A Confrontation with Irene

By the time the senior student leading the group finished checking everyone's work, it was already eleven thirty. The whole party managed to get a free lunch prepared by the mansion's private chef, and even more extravagantly, each person had a servant waiting on them.

How much wealth did it take to support so many people? Sitangna didn't know how to respond to the servants' attentive care and lost count of how many times she thanked them over the course of the meal.

As she ate, she was secretly envious. Being born into the right family really was a skill. She was a second-generation rich kid herself, but she was clearly on a different level from this "second-generation rich kid" who lived on an estate surrounded by servants.

To disguise their purpose in making the sudden visit, Sherlock and Watson were still posing as reporters conducting an interview. They had also obtained press passes from a friend who worked for a tabloid to support their cover.

Irene Adler's residence was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and a few incongruous elements. Sherlock glanced around and guessed what weapons were loaded into the security devices.

It was a tightly guarded house.

Watson excused himself to find the bathroom, but actually hid inside to install a listening device. Sherlock, meanwhile, walked slowly into the living room, which was full of suggestive decorations. No one came out to greet him.

His gaze swept over every detail like a searchlight. Where could the things be hidden? This woman who toyed with the most powerful people, who moved through high society stirring up trouble yet always managed to keep herself out of it-the opera queen of Great Britain.

The oak logs crackled as they burned in the fireplace, their scent mingling with that of cigars and old parchment, barely diluting the perfume in the room.

Rather than concealing herself in the shadows as Sherlock had expected, Ms Irene Adler sat upright at a Bechstein grand piano, her fingertips hovering over the keys like an aria frozen in time.

"Good evening, Mr Sherlock Holmes. And your faithful chronicler, Dr John Watson." She did not turn around; her voice rang through the living room, deep and melodious as a cello.

A long gown of deep purple velvet enveloped her upright figure, and a malachite brooch at her neckline glimmered an eerie green in the morning light. It was an old gift from a certain royal highness, now a badge of her composure.

"Please forgive such a shabby reception. I only got back from a Don Giovanni rehearsal at Covent Garden in the early hours yesterday, and my little assistant was exhausted too."

She finally turned, her gaze landing precisely on Sherlock's face, as though she had already seen through his disguise. "Oh, great detective, you look more... angular in person than in photographs."

Sherlock did not respond. He surveyed the entire room without expression.

The full score of The Marriage of Figaro lay open on the music stand, neatly sealed in plastic. The fact that the score had been laminated showed that it held a significant place in its owner's heart.

An unopened letter bearing an Austrian postmark sat on the coffee table, and a photograph on the mantel showed her with a handsome man-Godfrey Norton, her husband and London's sharpest lawyer.

Every detail silently told Sherlock that the woman before him was no plaything who used her body to deal with the powerful, but an artist who used her mind to weave a web of intelligence.

The assessment of her in the file contained obvious misconceptions and stereotypes.

"Since you have a happy marriage, those photographs together should mean nothing to you now." Sherlock dispensed with the pleasantries. "The encrypted mobile phone in your possession is threatening Britain's security."

Irene chuckled and ran a fingertip over a row of staccato marks on the score.

"Do you mean the little toy Mr Mycroft 'accidentally' left behind at the club? I just happened to pick it up and was wondering how to return it to its owner."

"Or do you mean the photographs a certain royal highness sent you to retrieve?" Irene asked teasingly, watching the man search all over her home.

"There are rather a lot of things you want, so I put them together."

She went to the standing coat rack, pulled a black phone from her bag and pushed it to the edge of the table. "Unfortunately, it's very particular about its owner. Enter the wrong password just three times, and it will swallow all its secrets."

Watson, who had come in only a short while ago, couldn't help interjecting. "Then why didn't you just destroy it?"

"And have the intelligence agencies decide I was stealing state secrets?" Irene raised an eyebrow. "You're oversimplifying things, Dr John."

"My motto in life is 'live and let live.' I love my husband and my little assistant dearly, and I absolutely cannot let them fall into danger. This phone is my insurance."

She suddenly looked at Sherlock, a sharp glint flashing in her eyes. "For instance, Miss Molly Amber, who provides you with 'experimental materials' at St Bartholomew's Hospital."

"Or Miss Sitangna, who follows you around, helping you solve cases and easing your worries." The unusual expression on Sherlock's face showed that her probe had succeeded, and Irene understood at once.

"Oh, so it's the latter." Irene brushed her fingertips over the piano, then gently closed its lid. She was afraid Sherlock might lose his composure and damage it.

"Just think: if she were drawn into the storm because of you, what would you choose?" The air suddenly froze as Sherlock met her gaze with a piercing look.

Even Irene, meeting him for the first time, knew of Sitangna's existence. Watson stared at his partner in shock, while the latter maintained a calm expression.

"Miss Amber's professional conduct is beyond reproach," Sherlock said rapidly. "And Sitangna isn't as fragile as you imagine."

"But your little probe was indeed as clumsy as a street trick." Sherlock took the phone and entered the password he had guessed.

Buzz-

Incorrect password. You have two attempts remaining.

"Is that so?" Irene rose and walked to the window, sunlight dancing lingeringly over the hem of her dress.

"Mr Holmes, the mouth can say the opposite of what it means, but the heart cannot."

"When you mentioned her, your heartbeat sped up for a full half-second." She copied his powers of observation, her red lips delivering words that struck straight at his one weakness. "That's what your carotid artery told me."

"What's the password?" Both knew exactly what this contest was about, and Sherlock lost patience outright.

Two more wrong attempts and the phone would lock. That wasn't the result Sherlock wanted.

"You're quite clumsy at changing the subject." Irene pressed her dazzling red lips to the windowpane, apparently greeting someone downstairs.

"Your birthday? Your husband's birthday? No, you wouldn't be so trite. Perhaps your wedding anniversary." Sherlock entered another password, though he didn't think Irene would choose one like that.

Buzz-

Incorrect password. You have one attempt remaining.

Sure enough, she wouldn't set a password like that.

"Wow, only one attempt left, dear Sherlock." Irene had her assistant bring tea, and the rising steam drifted across her face, blurring the view. "Actually, I've already told you. Think about it."

"Come on, Sherlock. I can't be much help with things that require brains, so it's up to you." Watson cheerfully clinked his cup against Irene's. It was rare to see Sherlock get the worst of an encounter; he had to tell Sitangna all about it when they got back!

A sudden knock at the door broke the stalemate. The man from the photograph burst in, bringing the chill with him, rainwater still dripping from his lawyer's briefcase. London's damned weather!

"Darling, we're going to be late for our appointment at city hall-good heavens! Mr Holmes?" He stepped warily in front of his wife. As a well-known lawyer in Britain, he knew that few people failed to recognize Sherlock.

He knew what his wife had done before. On the night after their wedding, they had confessed everything and given themselves to each other, body and soul, so he was clearly very wary of the famous private detective's arrival.

"Don't be nervous. Mr Holmes is only here to look for something." Irene slipped her arm through her husband's and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

"Darling, please give it to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Tell him..."

"It's stolen property recovered by Mr Sherlock Holmes." She turned to Sherlock, her smile full of teasing. "Unfortunately, he can't crack the password, so it can only be kept at the police station as an abandoned item."

"The password is 1786, the year The Marriage of Figaro premiered." Sherlock held out his hand for it. "Give it to me."

Irene showed nothing on her face, but her eyes were full of pleasant surprise. She continued to tease Sherlock. "Are you sure, great detective? This is your last chance." Irene had her husband give Sherlock the phone, not at all afraid of his taking it.

Tap tap tap tap...

Click-unlocked.

"That's amazing, Sherlock! I knew you could do it." Watson put down his teacup; the great detective's praise machine was up and running.

"It seems you're smarter than the rumors say. Congratulations, great detective." Irene put on a fur coat. She was about to leave with her husband. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

"We won't." Sherlock and Watson did not stop them from leaving. Mycroft had tasked them with retrieving the phone, not the people; they could go wherever they pleased.

All the way home, Sherlock was still absorbed in his earlier thoughts. He had indeed underestimated her somewhat and overlooked the annotations on that stack of music.

The sound of the car's engine crushed the silence of the entire street as they arrived at Mycroft's residence to hand over the mission item.

Clack. The phone was placed in front of Brother Mycroft. "The password is 1786. You can investigate the rest yourselves."

Mycroft glanced at the cocky Sherlock. Though suspicious, he still unlocked the phone with the password Sherlock had given him. Looking at the window that popped up on the screen, he felt his temple twitch.

This brother of his had landed him in it!

[Data backup complete. Completely erasing data and restoring factory settings.]

Clearly, they had been played.

Several months later, a plain picture frame appeared on the mantel at 221B Baker Street, with that very phone attached to it. Watson only noticed it while cleaning the fireplace.

"That lady?"

Sherlock was adjusting the strings of his violin. At those words, his hands paused briefly. "It's a reminder, Watson."

Rosin dust danced in the beam of light as the bow pushed and pulled through the air. "The most dangerous traps are never gun barrels or poison, but the cracks human nature chisels into the high walls of your mind."

Irene's intelligence and cool, composed mind ensured that Sherlock never again underestimated any woman, especially an opponent.

Back to the present.

After Sitangna finished lunch, several senior students explained that they had other plans that afternoon, so everyone prepared to part ways right there.

A kind senior student who had driven knew that Sitangna had come by taxi and decided to take her home first. In the freezing weather, she couldn't bear to let the young woman go out alone.

"I'll take our junior home, Lilian," the senior student suddenly called out as they were about to leave, stopping Sitangna and Lilian.

"Don't you have a date this afternoon? I remember Baker Street being quite far from your place. I happen to be going out, and it's on my way."

Hearing William thoughtfully offer them a solution, Lilian seemed to understand something and gave Sitangna a teasing look.

"That's right. I might not make it back in time. Nana, would you be willing to let William take you home? It's fine if you don't want to. My beloved car and I are at your service."

Lilian was a senior student Sitangna had become fairly close to since arriving in Britain. She was straightforward and loyal, and Sitangna liked her very much.

After considering that she might delay Lilian, Sitangna accepted William's offer. After all, it really was hard to get a taxi in the estate district.

"I'll be off, then. Nana, call me if anything happens." Lilian was actually quite familiar with William, but one could never be too careful. Her words were also a warning to him.

I know you're trying to pick up a girl, but behave yourself.

Sitangna obediently followed the two of them to the garage, and Lilian was the first to drive away.

"See you next time, Lilian! I hope your date goes well."

"Thanks! See you next time, Nana. Text me when you get home so I know you're safe." "Okay!"

William was afraid Sitangna might feel uncomfortable, so he had deliberately chosen a relatively understated car from among the luxury vehicles. Sitangna didn't recognize many car badges, but she knew the double R.

Damn it, even a rich person's most understated car was a Rolls-Royce! Her million in savings would probably be just enough to buy its four wheels.

To avoid making William feel unhappy by treating him like a chauffeur, Sitangna sat in the passenger seat. With the distance between them shortened, the two chatted happily about all sorts of things along the way, until she spotted familiar figures on the street corner.

"Please let me out up ahead. I can see my friends." Sitangna remembered that Emily was coming over tomorrow and that she had promised to make her a lemon Basque cheesecake. She had forgotten to buy the ingredients, but fortunately the baking shop wasn't far from here.

"Are you sure? It's still a little way from your home, isn't it? Why don't we let them in and I'll take you all back?" The wind was rather strong outside, and William didn't want her exposed to it.

"Sherlock! John! Wait for me!" Sitangna opened the car window a little and shouted outside. The two stopped, and the car came to a halt just then.

"It's all right. I still have a few things to buy, so I'll get out here." Sitangna had already gathered her things and unfastened her seat belt.

"All right, then I'll see you out." After stopping the car in front of the two men, William got out first and gentlemanly opened the door for Sitangna.

"Oh, thank you!" Sitangna hadn't expected to receive this kind of treatment. Were all British people great gentlemen?

"Don't you have things to do too? You'd better hurry so you're not late. I'll go with my friends. See you next time!" Sitangna put on her bag and got out of the car.

A gust of cold wind swept in through Sitangna's bare neckline and into her clothes. She shivered violently, only then remembering that her scarf was still around Lilian's neck: one had forgotten to take it back, and the other had forgotten to take it off.

"Are you cold? Let me give you mine. Don't catch a cold." Seeing this, William quickly removed his two-pattern cashmere scarf and moved to wrap it around Sitangna's neck.