Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
by imp

Of Dubious and Questionable Memory

imp

Summary

Irene steals Watson's wife.

Notes

None

Chapter One

She would have been quite happy staying away.

She would have – well. She would have stayed away, taking the meaning both she and Holmes were unfamiliar with: utter disappearance. No making the papers, no sly visits. Certainly no...longing. A closed door, she and he, with she off to greater things.

It was a lovely image. She closed her eyes to savor it, and then opened them again when she remembered where she was. The ship was small enough that she'd inspected every corner with the help of a sailor easily beguiled by a blush and a giggle, but the second she let her guard down, she was quite sure Moriarty would find a way to get at her.

Had she been capable of it, she would have simply not slept from New York to London. As it was, she slept on deck, during the day and with a knife in her hand. It was night now, and her primary responsibility was staying awake and not daydreaming about Holmes. Or Watson, for that matter.

The thought made her smile. Ah, Watson. How long had it been since she'd supposed he was simply a bumbling stooge, the man upon whom Holmes hung his hat? Both literally and metaphorically, of course. It had been a good twenty years, now, since as a skinny brat she'd left the house and earned her bread with pick-pocketing. Five years old and already an adult in all the ways that counted...or in most of the ways. The least convenient, most persistent way had been taken care of when she turned fifteen. As a precaution, of course. One couldn't be naïve about such things, living as she did.

But that hardly mattered right now, did it? Whatever Watson had been, however long it had taken him to become...something else – it didn't matter a whit. Watson was Holmes' now; in a way, more than he had been before he'd been engaged. Now, Watson had a proper home life, as befitted a man. It freed him to be everything else to Holmes, without the bother of trying to explain their unusual arrangements to himself.

And oh, it was nothing new to be making a study of Holmes. But Watson! Studying him was a lark, wasn't it? One that, evidently, she took far too seriously.

That, she decided, would be her first move upon returning to England. Finding Watson would be easier than finding Holmes, and talking to him would be five times as rewarding. He was a man of substance, after all, and men of substance were far easier to talk to.

She smiled a bit to herself. Talk to, and steal from. After all, when all was said and done, she was who she'd always been – and her coffers were running a bit low.

||

Watson's home was distressingly difficult to get into.

The heads of house did not respond to a flirting woman – nor to a serious, urgent one. The trellis could be climbed, but not without attracting quite a bit of notice. It could be easily accomplished at nightfall, of course, but by then Watson would be at home, which would quite negate the purpose of this call.

Eventually, she decided to do the only logical thing: she called on Watson's lovely wife.

"Thank you so much for inviting me in," she said, smiling in a manner she knew to be superbly charming. "You have such a lovely home."

"Thank you." Mary's returning smile was sharp. The young lady had claws, Irene noted with amusement.

Of course, Mary looked a sight older than she herself was. But she was young in spirit and experience, and those were the only things that mattered in Irene's world.

"What did you say your errand was?" Mary said.

"Oh! Pardon me, I was admiring your statuary." Stolen, no doubt, in Holmes' barely legal way. "I came to speak with Watson regarding a business opportunity. Is he still aiding that friend of his, oh, what's his name? He's quite a sensation in London, the name's just on the tip of my tongue..."

"Holmes," Mary said. Her expression became brittle. "The detective. Yes, he is."

"To your displeasure?"

Mary tilted her head. "Would you invite the confidence of a stranger, then?"

So it was like that, was it? She accepted the partnership, but it chafed her. As it should. The good Doctor Watson could hardly expect his wife to sit at home, content with her one boring life as he lived two interesting ones.

"I apologize," she said smoothly. "I inquired out of a foolish curiosity. I truly do not mean to pry in your private life; I have a good deal of respect for your husband, and I cannot imagine he would invite you to share his life if you were not worthy of similar regard."

That smoothed her out perfectly. "Thank you," she said. "I find it odd – your accent is American, yet your phrasing is as fine as any of ours might be."

She inclined her head. "I have little opinion of either country's choices of diction and accent," she said truthfully. "I have traveled extensively, you see. Spanish, French...Italian. Those are the languages of beauty. The American accent is what I was raised with, and the British diction is what I have adapted to."

"What a life you must have lived! While you wait, you must share a tale or two."

Reel her in and let her go. "I thank you, but I must decline...for now," she said, rising. "I've another appointment that simply cannot wait. But I would love to come back and call upon you at a later date, Mrs. Watson."

And Mary proved Irene's every boastful claim by standing and, with a warm smile, shaking her hand. "Please, Lydia, the pleasure was all mine. I beg you, call me Mary. If you are amenable to returning, I would be happy to call you friend, as well as John's associate."

"Oh! You're too kind." Irene smiled, holding the expression as she curtsied and allowed Mary to escort her to the door. After she'd bidden Mary good day, she allowed the smile to change, to grow into triumph. This was going simply swimmingly.

||

She didn't curse when she saw Holmes entering Watson's residence on the third day in a row that she'd intended to call on Mary. She had other things to do, anyway; she could walk a mile south and con that lovely preacher into granting her access to the church's funds, or she could head east and pay the modiste with funds garnered from Parliament members' pockets. Honestly, for a thief, London held infinite opportunities.

But she wanted to get at Mary. She had a growing feeling that she was on the verge of a theft greater than even Holmes could predict. Mary was simply too intelligent to be a middlingly wealthy wife of a doctor. All Irene had to do was suggest that she utilize that intelligence. Unfortunately, that required contacting Mary. Damn Holmes, anyway.

Well – if she knew he was there, then he wouldn't be at his own residence. Time to wreak a bit of mischief, then. She darted into an alley and pulled her skirt off, revealing the trousers that she wore in lieu of petticoats. A mangy cat regarded her with suspicion that seemed strong even for a feline; she bared her teeth, hissing at it. Silly of her, really, taking her irritation out on the cat – but it started and ran with satisfying haste.

The missish black skirt was easy to stow in the satchel she'd stashed behind a pile of trash in the alley; the hat, she discarded. It was a silly straw thing, and she could steal another in the time it took most people to blink. Her blouse would probably be destroyed by the climb, but she had plans regarding what to do with the tatters.

She saw this as her public duty, really; Holmes was troublesome if he had nothing to occupy himself with. And since she wasn't even British, performing a civic duty here had to be twice as magnanimous.

Holmes, the silly bastard, lived less than a mile from Watson. She climbed up into his rooms easily, ripping her blouse theatrically in two places that were sure to tantalize his imagination. Once she'd made it into his bedroom she stripped her shirt off, replacing it with one of his and folding hers neatly, tucking it under his pillow. She snatched a handkerchief from his desk and paused. Should she spray her perfume? She wanted him to know she'd been here, of course; he'd have no doubt that it was she once he found the shirt.

But she liked taunting him. It added spice to her visits to this dreary little island.

So she spritzed the perfume she carried in her satchel, the only thing she couldn't replace in London given ten minutes and her ten working fingers. Task accomplished, she slid out his window and jumped to the ground.

She'd send a courier to Mary. It would be more difficult to manage it in a manner that Holmes would be incapable of tracing, but once she drew the woman out...

Two days, she thought. If she was even half the woman she thought herself to be, she could have Mary packing her bags and on a train to Scotland in two days.

And if she didn't manage it, she could always push Holmes out a window, or something. Thievery was convenient that way: it gave one almost infinite options.

||

She'd been wrong; it took three days. Mary was really uncommonly devoted. Irene wasn't sure whether to distrust her for it, or wonder if Watson had his wits about him.

Well, no. That was a lie, since she already knew Watson's wits were about as dependable as Holmes' sobriety. But honestly, even a foolish duo such as themselves ought to have seen what they had managed to cage.

"I do not think he is wrong for you," she said, handing Mary a handkerchief. Holmes' was tucked safely into her corset. "But I do wonder if you shouldn't take some time for yourself. Take a trip or something to that effect. It's a lovely new world out there, Mary; women are becoming more independent every day. Just think, you could leave and come back with so many stories to tell your husband!"

Mary blew her nose loudly. Poor woman; her cold was awful. Their hideous dog raised his head for just long enough to give her a disapproving look. "But Lydia, that is not why I married Watson. I've travelled; I've had my fair share of experiences. I want to settle down."

"You can settle down – soon," Irene said. "It's just – oh, why am I even bothering? I'm horrible at hiding secrets. Surely you must have guessed, Mary, that I have an ulterior motive in attempting to convince you to travel."

Mary nodded. "I had thought – but it's rude to ask such questions, particularly of an acquaintance about whom one knows so little."

"I have a ticket," Irene said. For a second she thought she should still say Scotland – but no, not at all. This called for more drastic measures. "To America."

Mary's mouth fell open. "You cannot possibly be serious."

Irene nodded. "It's...well, I intended to travel back, but I've been detained on business. The ticket is first class, you see, so I can't hand it off to just anyone. I have relatives you can stay with in New York – lovely ones. And didn't you say your brother had settled in Boston?"

"Yes. He loves it. But..." Mary shook her head. "I cannot possibly expect Watson to simply allow me to go to America on a lark."

"Allow you! My God, Mary, listen to yourself!" Irene leaned back, her expression the perfect picture of ladylike horror. "I firmly believe a dutiful wife's place is at home, raising children...but one must muddy one's skirts a bit first. Mary, you would love New York. And don't you want to see your brother?"

"It would be lovely. But I cannot."

"You needn't tell Watson who gave you the ticket! Simply say your brother has asked you to visit. Watson must respect your family ties. And he's a good man; I am certain he will. After all, you've shown nothing but respect for his...partner." She spoke the word as delicately as a prayer.

Mary responded with a visible, ridiculously endearing twitch. "I...suppose that is true."

And now for the finish. Irene pressed the ticket into her hand, smiling encouragingly. "The ship leaves in two days. Oh, Mary, say you'll go. I'll meet you at the docks myself, if you'd like."

For a pure, beautiful second, Mary wavered between decisions. The beauty of it was almost enough to make Irene's breath catch. Not Mary, of course, though she was attractive on her own. But the moment, the perfect, chaos-filled moment, that defined a gracefully carried off scheme from a failed one. That moment was why she was a thief; that moment was why she'd sell her soul simply to keep her fingers light and her tongue silver. That moment was why she lived.

And she was gratified, then, by Mary's nervous smile. "I'll do it! I'll tell him tonight. Oh, Lydia, thank you."

Irene smiled. "You don't need to thank me. Just have a marvelous time."

She wouldn't, of course – and as Mary effusively bid her goodnight, she almost felt bad about that. But the woman who emerged from her sojourn in New York would be a thousand times more interesting.

And if she didn't come back to Watson? Well – she wasn't a poet. Breathless moments weren't enough for her and never had been. She was a selfish soul, and Watson left alone would only please her that much more.

||

She met him after the moon had set, the morning before Mary was to depart.

"Follow her," she said, pressing a bag of gold into his hand. He could be trusted, to a certain extent. "I've a friend in New York who will pay you double if she can pick locks and has begun wearing trousers by the time you reach the harbor."

"'ow you think I can make her do that?"

"Arrange for a few incidents. Make her realize that...certain skills...would not go amiss for a woman traveling on her own. She has a curious mind and a sharp wit; more encouragement should not be needed."

The captain of the Lady Mary bowed to her, smiling widely. "I'll do my best."

"See that you do." She'd have someone kill him if he didn't. Insurance, she'd learned, was efficient.

||

"I can't thank you enough," Mary said. "I've never ridden first class before. I've never crossed anything bigger than the Channel!"

It wasn't remotely difficult to smile genuinely. "You've no idea how pleased I am to hear that. You'll have a capital time. Be sure to write me, won't you?"

"Of course." Mary leaned forward, embracing her. "Thank you."

"Here." Irene handed her Holmes' handkerchief, wrapped in a bit of paper. "Open this when you're a day at sea."

"What is it?" Mary's eyes danced as she asked the question.

Damn it. Why hadn't Watson taken greater care to nurture her spirit? A lesser thief would have felt guilt at this point. "It wouldn't be a surprise, then, would it?" Irene kissed her cheek. "You should get aboard. Don't forget, now – write me. I'll be waiting."

"Thank you again." Mary nodded, stepping back and walking towards the ship. Her steps didn't waver.

Yes, Irene thought, watching as the ship set off. She'd do very, very well.

She didn't sense his presence. The idea that a person could do that depended on a stupid belief in instinct, one that had gotten better thieves than herself killed. But she could smell his particular unwashed stench, and could hear the rhythm of his walk, before he made himself known to her.

"Holmes," she said, still watching the harbor. Ugly view; industry did that. "You need a bath."

"Your perfume; your walk; your lack of effort in concealing your accent. Mary spoke of you, and I knew it was you in a second. Finding your footsteps, the hat you'd discarded, and your sleeping quarters was so simple I shan't even repeat the logic that led me there. You know what I did."

"I do, indeed. You said it yourself: I led you there."

"Why'd you do it?" His voice was harsh. "Why'd you taunt me – take her?"

"You sound positively American. Do be careful." She smiled.

He moved in front of her, meeting her eyes. She remained calm; he, on the other hand, looked ready to begin exchanging blows. "Of all the things you could do, all the pain you could exact, you chose that? Why? There's no profit to be had from it, nothing to gain. Tell me why, Irene."

Another moment, this one impossibly sweet, holding so much beauty she almost shied away from it. The web had closed; the fly was caught.

"You followed my logic, and you knew my plan," she said. "I was brazen. So tell me, Holmes."

He was close enough now that she could feel his breath. "Tell you what?"

She smiled. "Why did you let me?"

He had no answer. She pulled back a step and let her smile widen. "I thought so," she said, watching his wild eyes, his ragged breath. "Get some rest, Holmes. I'll call on you eventually; I'd hate for your heart to give out before I get around to it."

She left the docks unmolested; when she took a barge across the Channel a scant two days later, she left uncontested, in a new dress and elaborate hat.

Many things in life were underrated, but leaving Holmes speechless was never one of them.