CALL ME WHEN YOU NEED ME

[diogenesis]

Who: Mycroft Holmes & Irene Adler
What: Irene has some news.
Where: Flyside; Lost Society
When: Givdi, Ceidary 24th
Notes: Closed post.
Warnings: N/A

Mycroft arrives at the lounge at a quarter past nine. He doesn't have the feeling Irene will be early for tonight's meeting; she'd sounded almost transparently exhausted in her message, and although said message arrived more than half a day ago now (and at a ludicrous time of night which was, in reality, a ludicrous time of morning), the fact that it arrived at all spoke volumes.

The Lost Society at half nine tonight. I’ll see you there. So sorry about the timing, dear, but it would have been dreadfully short notice otherwise.

He hadn't responded to her. It wasn't the type of message that required a response. She knew he'd be there; he knew she knew. (It seems to be this way with them often, here. And who would have known? Who would ever have known, back home?)

He settles down in a corner of the Library and orders a scotch while he waits and ruminates.

Comments

[thedominatrix]

Half a day of sleep, a long shower, a few minutes of oh my God, I'm black and blue and a degree of time spent reorganising her schedule to take account of shifting circumstances and Irene feels on top of things again.

More or less.

She's dressed to conceal, which is something she doesn't really do often, though she's aware it's not actually going to stand up to Mycroft's powers of deduction- especially not if she takes her bolero off, because her arms are bare beneath it, rope-burned and smattered with purple bruises. Her stockings disguise similar bruising and grazes on her legs, but not totally.

She moves like someone very determined not to move at all gingerly, but there's a kind of glint in her eyes- she's battered, not beaten, quite the opposite; whatever she's done, it has somehow worked out well for her.

"I," she says, drawing out the suspense as she clicks closer, a whiskey sour in her hand, and sits down opposite him- hi, hello, greetings are for normal people, "had a fantastically interesting night. But you know that, of course."

[diogenesis]

Mycroft nudges one eyebrow up.

Irene's injuries are, as she anticipated, obvious to him: many of the marks on her legs are just visible through the material of her stockings, and her movements are more deliberate than usual (more deliberate than his own, even). The mink bolero alone is the definition of conspicuous, considering the weather and Irene's penchant for showing skin whenever possible. The source of the injuries is more difficult to ascertain due to the clothing (and this was likely her real goal in covering up), but a hard fall was certainly involved (judging by the state of her hands, a hard fall onto an unpaved road—possibly out of a vehicle). Knowing Irene, it was during an escape of some sort. No wonder she looks so proud of herself.

“You two really are quite alike,” he lets himself say. There's no need to name who he's comparing her to.

[thedominatrix]

"Only I'm much more charming," she agrees- noting but not mentioning the fact that this is the first time Sherlock has come up in conversation since he left and she decided to be friendly.

She takes her time. Why wouldn't she? She crosses her legs, leans back, sips her drink- and gives him a long, slow smile.

"Ask," she suggests. Well, alright- orders. It's half a matter of wanting to find out what he already knows or can deduce, and half just wanting to control the conversation.

[diogenesis]

She is much more charming. Mycroft lets her have that.

He also lets her boss him around, for now; he's more interested in hearing about what happened than he is in the two of them talking circles around one other.

“Off of whose wagon did you fall yesterday, Ms. Adler?” he says.

[thedominatrix]

"Very good." As if about to offer him a Scooby snack.

She resettles, drawing her legs up under her on the chair- you're not really meant to put your feet on other people's furniture, but neither are you really meant to initiate hostile gang takeovers. The chair will survive; in the long run, so will Baedal. And in the short run, so has she. And this whiskey sour is hitting the spot. Life is good. "How much do you know about Baedal's gangs, Mr Holmes? Specifically a pack of gents- and ladies, and others- called the Tuatha."

[diogenesis]

The patronization wears at him, more due to impatience than anything else. But impatience, for Mycroft, is novel enough in and of itself—something else he has to concede to Irene.

Part of his duty to Princess Nuala is to stay abreast of Baedal's political climate. Organized crime contributes to that climate, and while he can't keep as watchful an eye as he could in London, he's still able to remain informed through news and rumors. The Tuatha (founded, apparently, by someone with a connection to Ireland) have been a recent topic of interest in the rumor mill; as might be expected of rumors concerning a criminal organization, they've been none too pretty. Irene falling out of a wagon is making more sense by the second.

“I'm aware of them,” he says, not feeling the need to say any more than is necessary.

[thedominatrix]

"Then you'll know their leader's name," she says, eyebrows up- and her tone is all he'll need. She's fishing for a particular answer, which means that she wants him to be wrong, which means that she's done something involving the leadership of the Tuatha, which explains at least why despite the bruises and the grazes and the sprained arm, she's positively glowing. A wolfish grin breaks out on her features.

More of that I know that you know that I know, then. And more melodrama.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft knows there's something he doesn't know, something new that's happened due to whatever adventure Irene's been on. What that something is, in the general sense, isn't hard to guess, but coming out and saying as much would spoil Irene's fun, which would only cause her to try and create some other type of fun (and so might begin the aforementioned talking in circles routine).

“I might know their name, though I suspect the title of 'leader' is newly won,” he replies, repurposing her words in a stubborn attempt to walk the line between playing his role here (this role on top of every other role) and maintaining some semblance of dominance in the exchange.

[thedominatrix]

She tuts at him over her drink, drawing her eyebrows down in a parody of deep disappointment which lasts for all of two seconds.

"Spoilsport," she says. Takes a sip. "Or genius. So hard to tell the difference sometimes. But you're quite right. At about four in the morning, Cenel was killed and replaced by a man named Ollav. It was...messy, but insular, the only casualties were gang members. You'll hear about it from other channels soon, I'm sure. He's not a quiet one." And it almost sounds like she's talking about-- "Ever." Ah. She is.

"So, this much is a heads-up, or an advertisement, if you like. 'Try our new service', that sort of thing." She has access to a certain level of information, but also influence- that's what she's offering him a chance to buy into more so than the information, which he could likely get himself. "Think about it. But now, the story- oh, and I've ruined the ending already. Well. It begins like this." She's leaning forward now, smiling, her voice lowering slightly, intimate and darkly exciting. "I'm minding my own business in a certain bar- rough place, but I like rough places sometimes- and Ollav's off doing his thing, leaving me to my own devices, when Cenel, like the idiot he is, was, gives a man behind me the nod and I feel the blade of a knife against my back. So- deduce, Mr Holmes, what happened next?"

[diogenesis]

Mycroft takes another sip of his drink as he listens to Irene talk (and he is listening, in every sense). Aside from the silent commentary of a raised eyebrow here and there, he doesn't interject until she's asked him to do so.

It's obvious Irene hasn't been stabbed—or if she has, the wound has already been healed (which, he reminds himself, is possible here). Even with that possibility, however, Mycroft thinks it unlikely, since not only would such an event be traumatic, but Irene probably wouldn't be looking so smug about it, or so eager for him to find out.

Why Irene Adler might wind up held at knifepoint in a bar often frequented by gangsters she happens to be doing business with is not exactly a mystery; it's the what makes this time different from all the others that's the real question.

“There was an interruption. Something unexpected that stopped you from smoothing things over.”

[thedominatrix]

Her smile is sudden, sparkling- it's not hard to see why people (...other people) go to extraordinary lengths for it.

"Yes. Precisely."

She doesn't sound patronising this time, but genuinely appreciative, leaning back comfortably in her chair.

"You know her, actually. We both know her." And she raises her eyebrows- another gesture of solidarity, you and me together, meant to speak volumes of their alliance, suggest shared secrets. "Stephanie Brown." A beat, and Irene adds, "She threw a knife."

Her eyebrows probably couldn't get higher.

It's a toss-up as to whether they're at the point of naturally having conversations which play out beneath the actual spoken words, or whether Irene's forcing it, automatically trying to advance the level of intimacy between them. Those few words, though, come with all kind of implications, the most prominent being a very superior, disdainful kind of well you can just imagine invitation to speculate on all the trouble that caused.

(Oh, alright: the word is 'bitchy').

[diogenesis]

Mycroft is no stranger to cattiness or disdain, but while in other circumstances he might be quick to join Irene in both, this news sends him in another direction. He slowly closes his eyes, brows pulling together just so; he ends up looking like he has a dull headache. Various items under the header 'Stephanie Brown' reorganize themselves in his mind, and part of the new picture they form doesn't please him.

“I suppose she thought she was doing you a favor,” he says, his demeanor becoming chilly around the edges.

[thedominatrix]

Unexpected, and Irene's lips part as if to shape a question- more really? than why? because she's never too much at a loss to explain why people attach themselves to her. Not like her, necessarily, though that happens a lot- but no matter what people think about her, they think about her.

Of course, his case is unique. Well, they're all unique, when one looks at the small details, and Irene does. People come to her to feel known, sometimes- known and accepted.

"She did," she says. "She acts on impulse, it's all so very vigilante--" She enjoys that word, groans it, then stops and breaks her rhythm intentionally, her smile like the last digit in a passcode no one can crack. As if explaining, answering a question he didn't ask-- "You're angry."

[diogenesis]

Mycroft leans slowly back in his chair and crosses his legs, the undercurrent of ire that had been there a moment ago flowing smoothly into something stern and impersonal. He looks at Irene as though the conclusion here should be obvious.

“Ms. Brown endangered an important business partner of mine. I would not have been pleased to have her... rashness affect our arrangement.”

[thedominatrix]

"Yes," she says, as if he's the one not picking up on the obvious as she's oh so patiently guiding him through it. "Like I said. You're angry." She gives him a smile, the sort of which she's had men hanging on before, and finishes her drink, letting the conversational break as she gestures to a waiter and has another brought over serve as a breath before carrying on her story.

"It's amazing how badly criminals take that sort of thing," she sighs blithely, once they're left alone. "No thanks to Ms Brown's heroics, we weren't immediately taken out back and shot. There was all the traditional pushing and shoving, everyone was beginning to get very skittish- considering I was there with Ollav's blessing, pulling a knife on me was basically pulling a knife on him, just a bit more cowardly considering he's not far from seven foot and once ruined a pair of my handcuffs struggling." She smiles over her cocktail, taking a sip- pausing, probably, to let that image sink in. "We were thrown into the back of a carriage, which is where your falling off the wagon deduction comes in- though I have to protest that we jumped, actually."