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Sherlock should have known that John wouldn’t just let it go.
And yes, perhaps the ex-army doctor walking in on him and Irene in the living room wasn’t the best way for him to find out that Miss Adler was not quite as dead as he’d been led to believe, but once the initial shock had worn off (“Oh bloody hell, you too? Does anyone actually stay dead anymore?”), he’d hoped, had indeed expected, that that would be an end to it. It was not as though anything had materially changed, after all. He had reckoned, however, without John’s dogged determination.
“So… She’s not dead.” John had said after Irene had excused herself, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air between the two men.
“Evidently not.”
“And you knew?”
“Clearly.”
“But you didn’t tell me?” He asked, a slight frown furrowing his forehead as the Consulting Detective shot him the exasperated look usually reserved for when he was being (in Sherlock’s mind) particularly dense.
“Of course not; telling you would rather have defeated the purpose of making people believe she was dead.”
“I suppose so…” John grudgingly conceded, watching as Sherlock crossed to the window and gazed out onto the street with a quiet focus. Joining him, he hid a smile as he saw the focus of attention was The Woman, and they watched together as Miss Adler got into a waiting car and drove off. “Are you going to see her again?” An answer was not immediately forthcoming, however, with Sherlock simply turning quickly away from his friend and moving instead to his latest experiment which had been abandoned across the kitchen table. “Sherlock?”
“I suspect so,” he said eventually, burying himself behind his microscope. “Miss Adler does have a remarkable talent for turning up again and again.”
“And how do we feel about that?” Shooting John a scathing look, Sherlock ignored the question, returning to the view under the lens with a slight shake of his head, signalling the conversation was at an end.
Not that John would let the matter drop that easily.
“You know, you play that song a lot when you’re thinking.”
The soft, lilting music faltered to a stop as Sherlock paused, slowly lowering his violin as he gazed at John with a furrowed brow, perplexed.
“I’m sorry?”
“That song,” John repeated, nodding at the violin as he glanced up from his newspaper. “It’s the one you were composing during all that business with the Adler woman that first time. You play it a lot when you’re thinking; that’s the twelfth time you’ve played it this week.”
Flicking his cool gaze to the instrument in his hands, Sherlock considered this for a few moments before placing the violin back in its case, his movements far too calculated and carefully casual as he sank into his armchair.
“How thrilling you’ve been counting,” he muttered, reminding himself forcibly of the last time he’d said that, the situation annoyingly similar. Scowling deeply, he slouched lower in his seat, resolutely ignoring the memory and the half-mocking scarlet smile that often stalked his thoughts when he looked back on their first meeting with The Woman, keeping his gaze fixed on the wallpaper, fingers tapping an irritated staccato on the arm of his chair. His response seemed to amuse John, however, who grinned at him over the newspaper with feigned innocence.
“Thinking about anyone in particular at the moment?” Sherlock deigned not to reply, simply sighing irritably as he closed his eyes and retreated into his own thoughts. John too returned to his newspaper, hiding his smug smirk.
And so it continued.
“Heard anything from Irene Adler yet?”
“No.”
“Have you tried contacting her?”
“No.”
A pause. And then…
“So… Valentine’s day is coming up. Do you have any plans, anyone you might be, perhaps, seeing again…?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what? I was just asking.”
“You were insinuating. Stop it, it’s annoying.”
“Don’t know what you mean…”
While Sherlock had thought those exchanges were bad, they were as nothing to when the others joined in.
“So who’s this Adler woman I keep hearing so much about?” Greg asked, as Sherlock bent over the body at their latest crime scene, grinning as the Consulting Detective glanced up at him in disgust.
“Oh, for God’s- You’ve been talking to John, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” he replied with a shrug, though the slight twitch of his mouth as he fought to keep a straight face and the mischief sparking in his eyes belied his innocent expression. “Do I get to meet her?”
“No,” came the short reply as the younger man irritably flicked his coat behind him once more, bending back over the body as he turned his attention back to the victim. “And you shouldn’t listen to everything John says; he’s being ridiculous at the moment. Really, Lestrade, does Scotland Yard not have better things to do with its time than listening to gossip?”
“Not at the moment.” Lapsing into silence, Greg took a sip of his coffee, glancing out across the bustling crime scene as he let Sherlock become absorbed once more. “You going to see her for Valentine’s?” he asked casually, hiding a grin behind his coffee cup as the younger man glowered up at him again.
“No, I am not,” he muttered darkly. “What is everyone’s obsession with that day? I fail to see what’s so romantic about celebrating a day dedicated to a man who was beheaded because of his religion.”
“I’d have thought that’d have been right up your street, Sherlock, a beheading,” Greg commented, earning a scathing glare for his trouble. “It’s alright, you know,” he added with a slight smirk, taking another sip of his coffee. “If you like her. You can admit it, I won’t tell John.”
“For God’s sake! Why is everyone so obsessed with her? I do not like Miss Adler,” Sherlock snapped, springing to his feet and glowering at Lestrade. “And you may tell John so too.” With a final glare, he turned on his heel and stalked away, coat billowing dramatically behind him. “The brother did it,” he called over his shoulder as he went.
“Going to give me any more than that?” Greg shouted back, chuckling softly to himself as he was ignored. Worth it, the DI thought as he called Anderson over.
Even Molly had asked him about Irene the last time he’d been at Bart’s, although she, at least, appeared genuinely curious as opposed to merely seeking to torment him with petty insinuations. Not that that was any less annoying; the whole damn situation was irritating in the extreme. Yes, Miss Adler was alive. Yes, he had known. And yes, Valentine’s day was just around the corner, but he failed to see how any of these statements had any bearing on the others.
Not that that had stopped John, who had dissolved into giggles at Sherlock’s muttered curses when he found, upon starting up his laptop, that his homepage had been changed to show Time Out London’s “5 last-minute Valentine’s Day ideas”, and the doctor had been forced to spend the rest of the day avoiding his irritable flatmate. It was pathetic and ridiculous; even if he went into acts of sentiment as obvious and garish as Valentine’s Day (or at all), the idea that Irene would be interested in any of the page’s suggestion was laughable in the extreme. Not that that had stopped him from lingering on the website for slightly longer than was strictly necessary, though he would vehemently deny that fact if anyone asked.
Despite all this, it was the rose which finally broke through Sherlock’s composure and caused him to snap.
“For God’s sake! John? John!” Sighing to himself, the doctor got to his feet and followed the irate shouts of his flatmate into his bedroom, idly wondering what the hell was the problem now.
“What is it, Sherlock- Bloody hell!” he yelped, taking a hasty step backwards as an angry Sherlock rounded on him, brandishing something. “Is that… A rose?”
“You know damn well it is!” Sherlock snapped, thrusting the bloom threateningly towards him, glaring at his friend. “And these inane jokes of yours need to stop.”
“Jokes? But I didn’t-“
“It was bad enough with all the idiotic comments and insinuations,” he continued, cutting across John as though he hadn’t spoken, still waving the flower around angrily.
“Sherlock-“
“And then you had to go and talk to Lestrade and Molly about it so they kept going on about it too.”
“Sher-“
“But this is too far, and-”
“Sherlock!” John shouted, exasperated, as he grabbed the rose off the other man and placed it on the bedside cabinet; he’d had enough of being threatened with a bloody flower. “I didn’t do this.”
“What?” Pausing in his tirade, the Consulting Detective narrowed his eyes as he considered the other man. “But… It must have been you.”
“Nope; I stopped after the homepage thing.”
“But…” Trailing off, a frown furrowing his forehead, he flicked his gaze to the single red rose, perplexed. “Who else would it have been?”
“Beats me,” John replied with a shrug. “Where’d you find it?”
“On my pillow,” came the reply, and moving round the side of the bed, John gave a curious hum as he spotted the corner of an envelope peeking from just beneath the duvet and pulling it out, he turned it over in his hands.
“Looks like there’s a note; must’ve slipped under the covers or something.” Frown deepening, Sherlock turned and plucked the envelope from the doctor’s hands, warily opening it and pulling out the single sheet of paper inside. A short note was enclosed, and reading it, Sherlock’s expression went carefully blank, though the barest hint of a smile could be seen tugging at the corners of his mouth. The note read;
Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr Holmes.
Let’s have dinner.
IA.
“So?” John asked expectantly after a few moments silence. “What does it say?” Tucking the note into his pocket, Sherlock turned and plucked the rose from his cabinet, twirling it between his fingers as he glanced at the doctor with the ghost of a grin.
“That I have plans for Valentine’s Day after all.”