The Good, The Bad and The Woman

Crucible

17. Crucible

Sherlock twiddled with his phone as he lingered in the middle. Between the kitchen and the living room, between the light and the dark, between clarity and confusion. His thoughts flew wild and crazy through his head like caged birds attempting to flee with no exit around. He had no idea how to clear it all up, and that was a first for the proud man. He'd faced monsters and demons from every circle of hell, but none of them had made him wrestle with himself in this manner. The only one who'd ever challenged his heart like this was her. The woman. Despite everything they'd been through, he still was unsure what it all meant. It had been a deliberate choice, he knew, to never question it even to himself. Questioning meant weakening his machinery and he couldn't afford that. He had to keep sharpening his mind to perfection. Every splinter which roughened him was removed to create smooth curves for his mind to accelerate.

It had been five hours since they'd played the elaborate game with MI6. Five hours since he'd seen Irene speed off on the motorcycle into the masses of people outside Buckingham Palace. Five hours since he'd heard a word from her and the silence was deafening as he waited for news. Five hours of deliberation spent deep within his mind palace. Five hours of unwilling, unwelcomed confusion.

When he heard sounds from the staircase at last, he wasn't sure of much any longer. He'd gotten so caught in the maze of this game he was quite certain he couldn't find a way out on his own.

He sank onto a chair facing the entrance only seconds before a helmet-clad person stepped into the kitchen. They both froze and for a second neither said or did anything. At length, Irene removed the black helmet and set it aside as she shook out her long curls.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked and controlled his voice to remain void of emotion.

Her eyes met his briefly as she stepped forward and raised her right hand. The detective glanced down to find her holding another manila folder for him to take.

As he accepted the olive branch, he asked, "What's this?"

"Everything I could get for you on Godfrey Norton."

"Where'd you get it?"

A smile teased at the corner of her thin lips as she playfully breathed, "Misbehaving."

Sherlock shook his head and momentarily discarded the folder on the table behind him. He had to do this one thing at a time if he was to reach any answers. "Who was he?"

It was clear she knew what the question actually meant as her confidence faded, "… Someone I stole from."

The man exhaled in relief as she willingly helped fill in the blanks. "An ex-client?"

Her eyes were clear as she held his gaze and took another step closer, almost invading his personal space. "He's a dangerous man, Sherlock."

"Tell me," he gently said and was unsure if it was an order or a pleaded inquiry.

Irene sighed and the sound lingered in the space between them as she slowly obeyed, "He's former-CIA. He went rogue about fifteen years ago and the Americans haven't been able to stop him ever since. The allure of the other side simply grew too big and his heart too corrupted. He runs a criminal business mainly focused on illegal weapons' trade, but he's been looking to expand for years."

"Trafficking? Smuggling various goods? Murder?"

"All of the above," the brunette nodded and licked her lips slowly. She was evidently biding for more time and the reason for it remained clouded in mystery. "He's not as refined as Moriarty or Charles Augustus Magnussen were. Norton believes in brawn over brain and quite successfully so. He hasn't had an uproar within his league since the start. No one defies him."