Dinning with Frogs

8. Deerstalker

The hotel restaurant is so dimly lit they have to squint to see their food. The candle between them flickers, making the shadows dance over Sherlock's face as Irene recounts her meeting with Fiona. He interrupts her frequently, irritated that Irene was not able to discern the precise material of her tights, or remember whether her shirt cuffs were buttoned. He has long since given up picking at his salmon en croute but has picked up a fork and is making occasional forays into Irene's spaghetti marinara.

"You know, in some cultures, that would be considered rude." Irene points out, as Sherlock picks out one of her prawns with his fork, only to examine it severely by the light of the candle.

"Nonsense." Sherlock experimentally singes the prawn in the candle flame. "Our cover is that we are couple: couples share food all the time. It's an expression of sentiment."

"You aren't sharing my food, you're torturing it. What did that prawn ever do to you?"

"The chef is having an affair - with his adult stepdaughter." Sherlock squints down at the small shellfish. "I hope that's a stepdaughter."

"You're doing it wrong." Irene informs him.

Sherlock looks up at her, eyebrows raised. "Doing what wrong?"

"The romantic gesture."

Irene twists a piece of spaghetti expertly on her fork, and reaches out with one hand to touch Sherlock's face, brushing the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Sherlock stills, glancing down at her hand and then up again.

"Open wide, darling."

She pops the spaghetti in his mouth. Sherlock swallows reflexively and Irene takes a moment to run her finger thumb back and forth across that plump lower lip before dropping her hand. Sherlock takes a swig of water, coughs slightly, and puts the glass down unnecessarily hard. His cheeks are faintly pink. He glares at her.

"Well. I bow to your expertise."

"Glad to hear it." Irene smiles at him, and then leans forward, dropping her voice. "In all seriousness, that man by the bar seems to be watching us. You might want to the science nerd act."

Sherlock angles his fork slightly, so that it catches the reflection of the bar behind. Then his shoulders straighten slightly, and he reaches out to grab Irene's hand. "You're quite right," he smiles. "Darling. Shall we order desert?"

***

One of the major disadvantages of living in a hotel is that when Sherlock gets up at ridiculous hours of the morning to pace and mutter and tap away on his laptop, he isn't able to do so in another room. After three nights of being woken at three hour intervals Irene has quite made up her mind, she is going to murder Sherlock Holmes. She is just weighing up possible methods, and has settled upon beating him over the head with his own laptop (not exactly elegant, but satisfying) when Sherlock gets to feet, a rapt look on his face, and declares "Clapham Junction."

He is in his jacket and whirling out of the hotel room right away. Irene sighs and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. It obviously hasn't occurred to Sherlock that Irene might need her beauty sleep. She has arranged to meet her mark today.

They've been exchanging messages for the past few days. Irene has learned that her mark's name is Sara and that she is indeed a veterinary student in her final year at the University of London. They've arranged to meet in a Starbucks near Notting Hill.

Irene wrinkles her nose as she enters, the familiar smell of stale coffee mixed with cleaning fluid greeting her like a slap in the face. It isn't the kind of place she'd frequented when she'd had the choice. Irene likes little patisseries, the kind of place that served meltingly delicate French pastries and strong coffee in tiny china cups. Not coffee flavoured water in a mug the size of an elephants foot and muffins that that looked like you could go bowling with them.