on."
"She hasn't."
"That's her problem."
"When she's baying for your blood and living with the one man who can and will tear you apart piece by piece, it is most definitely your problem."
"We'll deal with it. There's nothing to talk about."
"I beg to differ."
"We've been through this," says John, his grip on the sofa armrest a little too forceful to be considered controlled. "Drop it."
Irene chooses not to hear John, instead turning back to Mary. "Run me through the events of the night Charles Magnussen was shot, won't you? It's all a bit hazy."
Mary adjusts the coat behind her, composed. "She was drunk. She was armed. She didn't appreciate my intervention."
"And she shot him in front of you? How scarring."
"Magnussen was dead when I arrived. She was past rationality. I couldn't reason with her."
"Funny," says Irene, head to one side. "I didn't think she knew how to handle a gun."
John laughs. "When it comes to violence, there's nothing that woman is unfamiliar with."
"Have you ever seen her fire a kill shot?"
"Well, no, but-"
"Where was Charles Magnussen shot?"
"The head." Mary's answer is clipped. "Why?"
"Point blank range?"
"No."
"So she managed to put a bullet in his skull, from a distance, under the influence of alcohol? She must be talented."
"What are you implying?"
"It just seems a little odd, that's all." Irene leans forwards. "That Emily Schott, the woman you tell me derives pleasure from cracking bone in her hands, chose to fire a gun at a man during a business meeting."
"It wasn't a business meeting. She broke into the place."
"How on earth did she get past all that security, I wonder?"
"Like you said," says Mary, curtly. "Her skillset knows no bounds. She's not like you and me."
"How did you get past all that security, Mrs Watson?"
"That's enough-"
Irene does not pause for breath. "Anastazja Gabrysia Rościsława Adamek."
Mary inhales sharply, arms locked, shoulders set, lips slightly parted, all still save for her eyes; they move over Irene, quickly, as if running through a calculation.
I scarcely allow myself to breathe.
Sherlock sits up, I turn to John, John looks from Mary to Irene and back again.
"What? What does that mean?"
"I have no idea." Mary reaches for her bag, the slight tremor in her fingers barely perceptible. "I'm not staying here."
"Mary-"
"No. This is ridiculous." She slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'll be in the car."
We listen to the slam of the door and the quick, light footsteps on the iron staircase. It takes John a few drawn-out minutes to process what has just been said, and when he does, he rounds on Irene with fiery acrimony.
"What the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"Polish," says Sherlock, eyes narrowed.
"Precisely that," says Irene. "Polish."
"Don't play games with me. That was a name. What was it? What did it mean?"
Irene simply turns to John, the stub of her cigarette glowing amber between her newly-trimmed nails, and says nothing.
"Tell me."
"I think you'd better ask your wife."
~~~~~~