Imagine Me and You (and you and you) (part 2)
It’s early, even by Mary’s internal clock, but she finds herself incapable of sleep, rocking rather closely against the edge of the bed, one hardly made for four. Slipping on John’s shirt and a petticoat, she slips out the room and down the hall, ending up in the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson has apparently the day off.
She’s fended for herself countless times, and makes enough tea for anyone who should want it that morning before settling against the counter with a cup and a collection of old news clippings that Holmes, with all the intent he usually invests in things, left out.
One particular one describes a woman being murdered by her husband’s mistress, and Mary is sure to spill tea on it, watch the letters run together and wonders if it will inspire such a reaction as her death, before discarding of the article, dropping it in the sink entirely prepared for an act of innocence.
Taking a sip of her tea, she pulls a book off of the kitchen bench, one she’d left there not a week ago when she’d stepped into the kitchen to help Mrs. Hudson with the cleaning up. It’s some dramatic thing, elaborate, the heroine some young woman snatched out of proper society and lead on an adventure by some charming young gentlemen with a taste for new worlds. She struggles to find the page she was up to, something made harder when hands drop to her hips. The dainty fingers are unmistakable.
“Miss Adler, honestly,” Mary sighs, dropping the book back to the bench.
“I believe first names are a courtesy once we’ve seen each other nude,” and it’s breathed out against the shell of her ear, feather light, even as the grip on her hips gets that much tighter. Mary turns quickly in her grasp, back pressed against the counter. She flashes a dark look in a poor imitation of what she believes to be a particularly intimidating glare, and Irene merely smiles, trails her hands up to where Mary’s body curves in just beneath the cage of her ribs.
“Oh, please,” Irene says, and purses her big, red lips. “How is this not a good idea?”
“I must admit I do rather fear waking up tied to a bedpost,” Mary replies dryly, eyebrow arched and lips taut.
And Irene does laugh at that, perfect and musical. “Only if you ask especially nicely, Mary Morstan.”
From somewhere down the hall, there’s a crash, thud, and Holmes staggers through the door, looking somewhat like a lunatic, and he pauses as he sees them, takes them in all too slowly, and Mary can almost see the cogs turning, the list of exactly what is wrong and what is right in this picture generating behind his pupils. She can wait for the retort, some declaration of taking Watson and now Irene, jealous and improper and everything that Holmes manages to embody.
“That’s my shirt,” he says, and Mary just blinks, glances down at herself only to rise to meet Irene’s knowing smile.
“It’s John’s shirt.”
“Mine,” Holmes replies, eyes wide and impossibly fetching. “I won it.”
Irene just laughs again, head dropped forward to Mary’s shoulder in such an incomprehensible surge of confidence and poor propriety that Mary isn’t sure whether to push her off or simply admit that, for a woman who allowed herself to be fucked on a bed between two other people last night, her dignity is rather short of hand.
Holmes is petty and possessive though, and that behaviour has always tended to inspire the elitist and superior in her own psyche. So when she says, “The flaw in that argument, Mr. Holmes, is that I won everything,” she’s rather expecting him to lash out, at least verbally.
Instead, he just flashes her the sort of indulgent smirk she’s come to expect from him. “Everything but that shirt, my dear.”
She opens her mouth to retort, but a loud, gruff and entirely put-upon sigh cuts through the white noise of the room like it’s nothing.
“Let it be,” Watson says, staggering into the room, bar shirt, rubbing rather blearily at his eyes. “I will expect that back at some point.”
“I must refuse,” Holmes replies, “Your fiancé and I are currently coming to an understanding regarding it, but I do believe we can both agree that it is no longer yours.”
“Certainly,” Mary concurs, and Irene laughs again, says, “This is certainly a romp,” at around the same time that Watson says, “Well, are we going to work today, or not?”
&
“I doubt the case is anywhere near as intriguing as Dalton himself would have us believe, but a thorough investigation is, of course, necessary for my rather flawless reputation.”
“Flawless, yes,” Watson replies with a roll of his eyes. “Modest too.”
Holmes tilts his head at that, turns around from where he was gazing out the window, arms folded behind his back. “I rather do believe the case is solved, the only mystery being as to why he hasn’t killed young Miss Ira Baker yet; however, all in due time, I imagine.”
The problem is, this whole thing has all happened so quickly, and Mary will be the first to admit that whilst the others are all nodding along like this behaviour is commonplace in high society, she herself is quite exceptionally lost.
“When did you confirm it to be Lord Dalton?” she asks, utterly flabbergasted. “And how on Earth do you know Miss Baker is his next victim?”
Holmes casts her a rather condescending look, head tilted and lips pursed like he’s looking at a particularly dim-witted child. She frowns.
“All in good time, Miss Morstan, trust me. The question is, as always, of tangible evidence. We will need to find a way into the Dalton property, or more specifically, into his bedroom.” The last word is laced with intent, and Mary finds herself sneaking a peak at Irene out of the corner of her eye.
“He’s married,” Watson says, and Holmes pats his hand rather condescendingly.
“It won’t be a problem, trust me.”
John shoots Mary a quick look out of the corner of his eye, but it passes faster than Mary can register, and he taps his cane on the floorboards, clears his throat.
“It’s simple then,” he supplies. “Miss Adler can infiltrate, seduce Dalton and investigate.”
There’s a scoff from Irene’s delicate mouth, a strange glance at Watson.
“The pleasure would be all mine, of course,” she somewhat agrees, with an eye roll and a drag on her cigarette. “However, it would seem our dear old Dalton has a taste only for the fairer-haired.”
The reaction is impossibly sudden, but Holmes and Adler turn to face her, Mary, with the sort of comic timing she’s used to seeing in the pantomime. Mary blinks hard, startles, but it’s Watson who, rather flabbergasted, says, “No.”
“Oh, please,” Holmes says, with a roll of his eyes. “The woman has to make herself useful somehow, besides, it would appear that Dalton Manor is to host a party tomorrow night so infiltrating should be both easy and appropriate.”
The timing is not easy and appropriate but convenient and incredibly well-paced on Holmes’ part, and Mary can see herself blink, flush in the mirror across the room, whilst in the pit of her stomach, something not unlike fear churns itself into excitement.
“No,” John says again, around the same time that Mary says, “I’ll do it.”
&
Irene proves to have rather nimble fingers, and it’s all Mary can do not to shy away when they skirt beneath the hem of her dress, touches feather light against the skin of her ankle, calf.
“Miss Adler - “
“Irene,” the woman in question cuts her off, glancing up at her from beneath thick eyelashes. “And really, you should relax, I am a professional,” and with that, she pins up the hem, lets her fingers skim the fabric, making sure it’s even, before finally taking a step back to observe her handy work.
“Gorgeous, of course,” Irene supplies, voice softer than normal, and the tone spreads like honey, sweet and heavy, in the pit of Mary’s stomach. It takes her a moment, two, before she can turn around to look at herself in Irene’s rather long and intricately bordered mirror.
It’s not that she ever believed herself unattractive, albeit plain, but never ugly, just, looking at herself in the mirror, she can hardly recognise herself. Her hair curled and pinned back off her face, leaving her all eye make-up and big, painted red lips. The dress is one of Irene’s, and despite its wash, it still smells of her, all Parisian perfumes and incense and maybe a little bit of sweat, dirt, just below the surface. The smell clogs up her nose until she’s breathing it in, absorbing it, and it’s a strange sensation, because she’s seen Irene nude, bedded beside her, but this is somehow much more intimate, having Irene on her, around her, and the whole thing makes her innards twist and clench in the most unpleasant sensation.
It’s not dramatic, but a chain is thrown around Mary’s neck, clipped up, and Irene’s fingers at the base of her neck are almost more than she can bear, invisible bruises sure to be left.
“I knew I’d find a use for this old thing,” Irene hums, and it’s the emerald necklace she stole from Lady Victoria. Mary covers it with her fingers only to see Irene over her shoulder in the mirror, looking nothing of her usual mocking seductiveness, instead almost serious, honest and open.
“It suits you,” she says. “The colour was too deep for me, but with your colouring it’s rather perfect.”
“I do believe there is something to be said for giving away things that don’t belong to you,” Mary says, and she moves to yank the chain off only to have Irene grab her, spin her around and press her back up against the mirror. Irene is all eyes, the deadly things concealed with her impossibly delicate features, and it’s all Mary can do just to breathe, to heave against where Irene’s body is suddenly pressed securely up against her own. Irene’s breath hot against her lips.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want it,” Irene hums, smiles, releases the sort of musical laugh that has Mary leaning forward ever so slowly, moving to close the gap between them only to have Irene dance away at the last second, leaving Mary panting and bent forward until she can reclaim her sensibilities.
Irene, slipping a small pistol into her purse, turns and flashes Mary a wide grin.
“I must say, I do believe there is a thrill seeker in you, Mary Morstan,” Irene supplies, coy and gorgeous, and ever so deadly. “And I am dying to meet her.”
&
The Dalton Affair is apparently the talk of the town, and Mary and Irene, both done-up and gorgeous, seem to look no more out of place than two doves in a flock of pigeons, which was apparently all too intentional on Miss Adler’s part. There’s not an eye in the party not trained on the pair of them, and it’s all too easy to find a place against the wall, to let Irene toy with her hair and take extra heed to centre the broach on the fabric covering Mary’s breast.
Holmes is rarely wrong it would appear, as Lord Dalton seems to be unable to greet them fast enough, leaving his rather fetching wife by the new home security minister as he wanders briskly over to meet them.
“Enjoying the affair, m’ladies?” he asks, sidling between them like they’d invited him, and Irene finds the whole thing to her preference as she laughs musically, drops a coy hand to Dalton’s arm, says, “Quite. I must say, I’d heard your parties were not to be missed, and I am obliged to concur.”
He laughs, and Mary smiles, eyeing the way his brow relaxes as he does so. “It’s wonderful to hear such kind things being said. I do believe I haven’t had the pleasure; however. You clearly know who I am, how about returning the honour?”
Irene smiles, all coy and flirty as she tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “Of course, m’lord,” she spreads her fingers over her chest, “Lady Abigail Earnshaw, and this is my sister, Gwenith.”
“Charmed,” he says, taking grasp of her hand to kiss it, even as his eyes focus rather entirely on Mary. She simply smiles in response, tilts her head in greeting. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you ladies around the town.”
“I don’t imagine you have,” Irene says, “We’re from America, but have been staying in Yorkshire, here visiting our cousin -“
She continues rather amiably, and Mary watches Dalton watch Irene, watches the way he looks at the line of her neck and her eyes and the curve of her bust, and it’s not that she’s jealous, it’s just the man seems rather entirely crass given his status in high society, rude and perverse and it’s all Mary can do not to take Irene by the arm and force some sort of diversion to excuse themselves from the situation. Of course, that would rather defeat the purpose of seducing the man. Mary blinks down at herself, at the way Irene had ensured her dress rather emphasised the parts of her that she was taught to cover in school (and home and work and society), when she glances back up though, Dalton and Irene are looking rather pointedly at her, and Mary rather thinks she may have missed something.
“Oh, I do apologise,” she flusters, slipping into her best American drawl. “I believe I was rather lost for a moment there.”
Irene laughs at that, drops a hand to her arm. “And I must apologise for you,” she says, then turns back to Dalton. “The train ride was exceptionally long, and we only arrived this morning unfortunately.”
He smiles at that, says, “No excuses necessary. Beautiful women like yourselves deserve no judgement, particularly ones who have travelled so far.”
“Handsome and generous,” Irene laughs, jutting a hip and tilting her body just so. Dalton’s eyes drink her in before, impossibly quick, flicking to Mary.
Irene, ever perceptive, inclines her head and says, “Well, how about I go get us some drinks?”
She tosses her purse strap over her shoulder, drops a hand low on Dalton’s wrist, before adding, “I’ll be back in just a moment. I do trust I can leave my sister in your capable hands.”
“Of course,” he replies, smirk large and rather unbecoming on his broad face. Irene turns to leave, but not before trailing her fingers across Mary’s arm, flashing her an encouraging smile as she does so, and then she’s out of sight, lost between the crowd of patrons and partygoers.
It all happens so quickly really, but Mary glances up at him through splayed eyelashes and when she smiles, it’s painted on, imagined up from happier situations as she allows him a few steps too close into what is both socially acceptable and comfortable. Irene returns with a drink for either of them, and when she disappears again, it’s quick with a mention of exploring the rest of the guest s and trying to find their damned cousin.
Dalton is a fast drinker it would seem, for his glass is empty before she can finish half of her own, but he seems almost looser, more languid and yet obstinate and he leans in and it’s all Mary can do not to turn away, to slap him, until, finally, he asks, “How about you step upstairs with me, just briefly. I have a rather wonderful collection of wood prints in our study at the moment,” and Mary happily plays dumb, follows him up the stairs as he leads her not into his study, but the bedroom and it’s surprisingly easy to play the fool there to, even when he pushes her down onto the bed and kisses her, lips chapped and breath putrid. She moans in the right places though, lets him palm at her breast and murmurs, “Oh, my Lord,” when he starts to push up her skirt, even as the tears erupt in her eyes, chasing her eye makeup down her face.
He’s all teeth and acid and his hands keep getting higher and Mary’s really not sure how much longer she’s meant to do this until he’s collapsing over her with a stutter and a gasp, like a broken machine in a factory. She’s quiet for a minute, making sure he’s out cold before shoving him off of her, stealing the key from his back pocket and unlocking the door to find Irene waiting, poised and ready.
Irene must see it, Mary’s glassy eyes and dishevelled appearance, but she doesn’t comment, merely says, “Quickly now,” and pulls her in to rifle through his things.
“What are we looking for exactly?” Mary asks, and Irene shrugs.
“Anything suspicious, but probably a key. Not a big one. One for a drawer perhaps, or a cupboard. Something that would provide an easy hideaway.”
Irene’s still rifling through his closet, but Mary turns to glance back at Dalton, splayed on the bed and lax. She moves quickly, efficiently, pats down his pockets until, out of the breast of his vest, slips a key.
“Miss Adler,” Mary whispers as she turns, and Irene glances back at her, grins wide and moves to grab it before stealing Mary’s hand.
“Come on,” she says, and together they race down the hall until Irene pulls them down into a study, tries the key in every lock before finally, in the bottom drawer of the dresser inside the closet, she finds her match.
The drawer gives way, and Irene simply laughs, head tossed back as she pulls out a tiny sprig of a plant, with three small, dark berries located where perhaps there would otherwise be a flower. “How spectacularly simple. I imagine our dear Sherlock will be horribly unimpressed.”
“What is it?” Mary asks, and Irene smiles, says, “Nightshade. Or perhaps Belladonna. A rather fascinating plant, exceptionally poisonous. It incites horrifying hallucinations before resulting in a horrifying death. Doubtless the poison used on the poor young ladies.”
Mary, rather startled, says, “But that doesn’t explain the needle. Wouldn’t Dalton have simply fed this to the women, not injected it?”
Irene nods, lips pursed as she gropes around in the drawer, her hand emerging with a small vial of what appears to be blood.
There’s a crash from across the hall, a curse, and Irene, wide-eyed and glorious, wraps the Belladonna and the vial in a handkerchief and stows them away in her purse only to withdraw her hand firmly clasped around a thin-necked pistol. Gripping Mary’s fingers between her own, she pulls her swiftly from the manor and out of the grounds.
They’re running, feet light on the city floor as they race through the streets of Westminster. Somewhere behind them, Mary can hear an outcry, a yell, someone finding the host of the party unconscious and stupefied in his bed. The whole thing is something close to exhilarating, and Mary lets herself be pulled along until they’re streets away from the manor, and Mary, wide-eyed and laughing, find herself pushed back against the wall, fingers skirting the cold bricks as Irene, warm and soft against her, kisses her hard.
It’s hardly romantic, apart from the fact that it is, that Irene is still beautiful, despite the fact that she’s sweaty and out of breath, her hair falling about and her dress pulled unbecomingly. She pulls back, Irene does, looks at her again with an intensity Mary isn’t entirely used to, and this time, when she kisses her, it’s at her cheekbone where Mary knows her make-up has run, and then again, quick and furious, on the lips.
“You are a curious thing, Mary Morstan,” Irene mumbles into her mouth, and Mary, arching off the wall and into Irene’s heated touch, replies, “So I am discovering.”
&
It’s not that Mary is particularly prone to delayed reactions, but they arrive back at the Baker Street residency and she can’t not react. She can’t separate the part of her that is feeling entirely too much, from both Dalton’s unwanted, but necessary advances and Irene’s unnecessary, but perhaps, almost wanted ones, and they arrive home to John’s worry and Holmes’ violin and a tension to suggest maybe the pair of them missed something too.
She doesn’t entirely perceive it though, not when, with her hand still locked in Irene’s, she moves quickly to kiss John, to breathe him in for all his security and wanting, and allow him to press her backwards into Irene. To let it degenerate, to let Irene take her apart as easily as she’d put her together, to lead her towards the bed and spread her out nude and raw and somehow entirely broken down. Irene kisses every inch of Mary’s pale skin, her collarbone, nipples, ribs, stomach and just, just lower, until Mary is wide-eyed and panting with Irene between her legs and John beside her, kissing her lips and her temples and palming at her skin, reclaiming her with every touch.
And when she’s done, when she’s spread out and wasted and just simply used up, that’s when Holmes deems fit to join them, losing himself in Watson and Irene in turn, like they’re all that’s there. And she watches, she does, the way John kisses him and presses against him and finally into him like he has something to prove, like they both do. Holmes holds onto Irene the entire time, fingers curled around her waist and her breasts and her hips. Perhaps she leans forwards, towards them, and Holmes, ever perceptive and vindictive and possessive, pulls Watson and Irene away from her, like she, Mary, like she’s something particularly distasteful to him.
She watches from the edge of the bed, and she came, but it doesn’t stop the wetness returning between her legs, and despite John and Irene’s (perfect, beautiful, delicate Irene) attention, it doesn’t suppress the crippling loneliness she feels when she is subdued to Holmes’ blatant unwanting of her.
&
They had of course explained the situation the very next morning.
Irene had tossed the Belladonna onto the table at Holmes’ nod and then the vial of blood. Watson had picked it up quickly, looking with the sort of focused intent on the vial he reserves for business.
“It does explain the bruise on the victim’s thighs,” Irene says, leaning back against the wall. She’s in trousers today, suspenders and a light blouse. It’s casual in a way Mary isn’t used to. Irene tends towards great, structured and fine-boned dresses, and it’s only now that it occurs to Mary that those dresses are reserved for work, for bouts of seduction and infiltration. “But the purpose for it could be any number of things.”
Watson agrees with a nod, passing the vial to Holmes who holds it up to the light, spins it in his fingers, his lips are pursed, eyes unblinking and Mary’s half-waiting for a mind-boggling revelation, a plan of action and quite possibly an insult, but nothing comes. He merely makes a noise in the back of his throat, like he’s just realised something, before he slips it into the pocket of his trousers.
“Well?” Watson asks, and Holmes opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by Mrs. Hudson bustling into the room, complete with a pot of tea and a plate of scones.
“You look in high spirits,” Mary says with a smile, and Mrs. Hudson grins wide in response, seemingly pleased by the acknowledgement. She’s responded well to a lady in the house, or so she’d told he Mary weeks ago, Irene apparently not included.
“With good reason, my lady,” she says, pouring four cups of tea. “The Princess Royal Louise of Wales is to visit London within the week. She’s to visit the House of Commons and all, tour London and the like.”
She probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d been looking elsewhere, but Holmes pauses, dead in his tracks, head tilted and gaze unfocused, and it’s enough for Mary to blink, start to ask, “Are you -” but is cut off when Holmes waves her off.
“Another show for the applauding masses,” Holmes says, and Mrs. Hudson frowns. “Her party really should consider selling tickets for the occasion; they could make a generous fortune.”
&
It’s some three nights later when Mary, awoken by the sound of a violin, finds herself untangling herself from Watson’s pliant body and wandering down the stairs in search of the source. Of course, John had taken special heed to warn her, but it wasn’t something Mary herself expected to see. Holmes is sitting on a stool in the lounge room, clad only in shirt and loose pants, a violin at his neck and a bow tight in his fingers.
She curls her nightgown that much tighter around herself, and continues down the steps quietly, careful not to disrupt him with unnecessary raucous, and finds herself planted on the arm of the chair to watch. Irene in the seat, is somewhere between enthralled and dismissive and she rather thinks that it’s that combination of things that ensures both Holmes and her will never entirely leave each other.
Irene glances up at her when she sits, her fingers moving quickly and almost blindly to brush Mary’s thigh through the cotton of her nightgown, racing them up and around to rest on the inside of her thigh. To say Holmes pays her no heed is either a gross misinformation or an understatement, his inattention too much to be unintended.
The song comes to a close, and Irene, beautiful and sugar sweet, says, “It’s beautiful. An original, Sherlock?”
But Holmes just arches an eyebrow, sniffs, and Mary smoothly fills in, “Lord, no, Miss Adler. It’s a Muzio Clementi, correct? I used to play his sonatas on the piano. Very romantic, although it does sound better with the flute accompaniment.”
If Mary is feeling particularly self-indulgent, she’d say that Holmes looks almost pleased.
Holmes plucks a couple of violin strings, says, “Correct, Miss Morstan. Sadly, you will surely soon find the musical gifts of my dear compatriots to be sorely lacking.”
It’s the closest thing to an approval Mary has ever received from him, and she finds the smile comes all too easy, even as Irene heads back upstairs, some vague comment about sleeping with John tonight, a lasting and laden look at the pair of them before she leaves.
“Would it be terribly temptuous of me to make a request?” Mary asks gently, and at Holmes’ arched eyebrow she adds, “For a composer.”
“I cannot guarantee that I will play them, but you can certainly ask.”
Mary requests Hellendaal, and Holmes nods, light and loose and immediately launches into George Frideric Handel’s 371st Sonata.
With a laugh, Mary stays regardless and watches him, all nimble fingers and lashes splayed over cheekbones, something so utterly intangible.
More importantly, he lets her.
&
“If we are to confront Dalton,” John says suddenly. “Regarding his indiscretions, I feel we should be rather more subtle.”
“Nonsense,” Holmes says. “The man is a murderer, and should be treated as such.”
Holmes has concluded that the three dead girls, the first his daughter, and the other two his bastard daughters, were all murdered by him; the first, when he realised she wasn’t his, and the other two when he realised they were. He’d immediately tried to associate it with the Blackwood case by scribbling on their naked bodies. Mary finds the entire thing to be rather sad, but the other three are both used to it and terribly condescending when Mary points out the fact that it is, in fact, a very unfortunate turn of events.
“It doesn’t explain the blood though,” Irene says, and Holmes looks at her with a loose grin.
“I rather expect it doesn’t. I do have a fellow theory; however, for the time being, it remains irrelevant. What is important now is placing him into custody and removing him from the House of Commons before Princess Louise arrives.”
Mary sighs, “Poor Lady Dalton. I don’t imagine this is what she had in mind when she asked you to solve the case of her dead daughter.”
“Quite the contrary, I believe,” Holmes hums from around his pipe, “But all shall be revealed in good time.”
“Why can’t we just hand the case over to Lestrade, then?” Mary asks, and Holmes shoots her a ghastly look as Irene laughs.
“The man, dear as he is to me, could not catch a lamb in a pen, much less a corrupt politician with an apparent taste for blood,” Holmes supplies, taking a huff of his pipe in the process. Irene grins, and hands Mary a pistol.
“You know how to shoot, Mary?” Irene asks, and John just rolls his eyes, a grin hiding just beneath his moustache, and Mary smiles too easily back, observes the three vases on the mantle place and shoots them each, one, two, three.
At Irene’s arched eyebrow and jutted hip, she replies, “My father was quite the collector.”
“And you continue to be quite the surprise.”
Mary laughs, head tossed back and neck long, and doesn’t bother to suppress her enjoyment of the way Irene looks at her with something not unlike hunger.
&
She’s not entirely sure if it was a deliberated thing (of course, that’s ridiculous, she knows it was deliberated, knows Holmes would never enter a situation without calculating every possible outcome and benefit), but John and Irene are out, when Holmes brings up the fact that she probably should stay behind.
It takes her a moment to process it, to absorb it, and Holmes stares back at her, all birds-nest hair and stubble. She’s rather aghast, disgruntled, and when she plants her hands rather firmly on her hips, Holmes merely tilts his head ever so slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Your lack of experience in the field makes you quite the liability,” he says. “And besides, it should not be an overly eventful arrest. You are unneeded.”
She doesn’t miss the double meaning, the implications, his face is impassive, cool, and it’s not that she tends towards irresponsible or impulsive behaviour, but honestly, this has been a long time coming. A slow build, and Mary’s pulling a hand back and slapping him before he can move away. Hard.
His footing doesn’t move, but his face does, neck to the side, and Mary can already see a hand imprint forming on his cheek, her fingers stark and red against his pale cheek, and when he turns back, slow and careful, he looks startled and he doesn’t all at once.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t see that one coming,” Mary growls. “Cause and effect, correct? You being a - “ embarrassingly, she’s rather at a loss for words, flustered and furious and maybe more than a little hurt. “A complete prick has certain implications, even if you refuse to acknowledge your entirely uncouth behaviour. You can treat me badly, Holmes, but I will not be ignored.”
She’s breathing too hard, audibly, her chest heaving inside the constraints of her corset, and Holmes is looking at her like she’s something entirely new, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, and maybe she should’ve seen it coming, but he grips her by the back of her head and kisses her hard. Mary gasps, and Holmes has always been an opportunist really, so it’s barely a surprise that he deepens the kiss, tightens his fist in her hair. It’s all too furious and impassioned and rather feels like a new way of arguing, and Mary finds it difficult not to fight back, grip his arms tight in her fingers to pull him against her and then let him push her firmly back against the wall, hard enough that she’s sure there will be bruises on her back from the force.
He leans back for air, just enough that Mary can still feel his warm breaths on her skin. He trails his lips across her cheek, towards her temple, and when he speaks, it comes out hoarse, whispered and hot against the shell of her ear. “You are becoming rather more fascinating to me by the day, Miss Morstan.”
And he moves, takes a step back, and she’s left staring as Holmes tilts his hat, and is out the door before she can say another word.
&
None of them return that day, so Mary sits at home with only her thoughts and Mrs. Hudson for company. She’s always been an especially patient woman, the benefits perhaps, of growing up one of many children, but she finds herself unusually restless, tireless as she moves between reading, filing and cleaning throughout the day. All the while, rather ignoring the lingering sensation of Holmes’ lips on her, his grip in her hair and the way her hand still tingles from the slap.
She rather wonders when she became such an adulterous, debauched sinner, and is rather surprised to find that, perhaps, there are worse things. Although, she cannot say she looks forward to a surprise visit from her mother should the occasion arise. She doubts any amount of rosaries or Hail Mary’s are accredited for such behaviour, and assumes she’s reserved a special seat in Hell. Alas, she wonders if she should request of the devil a position between John and Irene and perhaps (really) Holmes as well.
With pursed lips, she shakes her head, it’ll do no good to dwell on such things, not when her soul is apparently as ugly and unrefined (and perfect and loved and touched) as it is.
She would have kept thinking had her three counterparts not chosen that moment to storm through the door, all bustling with energy and debate.
She quickly smoothes out her dress, rubs a hand over her lips as if that will rid any suspicion from John or Irene, or any unwarranted attention from Holmes himself, and quickly asks, “What’s happening?”
“The town truly is alive with the news that Princess Louise is to arrive a day early,” Irene says, hair pinned back and dress oddly form-fitting and intricate for what was supposed to be a day at the markets.
“We were hoping to intercept Dalton,” Watson supplies, “But he made haste and was able to lose us in the crowd. He disappeared.”
Holmes nods, and grabs a pistol from the locked drawer, cleans it with a spare cloth with a swift and practiced ease as he checks that it’s in working order. “He intends to capture and murder the Princess Louise upon her arrival at the House of Commons,” he says, and Mary can feel her heart rate speed up.
“But why?” she asks, aghast, and Holmes, as focused as ever, claims, “I believe I did Dalton a great disservice. He is not in fact, a Blackwood imitator, rather, his breed of insanity is of a unique and yet all too similar nature.”
“Explanations can wait,” Irene says suddenly, furiously efficient as she tosses Mary a pistol, “In one hour, the Princess is to sit down for dinner with a select number of representatives from Parliament. To her left will be Lord Edgar Moreton and to her right is Dalton. If we do not warn her in time -“
She doesn’t finish the sentence, and doesn’t seem inclined too as she strips off her dress only to pull on a pair of trousers from her drawer, a shirt, suspenders, and then another one of each that she tosses to Mary.
Watson’s already out the door setting up the carriage, and Holmes stays, watches the pair of them change with a practiced pace before holding open the door to allow them both quickly out of the room.
&
The plan, if you can call it such, was for John and Irene to rush into the House of Commons to warn the lady and to aid her escape, whilst Holmes distracts himself with finding Dalton, with the eventual aid of Lestrade and a collection of London’s finest. Mary is to, apparently, sit in the carriage and ensure nobody leaves the building who shouldn’t.
John leaves her with a kiss, hard and brash and cripplingly honest, and it feels all too unreal as the three of them walk into the House of Commons with a sort of practiced speed and haste. And Mary watches, sees the people mill around outside with no clue to the dramatic happenings inside, and she loses track of time, of the people dropping in and out of the building, until finally, with all the impulsiveness she seems to have had breathed into her over the last couple of days, she grabs her pistol, drops it into the back of her trousers, and leaps out of the carriage. She’s halfway to the building when it explodes, the force of the blast throwing her backwards.
Her back collides with the ground with an impossible speed and she’s back on her feet before the screaming’s even started. Panicked, aching and frazzled she races into the House, blindly fighting the dust and debris and the bodies lining the steps. The halls are full of people frantically trying to escape, shoving each other out of the way, and Mary finds her way to the stairs and runs up, keeps going until she’s checking every room, pulling open doors, and she doesn’t know what she’s looking for, is game for anything, everything, until finally, with a jerk, she comes face to face with Dalton, wild-eyed and snarling, pistol pointed squarely at Holmes’ head.
“You,” he hisses, and Mary barely acknowledges it, gun held high as she edges into the room.
“Lord Dalton,” she says, once the door is shut beside her, and Holmes, lounging against the wall, pipe between his lips, says, “I did in fact tell you earlier today that we had done a disservice to Dalton.”
“You certainly did,” Mary hums, palms sweaty, but finger content on the trigger of the pistol.
She edges around the room until she’s beside Holmes, and Dalton lets her, cocks the pistol. His arm is shaking, eyes squinting, and he looks rather like a man caught between a rock and a hard place and for once, Mary finds it difficult to sympathise.
“Yes, well, whilst Blackwood was a man of exceptional skills in trickery, Dalton is simply blinded by pagan rituals of the healing properties of, ah,” Holmes pauses, purses his lips and furrows his brow in mock thought. “What did you say again, my lord?”
“Virgin blood,” he snarls, and Holmes nods quickly, takes a puff of his pipe and glances back at Mary.
“Clearly you would’ve been useless to him, my dear,” he says, and Mary rolls her eyes, hands still on her pistol.
“They were worthless,” Dalton hisses. “My daughters. Inadequate sacrifices. Had they been true believers themselves, the lord would have returned them to me.”
Down the hall, Mary can hear footsteps, a collection of them moving with the sort of intent that leaves little to the imagination. The other two make no acknowledgment of the sound, Holmes instead opting to nod, say, “Their fault, I quite agree.”
“My followers understand,” Dalton continues. “I am not alone. We need a woman of greater social standing, propriety. The Princess Louise’s visit was quite the perfect opportunity. She is unwed. Untouched.”
Mary cocks the pistol, finds the whole thing to be a collection of rather broad assumptions, but Holmes seem to incline himself again. “I do have to agree. She would’ve been quite perfect. A woman of her status and sense of propriety an unusual gift in your line of work, I imagine.”
He takes another puff on his pipe, swaying on his feet in what seems a move of impatience, but his breath is suddenly that much warmer, his voice that much closer to her. Almost as if on a second thought, he adds, “Of course, I do envision my colleagues have warned her personal guard and that those footsteps are not your followers, but rather an assembly of London’s finest.”
It’s around that time that through the doors bursts not the police force, but rather, an assembly of men that can only be assumed as Dalton’s followers.
“Well, it really could have gone either way,” Holmes says, and Mary shoots Dalton square in the chest, fingers wrapped tight around Holmes’ wrist as she pulls him towards the open window. She must look quite the picture, armed and smeared in grease, dirt, all cleavage and grime and Watson’s suspenders, and Holmes beside her, wild eyed and smiling, he pulls her against him, palm hot and heavy on the small of her back, kisses her, and it’d be so easy to lose herself in this. She buries a hand in his dishevelled hair, and, when the sounds of Dalton’s followers go from shock and panic to outward animosity, Mary releases three bullets from the pistol out towards them without tearing her mouth from Holmes.
It’s he who separates them, eyes wild and mouth red, and with a tilted head and curious expression he says, “On occasion, I can almost see what Watson so enjoys in you.”
“Coming from you, that’s quite the declaration,” she hums, and Holmes, with a smile, kicks them off of the window ledge and down into the Thames.
&
“And then Lestrade and the police arrived,” Watson supplies. “The Princess is already on her way back to Wales, much to the detriment of the Prime Minister, but honestly, it’s probably for the best.”
Irene hums in agreement, elbow propped on John’s shoulder as she watches Mary dry herself off, Holmes instead deciding to stay sodden as he glances over towards the shore on the other side of the Thames.
“This flinging yourself out of windows is becoming quite the habit,” Irene says, and Holmes merely smiles, says, “Yes, unfortunately, it would seem I lost my pipe this time though.”
And he did, into the depths of the river as he’d clung onto Mary instead, his hand impossibly fitting around the curve of her waist. She had never been the strongest swimmer, but Holmes had had quite enough body strength to support them both. An unusual sense of accommodation clearly. They’d swum to the boat that Holmes had paid a small fortune to have await them, and then, finally, boarded land where Watson and Irene had been waiting.
“What a fool,” Mary says, looking back towards the House of Commons. “He had a life, a family, to blow it all away for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” Holmes says. “At least so he believed. The want of deities and power take people strange places.”
Mary nods, but she doesn’t remove her eyes from the horizon line, finds she can’t. The adrenaline seems to have bled out of her, and she’s left feeling wasted and wanting, strangely empty, and it’s John who circles an arm around her waist finally, pulls her into the carriage and orders them all back home.
&
Naturally, the adrenaline rather finds its way back, sneaking up her legs, thighs, pooling somewhere between them as they get home and somehow, despite the wetness and the cold and the exhaustion, they end up in the bedroom.
It’s hardly victory sex, celebratory, except for the fact that it is. Watson is kissing her, constantly, heartily, but the hands on her hips are unfamiliar, large but swift, and they undo the buttons on the shirt with a sort of practiced ease. It’s Irene removing the suspenders, but still, Watson above her, on top of her, until he isn’t, until she’s being pulled back hard against a solid, muscled chest that she might not have recognised if not for being pressed against it that afternoon.
“You are proving rather valuable, Miss Morstan,” he murmurs, breath hot against the skin of her neck. “I do believe I will find a use for you yet.”
“And I you, Mr. Holmes,” she grins, leaning around enough to kiss him properly. He positions her easily, his painfully analytical and fluent mind knowing her inside out already, purely from observation, and it takes a minute of his ragged breathes and fluttering lashes against her temple that she realises she rather knows this as well. Knows what parts of him John touches and Irene plays with and she doesn’t think she can do either, but rather, as she rakes her fingernails up his thighs as he works his way inside her, supposes she could come up with something just entirely for her and him.
He fucks her like that, her back against his chest and her knees parted, Irene against her jaw, chest, stomach, and, well, a fair bit lower as well, and John, ever perceptive and loving and kind, watching them with wide-eyed brilliance until Mary holds out a hand, lets him see Holmes passed her neck, pressed against her back, and says, rather simply, “John, please.”
Fin.