Dinning with Frogs

4. Trust Issues

Irene wakes with a start, every nerve on edge, certain without knowing how that something is in there, in the darkness, with her. Automatically she reaches towards the bedside table for her revolver, but before she can reach it a hand closes around her wrist.

"Oh, I don't think so." A voice says in her ear.

The lamp snaps on, and Irene is looking up into the cold blue eyes. Sherlock's Holmes is standing above her, face pale, teeth bared. Irene swallows.

"What did you tell them?" he hisses. Nails bite into her wrist.

"What? Tell who?" Irene says, struggling to sit up. "Let go of me. "

Holmes drops her wrist, but continues to loom between her and the cabinet where the revolver is secreted.

"Moriarty. What did you tell him about me, about John. God, I should have known. You and your fairy stories...." Sherlock trails off with a very animal snarl. Irene looks at him carefully. His face is chalk white, and veins are standing out on his forehead and his neck. She has a feeling she is going to have to play this very carefully, if she wants to avoid being throttled.

"What makes you think I've told Moriarty anything?" She asks, in as calm and reasonable a tone as she can manage.

Holmes takes a wad of paper from his pocket and throws it at her. It appears to be a page of one of the newspapers he's been looking at earlier. "District Council to abolish Recycling Scheme...?" Irene reads in bemusement.

Sherlock hisses, and turns the sheet of paper over. It is a set of what looks like class photographs –children sitting in rows, staring out at the camera with practised smiles.

"From the Worthing Gazette.Your local newspaper, Irene, from thirty years ago. Recognise anyone?"

Irene looks again, carefully, blinking away the haziness of sleep. She definitely doesn't recognise any of the teachers – and the children can't be more than 5 years old, how can he possibly expect her to – Oh.

Boy in the bottom row, knees scuffed, dark hair badly cut. Not smiling.

"Is that – "

"Jim Moriarty, yes. Although apparently in those days he was known as Jamie MacKenna. Still. I never forget a face."

Irene's mouth is suddenly dry. She swallow, forces herself to meet Sherlock's gaze levelly as she passes the photo back. "Coincidence."

"Oh really."

"I promise you. It's a coincidence."

"So you just happened to find yourself a safe house in the very same, very dull town that Moriarty grew up in."

"These things happen."

Sherlock bares his teeth in a snarl. "You ought to know by now Irene, I am not a man to be lied to."

"I know that. I'm telling you the truth. I haven't heard from Moriarty or any of his friends since you left me in Karachi."

"Why should I trust you?"

Irene looks down at the bedsheets, and sighs. It's a good question. She runs through several alternative answers in her mind, before finally deciding that the truth is probably the best tactic after all.

"You shouldn't." she answers at last, looking up and holding his gaze as levelly as she can. "I did ask Moriarty for protection, after you broke the code on my phone. He told me to go to Hell. Said he didn't reward failure. I haven't contacted him since. Not out of loyalty to you, but because there wouldn't have been any point."