A/N: You guys have Pip to thank for the wonderful sum. And I'll I know about being British I learned from her and Alli XD
And Monty Python. But details.
Holmes circled the dead body like a vulture, picking at the scene with his eyes as his beak. He was searching for clues, profiling them quietly into the recesses of his mind, piecing them together as if a puzzle, to see if they would fit.
The victim was of above average height, stocky build and had red hair. He could see through his jeans the knife holster around his ankle. Lifting the denim away, the holster was empty.
"No doubt the knife in his back is his own. I'm sure you'll find his own fingerprints on it Officer."
Officer Lestrade of the CPD glared sideways at the hired detective. "Who asked you anyway?" he grumbled to himself as the hired Detective kneeled beside the shanked corpse of the gang-banger.
"That's none of your concern sir, I have all the paperwork," the man assured him absently. While he was more concerned with how unbelievably annoying his accent was. It was like he was an Irishman trying to sound British. Holmes lifted the man's hand, examining it carefully.
Watson immediately scrambled, tackling the man to the ground. "Evidence Holmes, what the hell are you doing?!" The frazzled doctor twitched.
"Why, hello Watson, I had no idea you swung that way. It's good to know, shall I tell Mary? The poor woman will be devastated, but honesty is the best policy after all-gack!"
"You will do no such thing!" The other Englishman shouted, locking an arm around his partner's neck and tugging sharply.
"Watson!" Holmes shouted in an incredibly high pitched voice, "Stop, can't breathe. It's sort of necessary." He let him go, "He's left handed," he announced after a breath of air, "there's ink stains on his hand. When you're left-handed you run over your lettering, smudging the ink and leaving stains. But there are no tobacco stains between his fingers, thus we can conclude that he was not a smoker!"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Yet," Holmes continued, quirking his eyebrow. "Nothing yet."
"There's no blood around the knife. That means that the wounds were inflicted post-mortem." Watson said, not at all listening.
"We figured the body'd just been moved," the Chicagoan constable defended.
"If this were true there would still be stains on the clothing." Was the absent retort. "Gang tattoo." John Watson stood, removing his gloves with a slap of latex on skin.
He and Holmes exchanged a look of total complete understanding and agreement.
"You know we have to."
"I will NOT."
"This isn't about how googoo-eyed you are for her."
"I am not."
"Then you should be fine with working with her."
"That's an extremely strong no for someone who doesn't give a shit about the woman."
"We are not asking her and that's final."
"Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. You come to me on this, the day of my wedding, to ask me for my help." Finely manicured digits tapped against each other as Irene Adler tented her hands, folding them neatly atop her desk and leaning over to stare the detective down.
"No one knows the underbelly of Chicago better than you Adler." He said it more as an insult than anything. God he hated that woman. "The scum of the earth are your people, Woman." Watson elbowed him in the gut.
"You're thinking of New York Honey. We here in Chicago are classy criminals. No one here would shank someone in an alley and just leave the body." She leaned back in her swivel chair, propping her long legs up on the glass desktop, "There's an unspoken code of cleaning up after ourselves here."
"So you'll help?" This was said by Watson.
"Sure," Irene shrugged, "It's not like I have anything better to do today."
"Aren't you getting married?"
She blinked, "Oh right," with all the grace and authority of a proper business woman, Irene Adler dialed her fiancé's number and told him to suck it.
What it was, Holmes would never know. He couldn't hear above Watson's flailing.
"It's been a long time Sweetheart," Irene slid a hand up to slide against his jaw in a sensual line; she clapped her hand against him twice. Hard. "Didja miss me?"
"Sure," he rolled his eyes, "Who wouldn't miss a classy broad like you. With all your bitching and emasculating."
"It's not my fault I'm smarter-"
"You are not-!"
It's a shame, Irene found herself thinking. He would have made an incredible criminal. He was as devious as she'd ever seen, an incredibly up to par genius. It really was such a shame. Damn his upstanding morals to the sticking point. Really, what were they good for anyway? Irene Adler, who had never committed a selfless act in her life, could not fathom.
But Irene had never seen anything quite like Sherlock Holmes in the midst of solving a crime. If she had to pick an adjective, it would be exhilarating. He was beautiful, and he stole her breath.
And that was why this was not a good arrangement for her.
"If we want to make this go as quickly as possible we will have to work together. Be partners. Can you treat me as an equal Adler?" He held out his hand grudgingly. Watson was clearly forcing his politeness.
She smiled all the same as they tried to break each others fingers, clasping on too hard. "Can you, Holmes?"
Irene Adler never did know what was best for her.
He will never admit this on pain of death, but their rivalry is extremely refreshing to him and (dare he say it?) fun. He is loathe to turn her in to the police and so, really hopes they never catch on to the woman who could run this city if she cared enough to try it.
There is a dilemma in (he physically chokes on the very thought. His pride does not allow such thoughts) actually liking Irene. Many to be quite honest.
She is a criminal, for one.
She's also extremely annoying.
And half the time he has no idea what she's talking about, not that he really bothers to listen anyway.
Sherlock Holmes decides in that moment (as she plucks the violin he's using as a ukulele from his lithe fingers) that women suck. Her more than others.
And he really really hates Irene Adler.
"Ah, budding romance."
"Watson, you like your intestines inside you, am I right?"
Holmes is pretty sure that the world is coming to an end. Everything that shouldn't have been possible in the least has come into being. And the universe seems to be having a good laugh at the poor old Brit.
Because really, what other explanation is there for the following? He's working with his arch nemesis and worse nightmare, he is out of his element, Watson finally found a girl that doesn't think he's gay after ten minutes of acquaintance and he thinks he left the kettle on before coming here.
"You British and your tea," Irene mocks with a deceptively sweet smile when he says that last part out loud. She orders a tall, black coffee and a cheeseburger from the checkout. "You aren't getting out of this Detective." She led him to one of the smaller booths, plopping down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. "I helped you with this." She says, referring to the now wrapped up case of the poor shmuck in the alley.
And there, in a MacDonald's fast aood Restaurant, as he sniffed at a cheeseburger that he wasn't entirely sure was edible and he nursed a cup of piping hot tea, Sherlock Holmes heard the most terrifying words ever uttered.
"You owe me."
So many possibilities, far too much time for his liking.
A/N: Not only do I have a godfather reference but I have a Macbeth one too ^^ Go me.
The shanking was for you Nezzie dear.
This doesn't make sense. I know. It's disjointed and weird and I feel like there are chunks missing but I'm lazy as hell.