Dinning with Frogs

12. Memento Mori

The rain is coming down in sheets as Irene makes the dash from her taxi and into the clinic. Inside she shivers, damp jeans clinging to her legs. At least the clinic is warm, although frankly that is all that can be said for it. Irene looks around unimpressed at the drab little waiting room, all dingy carpets and plastic chairs filled with the sick and suffering.

"It'll be about fifteen minutes, I'm afraid. We're running late." The woman at the reception tells her without looking up. Irene finds herself a seat between a woman with a mewling toddler on her lap and a long haired teenager with a persistent sniff.

It looks like flu but is, in fact, the result of regular drug use a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock's sounds in her head. Solvent abuse the most likely candidate.

Oh, do be quiet. We aren't deducing now, Irene tells herself.

It is well over thirty five minutes, in fact, before Irene's name is called. Irene spends the time tapping her foot and cursing whatever influenza scare has stripped the clinic of its magazines. Opposite her a middle aged woman ushers in a nodding white haired old lady. Mother and daughter, no doubt. Irene recognises the expression on the younger woman's face –two parts misery, one part consciousness of her own virtue. Look at me, Mummy, aren't I doing well?

Irene has to look away, anger flashing through her like white heat.

"Miss Adams?"

A sandy head pokes itself around the corner and Irene rises, keeping her head ducked. It is better if he doesn't recognise her just yet.

Irene follows Dr Watson into his office, and watches as he sits at his desk. Dr Watson, picks up a file and scans it before looking at her with a welcoming smile.

"How can I help you today, Miss-" He freezes as she steps forward into the light.

"Dr Watson." Irene watches as his fingers part, dropping the file softly onto the desk, papers spilling out of it onto the floor.

There is a moment of startled silence as John Watson stares at her. Then his jaw settles into a grim line. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"I made an appointment." Irene says.

"Those appointments are for patients," John says jerkily, getting to his feet. "People who are actually ill. Not for blackmailers and terrorists who incidentally are supposed to be dead. How did you manage it this time? You even had Mycroft Holmes convinced."

Irene shrugs. "I have my methods."

John seems to shudder slightly, and Irene realises belatedly that that was a rather Sherlock-like turn of phrase. "I think you should leave."

"Don't you want to know why I am here, John?"

"Not particularly, no."

"There are," Irene hesitates. John Watson is perceptive, and he already distrusts her. She can't overplay this. She drops her voice a fraction of an octave, tries to inject a sense of vulnerability in her body language. "There are things I need to say to you."

"Well, that is a pity. I'm not interested in anything you have to say."

"Please, Dr Watson... John. You need to hear this."

John folds his arms. "Whatever it is you want, I haven't got it. He didn't leave me with anything, certainly nothing I'm passing on to you. So. I think it's best you just leave."

Irene takes a step closer, opening her eyes wide in appeal.

"John - I want to help you."

John laughs out loud at that. "Really?"