Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 19

March

He staked out the flat for just long enough to be sure the lights hadn't been switched on with the approach of dusk and then unlocked the door he'd closed only a few hours before. The flat was cold and dark and the staircase echoed to his footsteps so he flipped the lightswitch and then had a good look for wires which would indicate CCTV or another security system connected to the entrance. There was no evidence of any such technology, only a heavy-duty mortice lock in need of oil, which had caused the sounds he'd noticed on his first visit. He found it difficult to believe she would be so lax about her security and he added that to the pile of conclusions he needed to test.

He retraced his steps, starting in the bedroom where no one had stripped the bed or washed the sheets and the scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. But there was no trace of a perfume bottle in any of the cupboards, and no other toiletries in the bathroom. She couldn't possibly have fitted all her cosmetics in that tiny suitcase, which meant that she must keep them elsewhere. That itself suggested that the flat was not her home.

He hoped that the clothes in the walk-in wardrobe would disprove his theory, and although they passed a cursory check, when he went through them more carefully the alarm signals his brain had been trying to send him the first time round now sounded loud and clear. Many of the dresses, skirts and trousers were of different, mismatching sizes, some too big to fit her; all were high street brands and all showed signs of wear. Pawing through the garments he finally found what he was hoping wouldn't be there – a sales label from a charity shop. Irene hadn't ever worn these clothes, they were a bulk buy designed to fill the cupboards and give the impression of residence, should anyone check.

He half ran into the living room, pulled a book at random off the shelf. Inside was an old library stamp. He checked another, and another – all bore the same stamp; all were from the same library. This was a job lot of surplus stock bought at auction somewhere to fill holes on the shelves and create the illusion of domesticity. A careful look at the periodicals he'd noticed before revealed that these were all new, set forward on the shelf and bound in bright red, while the spines of all other books around them had been carefully selected as a uniform beige. Someone had placed these books to catch the eye, and, given that they were similar to the titles he had in his own flat, the conclusion he drew was that these books had been arranged to catch his eye alone. Irene did not live in this flat, but she'd wanted it to appear to him, specifically him, as if she did.

The kitchen cupboards presented a slight challenge – she'd spent enough time here to need plenty of tea, which she'd drunk while sitting at the dining table, because the ring marks he'd noticed on it before suggested frequent use. His mind provided the answer to that one readily enough – he'd been sent the key to this flat a year ago, could have cracked the code and come around at any time and she needed to be here when he arrived. That meant surveillance. Someone had been watching him, must have been watching him for a whole year, around the clock, ready to alert Miss Adler whenever it looked like he was heading in her direction. Every ring mark on this table, every cup of tea probably represented an occasion she'd sat here and waited for him.

This whole flat was a trap, a lure, a very specialised bait meant only for him.

He took out his phone, searched for the final confirmation. According to the internet, the flat had last been sold twenty years ago, long before she was old enough to apply for a mortgage, which meant it had been leased out ever since.

This wasn't her home, she didn't live here, but she wanted it to look like she did. For a very short period.

The illusion only needed to last for a single night, because it would have been obvious in the cold light of day, as it was obvious to him right now, that he had been deceived.

Therefore, the aim of the trap, its only purpose, was to trick him into bed. He dropped the phone back onto the table with a clatter, gritted his teeth. That was all she had wanted, to sleep with him once, and in so doing demean, humiliate and embarrass him as much as possible. She had never loved him. She had played a very long, and a very expensive game with one purpose – to ensure he knew when he was beaten. This was revenge for the way he had left her at the mercy of her enemies, by solving her phone and exposing her secrets to his brother. This was payback.

He had fallen in love with her. Worse, he had told her so.

She hadn't wanted his love, hadn't returned it, and as soon as he'd admitted it she never wanted to see him again. Wherever she was now, she must be laughing at him.

His cheeks flushed at the very thought of Mycroft finding out, the derision and the pity which would inevitably follow. John's empathy would be even harder to bear. They could never know what a fool he was. Instead he could have to conceal it, and he would never, ever allow his feelings to cloud his judgement again.

He pushed at the phone with a fingernail. But she couldn't go unpunished. Every adversary should be brought to justice, no matter how long it took. At some point, she would make a mistake and he'd watch her fall. He would make her beg for mercy and this time he wouldn't come running like her pet dog, gagging to save her.

He tapped out a careful, considered message on his phone, sure she'd be waiting for his call.

Find me, he wrote. An order this time, a threat. Before I find you.

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