Anonymous said: Adlock prompt: sherlock finding out about Irene's parents. Xxx
"Another one dead."
Lestrade grumbled as he added stack of files to the growing case. “That’s the fifth one in a month. We still don’t know who the murderer is. We don’t even know if it’s the same guy. We have to figure this out, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. The thought that anyone would doubt his intellect was ridiculous. “And that’s why you’ve called me, of course. To do the figuring out. I assume that there are no links to the victims’ backgrounds but,” he took out one of the folders and scanned it. “You see, there is a pattern. A solitary stab to the chest. Although autopsies show different causes of death, poison, strangling, broken neck, they continue to stab their victims at the heart.” He scanned through the photos as if he were looking through high school memoirs. “Someone’s sending a message.” He looked at the detective inspector with that unmistakable spark in his eyes whenever he’s faced with a challenge.
Lestrade huffed and shook his head, “Well, I’ll leave you to this. I have to help John with interviewing the victim’s families.”
Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing him. Ten minutes after Lestrade left, the front door opened. Tainting the air with a familiar vanilla fragrance whilst leaving the sound of stilettos at its wake.
Sherlock sighed. “I told you to stay away. You’re supposed to be dead.”
The Woman laughed as she walked over to him. “Hm, where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock turned to look at her. She was wearing one of her signature structured dresses, black lace over white forming kaleidoscopic patterns, hugging her body in the most flattering way possible. She adorned herself with diamond marquise-cut earrings, Louboutin stilettos, and an amused smirk. He turned his eyes back to his work at that.
"What are you doing here, Woman?" Letting the annoyance color his question. "Can’t an old friend visit?" She said as he looked over his shoulder.
Her breath stopped as he looked at the photos. He can sense her body temperature drop. He could almost feel her frozen at the spot. He turned to look at her but seeming to remember herself, the Woman looked at him with inquisitive eyes. “What’s that?”
"A case. Murder." He said as he stared at her intently.
"Obviously. But what’s it about?" Her voice sounded nonchalant but he could see the anxiety forming from the lines forming on her forehead.
"Five victims have been stabbed on the chest in a month. There are no apparent links to them, only that they were quite big names in England. What’s interesting is that although they’ve been stabbed on the chest, the causes of their death vary from poison to strangling. So the stab was a signature, a message."
"Hmm," she replied distractedly as she sat on his chair.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Irene, scrutinizing every detail. Her eyes focused on a distant point in the room, pupils darting from one object to another. Her thumb kept rubbing her index and middle finger in a frantic pace. Her shoulders were stiff, held up like a shield.
"You know something." Sherlock looked pointedly at her.
That snapped her out of her reverie. She lifted one corner of her mouth up in a sly smile. The dominatrix was back in place. “Do I?” She smirked at him and quirked her eyebrows as if to say Go on, then. Impress me.
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked back at the list of victims. Journalist. Businessmen. Politician. Novelist. Men. Women. Aged from early 20s to late 40s. Nothing connects, unless…
He looked back at The Woman with a new gleam in his eyes and then back at the list.
All are highly successful in their fields of work. All working on highly-demanding jobs which may require a stress-relief of some sort. All have an exorbitant amount of money to spare. Money to spare on…
"They’re your clients." He suddenly exclaimed.
Her smile grew wider and sat back on Sherlock’s chair. “Someone’s after you.” She continued to smile, though she can see the strain forming at the corner of her lips. She crossed her legs. She didn’t say anything.
"Tell me." He urged after a beat.
"And spoil all your fun?" She sounded nonchalant but he can see the undercurrent of distress beneath her calm exterior.
"Someone is either trying to break down your clientele to leave you bankrupt—" He stopped when he heard her scoff slightly. He rolled his eyes then continued. "Or someone’s trying to find you. With the way the murders were executed: clean, simple, hidden. I’d say they were experts. Assassins. Since you are the only link they have, then this would mean someone wants to find you." He looked at her, eyes turning into the color of storm clouds. "And kill you. Somebody knows you’re alive."
"Moriarty?" He asked himself, then shook his head. "No, he wouldn’t waste so much time and effort on targeting you to get to me. Moriarty wants me; he’ll start with me. I doubt he knows anything about us in the first place."
He looked at the photos once again. He took out his magnifying glass and inspected the victim’s wounds once again. “These are no ordinary knives. The openings are too wide for an ordinary knife. It’s not a sword, the wounds don’t run that deep. It’s not a blunt object, they’re too clean.” He drew the pictures closer and moved them from one angle to another. “It’s as if the blade curves at some point. The blade isn’t even thin, there’s a wideness to it. It’s like…like a predator sinking his teeth into the prey. A fang.” He looked back at Irene.
Her arms and legs were crossed. Her expression was blank. But she’d grown two shades paler. “You know them. You’re familiar with this mark.” He folded his hands behind his back and bore azure grey eyes into her, trying to drill the truth out of her with his stare.
"When you first saw the photos of the victims, your face bleached. You stopped in your tracks, and I could hear your breath stopped for approximately six seconds. It’s not just about the clients. You know the signature of the murderer. You know them and you’re afraid of them. A fang. Chemistry results reveals some sort of silver residue. A silver fang-shaped blade. You know them."
She smiled at him politely as she crossed her arms. But he could see from the glassy haze of her eyes that she was close to breaking down. He walked to her, dropped to his knees to level his gaze with hers, and said, “Tell me.”
He took her hands on his and brought it close to his lips.
An intimate gesture. A showing of sentiment. A vulnerability. But for the first time in a long time, seeing her carefully-laid fortress slowly crumble in front of him, it doesn’t matter.
She took a deep breath and one traitorous tear rolled down her cheek. “My parents.”
**Okay, so I don’t know if this is what you expected but any comments?