There is a long silence as Sherlock looks at Fiona. "Remove that gun from my colleague's head," he says.
"Hmmm." Fiona is smiling. "I don't think you're in much of a position to be giving orders, do you?"
Sherlock stares at her, brows contracted. Every line in his body suddenly seems to radiate coldness. "I'm currently holding the blueprint for your entire organisation." He says. "If you put the gun down, I'll give it back to you."
Fiona's smile broadens. "I do admire your nerve, Mr Holmes. But I'm afraid your threats won't work this time. Jerry!"
A man materialises at her side, as quickly as if he'd been a genie released from a bottle.
"That man has something of mine, I want it back. And search him for weapons while you're at it." She raises her eyebrows as Sherlock takes a small defensive step back. "I wouldn't try to fight if I were you. Miss Adler won't thank you for it." Fiona presses the gun a little closer to Irene's cheek, and Irene finds herself wincing at the hard press of cold metal.
Sherlock glances at Irene briefly, face very pale, before allowing himself to be pushed back against the wall. The man, Jerry, runs heavy spade-like hands over Sherlock, before grunting with triumph as he pulls a gun out of Sherlock's pocket and passing it to Fiona along with the file.
"Thank you. Now tie Miss Adler to that chair," Fiona gestures to the chair, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock. "No need to be gentle."
The man grabs Irene roughly by the wrists, hauling her over to the chair. Fiona opens a desk draw, pulling out a coil of rope, which the man uses to bind Irene's hands. As he kneels to bind her ankles, he shoots her a rather nasty grin, scarred hands sliding briefly up her calf in a parody of a caress, before he pulls the ropes unnecessarily tight. Irene doesn't allow herself to flinch.
"I imagine that you aren't used to being on this side of things, Miss Adler." Fiona says. "As I understand it, you made a good living out of tying other people up. Impressive that you persuaded them to pay, Jerry here would be perfectly willing to do it for free, wouldn't you?"
"I would if they were all as pretty as this one." Jerry leers, resting his hand the back of Irene's knee, and leaning close, his breath hot against her cheek.
"Stop it." Sherlock snaps, and Irene can hear a hint of panic in his voice now.
That won't do, she thinks. If they are going to get out of this situation Sherlock will need to keep his wits about him.
"Your man is very intimidating, Fiona." Irene drawls, in as bored a tone as she can manage. "I'm quite terrified. Or I would be if it weren't perfectly obvious that this isn't what he likes." She looks up at the man in front of her. He's younger than you would think at first glance, in his mid twenties. The tattoos are a recent development, as are the scars on his knuckles.
"Poor boy," she says softly. "I'm sure you think playing the tough heterosexual is a necessary career move - your mates would give you some trouble if they knew what you were really into, wouldn't they? But it must be so exhausting, pretending all the time. It's no wonder you need to head out to Hampstead Heath once a while. There's someone you meet there fairly regularly, isn't there? He does a nice line in erotic asphyxiation – that bruise certainly isn't from a fight. " Irene leans forward a little to whisper in the man's ear. "You should hold on to that one - there's plenty who have to pay for service like that."
Fiona gives a forced little laugh. "Well, she's got your number, Jerry."
The man has pulled away from Irene now, cheeks pink. "She's a lying bitch," he says, but can't meet Irene's eyes anymore. Irene looks up at Sherlock, with a smile of satisfaction. It doesn't matter if I'm tied up - I can still own anyone I please. Sherlock gives her a brief nod, pale lips pressing together, and Irene knows her message has been understood.
"Very impressive, Miss Adler," Fiona says, but she isn't looking at Irene – her eyes are still fixed on Sherlock. "But I don't think I want to hear any more of your little exposés just now. I need to speak to your master. Jerry, gag the woman."
Smiling grimly, Jerry pulls out a wad of cotton from his pocket and pulling Irene's face up by the chin, begins stuffing it into her mouth. Irene takes deep breath through her nose and tries to regulate her breathing, trying not to think about how easy it would be to for the cloth to suffocate her. Her eyes meet Sherlock's across the room. His face is pale but impassive. From his expression you might think he was watching a rather dull television programme. Only his hands give him away, clenching convulsively as Jerry pushes the cloth deeper into Irene's mouth.
"Good," Fiona says. "Now leave us."
Jerry looks at her in surprise. "But Miss Moran. The man..."
"He won't try anything," Fiona says.
Jerry still hesitates. "If anything were to happen... your father..."
"I've told you already, nothing will happen!" Fiona says. "You've embarrassed yourself here already, do you think I want you hanging around acting like a sexually confused moron?"
Jerry flushes dark, large hands curling into fists, but ducks his head in acknowledgment Fiona moves to the door, evidently watching him depart.
"So, Mr Holmes." She says, after a moment, smiling. "We're alone at last."
"So I see," Sherlock folds his arms, face settling itself into the mask like detachment Irene knows so well. "How long have you known who I am?" he says. "Clearly when you entered the room my presence was not a surprise to you. One would almost think that you'd planned it."
"I've suspected for a while," Fiona says. "The Musgrave con had your fingerprints all over it. But I wasn't sure until very recently."
"Targeting John was meant to force me into the open."
Fiona raises her eyebrows. "Of course. Well, you know, two birds with one stone. Dr Watson was getting rather irritating." Her gaze flicks to Irene. "I should congratulate your assistant on her poker face. She had me doubting myself a few times. "
"So. You knew who I was. You could very easily have had me pulled into an alleyway and shot at any time...."
"I prefer garrotting, actually. Quieter and makes less of a mess."
"And yet you didn't."
"No." She says, smiling at him and tilting her head in a way that could almost be considered flirtatious. "Why didn't I, Mr Holmes?"
"You want something from me." Sherlock says slowly. "Something your own people can't know anything about. You were careful not to mention my name while Jerry was in the room."
"Walls have ears," Fiona says. "And so do idiots."
Sherlock's voice carries a warning note. "I've no interest in playing games. Tell me what you want."
"Very well." Irene can see the muscles of Fiona's body tighten as she pulls herself up. When she speaks her voice rings through the room like a shot. "I want you to kill Sebastian Moran."
There is a short silence.
"You want me to kill your father?"
"Was that not what you were expecting?" Fiona asks. Her tone is cool but Irene can see her hands are tightly clenched on the gun.
"All reports suggested that you were devoted to each other." Sherlock says, neutrally. His eyes, Irene notices, have also flicked to the pistol, no doubt calculating the chances of Fiona accidentally setting it off.
Fiona lets out a tight little laugh. "Have you ever had a man like my father devoted to you? Believe me, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. No, I've wanted this for a very long time."
Sherlock looks at her closely. "You already have an army full of hitmen and poisoners at your disposal. Why do you need me?"
"They aren't loyal to me." Fiona says. "In their eyes he is their leader: I am only the person who makes everything work."
"Then go to the police. You must have enough evidence to remove him from your life for a very long time."
Fiona laughs a little. "Oh yes. My mother tried that. As far as I could find out the only action they took was to hire a team to clean the blood off the walls after Daddy had finished with her."
"And what makes you think I could suceed when they couldn't?" Sherlock says.
Fiona shrugs. "Jim spoke very highly of you. He said that yours was the only mind he had seen that could match his. He said that once you decide you want something you have no pity."
Something in Sherlock's eyes flickers at that. "Good friends, were you?" he asks.
"Daddy wanted us to get married. He was always one for keeping things in the family – he saw Jim was his heir, his natural successor in the business. He couldn't see that Jim had already outstripped him by far." Fiona looks away, eyes misting over. "When Jim first joined us he changed everything. It was my father's organisation originally, you know. Under him it was an primitive thing, ugly, brutal. Jim changed all of that. Under him crime was not only organised but elegant. Beautiful. I almost loved him for that. And of course, I hoped – we did speak of one day getting rid of my father, running the organisation with just the two of us. Then he went and died on me."
Sherlock gives Fiona a long assessing look. "Whatever it was that Jim told you, I am not an assassin."
"Right now I think you are whatever I say you are, don't you?" Fiona glances pointedly at the gun in her hands, and at Irene.
Sherlock's head drops for a moment, as he frowns at the floor."What exactly are your terms?"
Fiona relaxes slightly, shoulders dropping a little at Sherlock's apparent acquiescence. "You have two days to get the job done –it is all the time I can give you before my father realises something is wrong and attempts to interfere. Once you have brought me conclusive evidence of his death, I will release Miss Adler and the files you came here looking for - with the obvious caveat that I will not be taken into custody or in any way harmed when you make your arrests."
Sherlock frowns deeply at this. "No." he says.
Fiona raises her eyebrows. "No? I happen to think those terms are rather generous."
Sherlock shakes his head decisively. "I will not cooperate with you in any way until you release Miss Adler."
Fiona's face hardens. "You'll do as I say or I will shoot her right now."
"No, you won't." Sherlock says, looking up at her, face seeming to sharpen as he looks at her. "You've waited a long time for someone like me to come along. You aren't going to throw that away for the sake of a petty show of strength. And in any case," Sherlock takes a step forward, drawing himself up. "If you actually want me to succeed in this mission which I assume that you do, I will require Miss Adler's assistance."
Fiona raises her eyebrows. "You're an intelligent man. I'm sure you can cope on your own."
Sherlock gives her a cold smile. "Jim Moriarty worked alone, didn't he?" he says. "So many minions at his bidding, including you, but he never told any of you his plans. When he came to meet me that day on the roof of St Barts, neither you nor your father had any idea what he was going to do, did you? I, on the other hand - I had help. Perhaps you should ask yourself, Miss Moran, which one of us survived that encounter?"
Fiona frowns at him. "Very well." She says at last. "You need help. I'll release Miss Adler, as soon as Jerry has taken Dr Watson into our custody in her place."
"No. I will also require Dr Watson's assistance." Sherlock says quickly.
"That's convenient." Fiona says. "Do think I'm stupid, Mr Holmes? That because you are dealing with me rather than Jim or my father, you pull the wool over my eyes?"
"On the contrary," Sherlock says quietly. "I believe you have enough intelligence to challenge even a genius like Moriarty's, and your ruthless streak certainly equals your father's. And you have a quality that neither of them ever achieved. If he were in your shoes, Jim would keep my friends in custody, for the sheer pleasure of witnessing my discomfort. Your father would see an opportunity to indulge his sadistic urges by torturing them both. But you, Miss Moran, you have common sense, and that is why you will outlive them both."
Fiona Moran blinks a little at this. Irene notices her grip on the gun loosen a little. Sherlock takes a step closer to her.
"You know you don't need a hostage to make me play your game–we will, in any case, all be discovered and murdered by your father's men very shortly if matters are not resolved. I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by defying you. And so – let her go, Miss Moran."
To Irene's surprise, Sherlock reaches out a hand, closing it gently over the one that Fiona is using to hold the gun. Fiona's lips part for a moment, looking searchingly at Sherlock's face, and then she nods.
"Very well." She says. "But my people will be watching you. One hint of a betrayal and I'll have a contract on your head so high one will stop to question you before shooting."
Sherlock inclines his head in acquiescence. Fiona slides her hand out of Sherlock's grip and puts the gun in her handbag.
"I'll be expecting to hear from you both very shortly." She says crisply. "There's a knife in the drawer. I assume you want to set Miss Adler free."
Sherlock nods. "I expect to see you very soon, Miss Moran."
"I hope so."
Fiona pauses for a moment at the door, looking back at them both, before turning the handle sharply and leaving.
***
Sherlock is on his knees in front of Irene as soon as the door is closed, carefully tugging the gag out of her mouth.
"Are you all right?" he asks, urgently.
"Never better." Irene coughs, and winces. Sherlock's hand tightens almost painfully on her shoulder.
"Is there any water?" Irene asks. Her mouth is very dry, and tastes foul.
Sherlock jumps to his feet, pulling open the drawers in Fiona's desk and rifling through them. He returns with a bottle of water, and pen knife. He holds the bottle to Irene's lips, helping her drink. The water is a relief, and Irene takes closes her eyes, taking deep breaths and enjoying the unobstructed passage of air in and out of her lungs.
Sherlock sets to work on Irene's bindings. The ropes around her wrist have left angry red welts where they cut into her skin. Sherlock stops to examine them, thumb gently tracing over the marks, jaw set and taut.
"Sherlock," Irene says, and Sherlock lets go of her arms abruptly, looking up at her pale eyes blazing.
"I would have killed them both." He says.
"I know," says Irene. "It wouldn't have come to that."
Sherlock shivers slightly, and abruptly leans forward, pressing his forehead against Irene's. Irene lifts a hand to brush through his hair, and down over his face, tracing over his the line of his jaw.
"We did well." She says. "But Sherlock," she pushes him away from her a few inches so that she can look into his eyes. "We need to get out of here."
Sherlock lets out a breath and nods getting to his feet. He holds out a hand to help her up.
***
They take a taxi back to their hotel. Sherlock sits forward, elbows on his knees, steepled fingers pressed to his mouth, clearly deep in thought. Irene watches him in silence. It has been a rather long day and she is beginning to feel sleep press at the corners of her mind, greying her vision at the corners.
All of a sudden Sherlock sucks in a breath, leaning back against his seat. His jaw is clenched in a way that tells Irene he has reached a conclusion but that he doesn't much like it.
"What's the plan?" She asks him.
Sherlock's mouth thins a little. "First of all, we're going to have to dismantle the Moran's network quickly. Once Moran Senior is dead it won't take his loyal supporters long to mobilise. We'll have to make sure we can strike first."
"Are you sure she'll keep her word about the files?" Irene asks.
Sherlock nods. " I think so. If anyone should suspect that she was involved in Moran's death , she would be as much a target as us. More so, perhaps. The safest approach for her is to sweep the board clean, and start again."
"So, what do we need to do?"
Sherlock makes a face as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. "We're going to have to ask Mycroft for help. Scotland Yard doesn't have the resources to make so many arrests in such a short period of time."
"Right. So we ask Mycroft to help us. And then?"
Sherlock glances away from her, out of the window. "I wasn't lying when I spoke to Fiona," he said. "I will need your help - and John's."
"Ah," Irene says, taking in the rigidity with which Sherlock is holding himself, the tense angle of his neck. She feels a wave of sympathy for the man who only ever had one friend, and had been forced to betray him terribly.
"You know, I expect he'll forgive you eventually."
"Probably." Sherlock says, but the hands clenched in his jacket pocket don't relax at all. There is a long silence as Irene watches him, the man who is so very good at pretending to be made of ice, staring out of the taxi window into the rain.
"There's something else, isn't there?" she says. "Something else is troubling you."
Sherlock breathes out through his nose. "It isn't important."
Irene reaches out a hand, and lays it on the edge of his arm. "I think it is."
Sherlock turns to look at her, blue gaze somehow both steady and remote.
"I have never killed anyone, Irene." He says.
"Ah," says Irene, a little at a loss. She tightens her fingers on his arm. "Well, there is a first time for everything."
"Yes," Sherlock says, looking away again. "There is."
***
They catch a few hours of sleep once they return to their hotel – or at least, Irene does. She isn't certain that Sherlock does anything other than lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling all night. Irene starts awake in the grey early morning light to find Sherlock sitting up, fully dressed and watching her with an oddly resigned expression on his face.
She pulls herself into a sitting position, a little groggily. The light streaming through the window is thin and grey, obviously a little before dawn.
"Time to get moving?"
Sherlock looks at her for a long moment, as if trying to calculate something in his head. Then he nods.
"My brother has breakfast at the Diogenes every morning at six thirty sharp. I suggest that you join him."
"You don't think he'll want to see you?"
Sherlock snorts. "I doubt it. In any case – I think it is better if we keep my survival from my brother for the time being. The fewer people who know the better – and he's already leaked information once."
Irene nods. "All right. And you?"
Sherlock hesitates for a brief moment. "I'm going to see John."
There is a short silence.
"I'm not sure which of us got the worst deal there." Irene says.
"Your meeting comes with considerably less probability of grievous bodily harm." Sherlock points out.
"True," says Irene. "On the other hand, your brother...."
"Point taken," Sherlock's mouth crooks up at once corner for a brief moment, before falling again. Abruptly he reaches out to fasten his fingers around her wrist, tracing the ring of bruises that have formed there.
"Yesterday was – I have come to the realisation that my judgement has been – faulty, recently. I haven't been as careful of you as I should have been." Sherlock's head is bent low, eyes avoiding hers.
"I am perfectly capable to taking care of myself." Irene says cooly.
"I know," says Sherlock. "Nevertheless. I shouldn't like to see you harmed."
"You won't." Irene says, meeting his eyes. She speaks with more certainty than the occasion really warrants, something she is sure they are both aware of. Nevertheless she thinks she sees Sherlock's shoulders relax a small fraction as he looks at her.
"All right then." Irene says, standing up, and walking to the wardrobe. "Let's get started, shall we?"
****