Dinning with Frogs

1. Dinner?

Irene feels it as soon as she enters the flat. Something is wrong. What is it? She reaches her hand inside her purse. There is a revolver in the secret compartment inside. She eases it our carefully, eyes darting around the darkened corridor. The living room is empty, half empty coffee cup on the table, exactly as she left it. The kitchen, dark and still, the fridge humming to itself. Turning the corner into the bathroom, Irene feels it. A faint breath of cold air across her face. Someone has left the bathroom window open, just a sliver.

She takes pulls the gun out of her purse, flicks off the safety catch.

"I know that you're here. You'd better show yourself at once." Her voice rings out cold, crisp and powerful: her London voice - a voice she hadn't used for months now. She feels an utterly irrelevant pang, nostalgia. Ridiculous.

She edges carefully down the corridor to her bedroom. The door stands ajar and she can see clearly that the duvet is creased – someone has been here since she left this morning. Someone has lain on her bed. Very carefully Irene places her hand on the pillow. It is faintly damp. Smells of her shampoo.

"Credit where credit is due." A deep voice reverberates from behind her. "This is almost the last place I would have expected to find you."

Irene whirls around, almost dropping the gun. Her heart is thumping, surprise, joy, fear stream through her all at once. He is standing behind the door, a tall still figure, face half hidden in shadow. Irene's heart constricts. He's alive, he's here, he's....

He's one of the most dangerous men you've ever met. Don't forget that now.

She swallows once, hard, and throws back her head. She is London Irene, Leboutins, lipstick and ice.

"Mr Holmes. This is – unexpected."

"Is it?" Sherlock Holmes takes a step out of the shadows, his sharp face thrown into relief by the light from the door. He is thinner than he was when last she saw him; the sharp angles of his face look positively painful, and his voice is hoarse. "Don't you watch the news, Miss Adler?"

"The news said you were dead." Irene points out.

"And you know how talented I am at arranging such trifles." Sherlock crooks his lips at her, a poor pretence at a smile. "Put the gun down, Irene."

Irene lowers the gun only a fraction. "First, tell me why you're here."

Sherlock's eyes gleam in the darkness. Is he angry? No, Irene decides, amused.

"I need your help."

"What sort of help?"

He looks away, eyes travelling the room, weighing up options in his head. How much to tell her. Irene shifts the gun in her hands. He'd damn well better tell her everything.

"For a start, I need a place to stay for a few days. Sleeping rough takes its toll."

"Is that why you appropriated my bed?"

"It seemed like a fair exchange." Irene recalls her own stay at Baker Street. He'd left the window open, not out of forgetfulness but as a tribute to the memoy of Irene's own sojourn in Baker Street. Not a sentimental allusion, more likely a deliberate message. Time to return the favour.

"I don't really do fair." Irene says flatly.

There is a trace, just the smallest trace, of a smile in his eyes as he looks back at her. "True. Nevertheless, you will help me."

"Why?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows a fraction. "There are at least three answers to that question, Miss Adler– the most pertinent of which is that I can make it worth your while."