I didn't forget about this story, you know... =P

Please forgive me? xoxo

"Two punnets a penny!"

"Penny a bunch!"

It was a busy Saturday morning in Covent Garden Market. The sun was high, making it harder to push through the mass of women with parasols that filled what little space was left in the passageways leading to the piazza. Normally, Elia would go early in the morning, when the stalls were still being installed in the remaining thick fog of the previous night. She did it not because she was an early bird, she hated the hammer of the alarm clock as much as the next person, but she hated crowds even more. Now, today was an especial day. Today she was late and trapped in the mob because surprisingly, she didn't have enough clothes. At least not enough regular dresses she was willing to put on to walk a good forty minutes to Covent Garden and then back with the groceries. Yes, she could take a carriage, which she did today because she was already late for the day, but usually she enjoyed the walk. It made up for the lack of exercise. Although she would enjoy it even more in sneakers and trekkie pants, if she was being honest.

But back on track, she was late because she only had two dresses she used for her everyday stuff outside 221. The purple one she arrived in and a creamy one she bought her first day in nineteenth century London with Mrs. Hudson. The rest were too light and revealing for the outside world, or way too formal and cumbersome for a long walk and grocery shopping. And usually those two dresses were more than enough for her visits to the market, as one was cleaning or drying, the other one was ready to go, but as it happens, last night Gladstone and Bobo decided to sleep all over her ready to go purple dress. She left it spread on the ottoman by the bed only to find it wrinkled and covered with white fur on the floor. She was so fucking angry… She had barely slept two hours and then this… Eventually she managed to make it presentable again brushing it and using a sadiron, but she also had to take that carriage to make sure she made it back to Baker Street in time for lunch.

As for her sad two hours of sleep, that was an interesting story…

Flashback

Bored. She was bored. She tried to keep herself busy, but playing the perfect house keeper cleaning after the constant mess in Baker Street was growing old quickly. She saw Sherlock Holmes come and go, sometimes dressed up in ridiculous wigs and fake beards, while she stayed behind doing laundry. Even when he was locked up in his apartment he was having more fun than her. This was such a big case, the biggest you can get, a case she worked on so hard back home… And now he had it all for himself. She was relegated to second-rate espionage. She wanted to scream and head-butt someone.

It was late and she was laying on one of the two couches in her apartment's living, her eyes closed, Gladstone snoring lightly somewhere nearby. The apartment was as dark as it could get. After picking on her broiled fish for a while and finally giving it to the dog, she turned off the two oil lamps barely illuminating the room and decided to rest her eyes for a while. She wasn't hungry, anyway. How could she, she barely moved. She wasn't burning any energy. It was the same every night. After doing chores the whole day she'd cook dinner for her and the detective. Then she'd go upstairs to take the crockery he'd leave on the landing's tray cart and go back to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Then she'd call it a night and go to bed while he walked out of 221.

He was visiting a fighting pit every night. That much she knew. She saw him some mornings coming back, sweating, clutching his side or limping as she readied Gladstone for his morning walk. God, how she envied him. She missed a good wrestle. But more than anything she needed some air. Not any air, but the night's brisky air. The treatment that she received for her migraines before travelling back to the nineteenth century was wearing off after a couple of months, and this lifelessness wasn't helping the matter. She needed to warm her muscles and oxygen her bloodstream, so she made a decision: go out.

She was supposed to keep an eye on Holmes and his investigation, but not interfere until necessary. So keeping a closer eye wouldn't hurt, right? Right. So she followed him every night for the last week, in her navy assassin garments, keeping her distance, prancing over the roofs as he made his way by foot into the darkest places of London. She was loving it, not only the chance to exercise a bit, but also her attire. Back in the 21th century the Brotherhood was modernized, as was society. Modern architecture and dressing code didn't allow its field agents to go jumping around dressed like that. Those things belonged to the lore of the organization. Until now. As she was trained, briefed and lectured for this particular mission, she also had to visit the tailors to get her own classic assassin robe. The hooded shadows where still present where she was going, and so when the time came, she'd have her own battle dress. It fitted like a glove, and hid many surprises. The upper body featured a hood with the center shaped to resemble an eagle's beak, and the lower part of the robe was doubly layered, with the back trailing down to be longer than the front. Around the waist was a long red sash with pouches attached to a belt holding smoke bombs, bullets, poison and medicine vials. It also held the Assassin insignia with scabbards holding throwing knives flanking it. It also had a leather spaulder where she could attach a cape. There was grey-white fur padding on the left shoulder and under both bracers. They also made her extra belts she could cross over her chest and hips to carry as many weapons and supplies as she could need at once. As she reformed 221C, she made sure to hide guns under pieces of furniture like the coffee table, and now that Mrs. Hudson was away, she had a couple around the lobby too.

Anyway… She was loving every step, every jump and every somersault in her brand new-but-old robe. The fresh air and pumping blood was helping to keep the migraine at bay. Also the darkness of the London nights. Darkness was as close as she could get to silence while still awake. As Holmes made it to the old building where he sweated his frustrations off, she would climb to the top and wait for him to make an appearance looking down the skylight. The place was a mess. Sandy floors, rotten wood, drunkards and lowlifes waging their earnings… Going by their general desperate behavior, and the fact that they didn't repeat the next night, many of them had big debts and were looking for a miracle in the pit's activities. Others were clearly addicted beyond repair. She didn't like that kind of ambiance, not at all, but she wished she could go down there, kick some ass and make someone rich.

Every night she watched sturdy guys fight each other. It was easy to know who was there for a one-time thing and who made a living out of it. Of course the one-time guy was fucked up the moment he stepped into the arena. And the fights between the pros were hilariously rigged. They were boring, really, but it was the best she had without Netflix. They stood three feet apart from their opponent, swinging punches at each other, until one of them received the first and final blow, or the night's script said he had to fall. Then there was Sherlock Holmes, spicing things up.

That night he appeared as usual, calling himself Walter -according to the compere presenting the contestants-, with his black trousers secured with a wide belt and shirtless, and she couldn't help but perch herself higher to get a better view. He was every night's entertainment. She knew he was a skilled bare-knuckle boxer, as well as proficient in certain martial arts and self-defense methods such as bartitsu, but still it was surprising to see his combat talents unfold before her eyes. Sure, those combos he pulled when he got tired of playing around with the poor bastard in front of him were masterful, but his wit outshined his technique inside the ring as much as it did in his detective work.

She smirked at the events unfolding beneath her. He was better than his opponent and he knew it. He wouldn't budge from his Biu Ma stance, only pivoting on his own axis to block the big guy's jabs and slap him. He was pissing off the bear and enjoying every moment. As the other guy swayed from foot to foot preparing his next very predictable swing, the detective's head leaned to one side, studying him, daring him. She smiled wide from above.

"Your Sherlock is showing, Walter."

Just as she uttered those words, his eyes bolted upwards and she had to duck quickly to not be seen. Holy shit, where did that come from? There's no way he could hear her from that distance and over such a loud crowd. She couldn't be sure, but going by the screams she was pretty sure that distraction had earned him a direct hook to the face. Serves him right for scaring her like that!

She exhaled and let her head fall hard on the sloped surface of the roof, loosening her ready to flight muscles. As much as she wanted to see the fight to its end, she couldn't risk a peek after such a close call, so she resolved to go and wait by the attic he used every night after collecting his earnings. She skirted the pit's skylight and walked the few yards that separated her from the west side of the attic, where she leaned against the oblique wall, just next to the smallest window, avoiding to cast any shadow inside. She didn't know much about the place, just that it was the first stop for Watson every time the detective went missing. It was the fifth night in a row that she followed him there. She could hear him muttering nonsense to himself, pacing and playing the violin, but she didn't know what he was doing exactly. Apparently just racking his brain. He did the same in his apartment. She figured he came here when the walls of 221 were eating him. He was restless most of the time, so maybe the change of scenery helped.

The door inside creaked and two seconds later the faint yellow light of a bulb broke through the window illuminating her silhouette like a crescent moon. She sat down with her back to the wall and her arms resting over a bent knee. A cold gust of wind soared and she inhaled deeply, basking on it, allowing herself to relax to the sight of silver clouds and black roofs. Only the sporadic pacing of the detective mingled with the constant hoot of the wind, his form casting shadows next to her, appearing and disappearing as he approached the window and then walked away. She focused on said shadow and thought of it as an independent living being, like Peter Pan's.

CREAK

She whipped around automatically to focus on the creaking over her head, as did the detective's shadow. There was someone else on the roof. She went around the attic instinctively, squatting, making sure to remain unseen. Whoever it was they weren't there with friendly intentions. Friends knock on the door, they don't sneak up on you through the window as they seemed keen on doing.

She was squatting behind them ready to jump over the low roof when they started whispering.

"Where is she?"

That froze her in her tracks.

Suddenly she was twenty one again and living with her parents. She woke up like startled. It was dark and warm in her bedroom. She was dizzy, but she pushed through it to get up. Her mouth felt like an ashtray and the idea of clinging to the closest faucet made her even thirstier. She dragged her feet across the room, through the door and again across the landing in the first floor of their modest two-story house. The bathroom opposite to her bedroom was her blind objective but she never made it there. There was light coming from the front porch. Like a car's headlight. Where her parents back? Maybe they forgot something… She changed course forgetting about her dry mouth as she descended the flight of stairs to the main door. She turned the knob.

"Where is she?"

She didn't recognize the voice that came thought the ajar door, but whoever he was he didn't sound nice or polite. She opened the door wider. It was raining, she didn't realize until just now.

"Mom?"

She tilted her upper body outside to look around, the cold and the humidity lifting goosebumps all over her body.

"Mom?" – She insisted louder.

And then she froze. Their car was parked outside with the lights on. It was hard to see, but she saw enough. Her mother was on her knees soaked to her bones. With the rain it was hard to tell, but Elia was pretty sure she was crying. The silhouette in front of her turned around his shoulder and that's when she saw the gun. And the blood. And her father lying over the lap of her mother.

"ELIA RUN!"

She didn't want to run. She wanted to kneel beside her. To know what was going on. To fight the gunman. She didn't feel dizzy any more. She felt angry. But all the anger turned to fear when the gun pointed at her. She slammed the door back into place and screamed as the first shot came through the glass. She saw him coming, his image refracting over the shattered glass, and run back upstairs throwing a standing lamp behind her. Maybe she'd seen too many movies. She barreled into her bedroom and closed the door. It didn't have a lock. Mom never liked locks in the bedrooms. As she was looking around not knowing what to do he opened the door with a vengeance knocking her onto her ass. She screamed again, crawling in the opposite direction. The stranger stepped on her calf and pulled her hair. The awkward position hurt her lower back, but before she could fight or he could kill her her window exploded raining on them like glass raindrops. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but no one was pulling her hair or stepping on her legs anymore, so she took the opportunity to crawl into a corner. There was another guy now, and they were fighting. She had seen guys fight before, but never like this. It was brutal in a very manicured way. She felt the tears down her face and neck for the first time as they trashed her room. She fidgeted with every growl and hard blow. The gun was nowhere to be seen. They fell to the ground as she was looking for it. So close. She was sure she could touch them if she extended her legs a little but they didn't seem to even notice her presence against the walls. They were too lost in trying to kill each other. She had no idea who the second guy was or what he wanted, but she was sure the first one was bad, and he had the upper hand now. He was over the second guy, punching him and trying to choke him. Blood actually splashed her and she tried to crawl into the wall behind her to avoid it. That's when she noticed she was by the side table. There it was with that big ass wooden clock on it. She looked back at the two men wrestling in front of her, sobbing, like she sobbed every time there was a spider in her room and nobody around to kill it for her. Because she was afraid of them. But she knew nothing about fear. Her fingers were tingling. Her only option so clear. With a piercing scream she took the clock and whacked the bad guy in the head. Blood splashed her again. And then there was silence. She dropped the antique heavy clock and fell on her ass, legs trembling at the sight of the dark pool she knew to be blood covering her bedroom's carpet. The other guy coughed and stood reminding her of the danger, making her crawl back to her corner.

"Come now, before they send someone to finish the job" – he told her, his voice coarse.

He had an accent, and as she would learn later, his name was Jerome.

"Are you sure this is the place?"
"Yeah, this is where that detective's been coming every night."

That clear reference to Sherlock Holmes brought her back from ugly memories and pushed her into action. Thugs over her target's head? Don't think so. She quickly pushed with her hands flat on the roof surface and propelled her body up with the inestimable help of her hips in a swift and silent move. She took a couple of steps forward, allowing her inner thighs to rub together and her arms to swing by her sides creating a friction sound to alert them of her presence. Stealth was the first skill she mastered after joining the Brotherhood, but there was no point in using it in this particular situation when, judging by the obvious insecurity they projected with their body language –bended knees, hunched back, arms at the ready like expecting an ambush-, they were no match for a skilled fighter.

The one on the left saw her first, and alerted the other of her presence. Both of them turned around fast, but their menacing stand was in direct contrast with their lack of initiative. Elia exhaled loudly. They weren't making the first move, clearly, so she took it upon herself. She walked straight towards them forcing their hand. They engaged her swinging their clubs violently at her. Their moves predictable as those of the guys in the fighting pit below them. She hit one of them inside the elbow, making his hand open as the pain ripped down his forearm and drop the weapon. As he clutched his arm she dropped low and hit the other guy similarly inside the knee causing him to stagger and lose his foot, then, taking the club from him, she hit the first thug inside the knee too. With both guys injured on the floor she knocked their heads together and they dropped unconscious, one on his face, the other one on his back.

With the job done she stood again, but she didn't relax her stance. She wasn't alone yet. Sherlock Holmes was on the other side of the improvised ring observing her with a troubled expression. She relaxed ever slightly. The fact that she could see his face so clearly meant that the moon was right behind her, keeping her face in the dark. He didn't move and neither did she for a few moments. Finally she took a couple of steps, ready to make a quick and silent exit, but her movement was followed by his. She stopped on her tracks and tried again a second later, only for him to match her steps yet again. What the hell was he doing tailing her like that? She just took down the thugs on his roof, she wasn't the enemy! But then again, he didn't know that. She was just a hooded stranger kicking ass over his head. Anyway, there was no way she would go and open her mouth to reason with him, so she just went for it.

End Flashback

Kids passed running barely avoiding her feet and splashing mud all over her skirt, effectively bringing her out of last night's memories.

"Great…" – She scoffed looking at the mess she'd have to clean, again.

Oh, no way, she was done with laundry and shit. Let the Brotherhood pay for it with their fake currency. She was done. She hurried out of the crowd and stopped a carriage. She didn't even let the guy help her up as they usually did. She just climbed inside and tossed the groceries on the seats in front of her. Anyone would think her adventures of last night would have pacify her nerves, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. A cigarette only appeased the smoker for a little while, after all.

She closed her eyes and relived those memories again: dodging Holmes, making him trip on his own feet –that one brought a smile to her face-, running away from him only to have him run after her. Then Callum had appeared to throw a warning to Holmes. And she meant literally throw. A blade whizzed past her ear and landed in front of the detective. She was pissed at first, what the hell was he thinking doing that! But her anger didn't last long, because it did the trick, and Holmes stayed behind as she kept running with Callum. He went to her apartment that night only to find her gone. He was to inform her that things were calm and the portal had been opened again. Then he asked her if she'd ever climbed the Clock Tower. They spent the rest of the night sharing stories by the big bell. She liked Callum. He didn't seem to care too much about the rules, and more about what he felt was right. The complete opposite of square-minded people like his leader, Alastair. Alastair would have sent her to bed with a warning or some shit like that if he'd found her running around London. But not Callum. He understood she was restless and gave her a way to burn the frustration off. No judgment.

As she looked outside the carriage's windows she screamed for the driver to stop and wait for her. She almost forgot about Mr. Gaunt and the pictures she owned him.

She opened the door of the store and the bell sounded above her head. A second later Mr. Gaunt stuck his head from behind a curtain.

"Oh, Miss O'Donoghue! What can I do for you today?"

"Actually I'm here to give you this" – she handed him the envelope.

"Excellent!"- He examined the pictures-."These will make a wonderful addition!"

"Well, you certainly made sure of that working your magic with that outfit"

"A dress is nothing without a proper rack, dear."

She smiled at him acknowledging the compliment but changing the subject quickly.

"Speaking of dresses, do you think you could send me a few extra ones? Just something simple, for a day-to-day basis, you have my size don't you?"

"I do. 221 Baker Street, if I remember correctly?"

"That's the one. I also wanted to ask if you know someplace where I could have my laundry done for me?"

"We have our own laundry service to treat your clothes with the most care. I can put you on the list and someone will pop up two times a week at your doorstep."

"That'd be great." – Suddenly she felt like her day had improved drastically.

"Anything else?"- He asked her taking notes.

"Yes. Do you happen to have thick ballet tights?"

"Of course! Here at Gaunt's Couture we provide only the best for schools and companies alike!" – He bragged disappearing behind the curtain again.

If she couldn't train everyday as she was used to at least she could practice some yoga routines in the mornings to work out the kinks. She silently thanked Holmes for providing the idea.

The doorbell chimed behind her, signaling the arrival of no other than… Irene Adler.

"So it's true"- Adler addressed her right away-. "You're alive"- she continued closing the door and looking around the store like a regular customer.

"It is, but you already knew that." – Elia answered without missing a bit.

"Well, yes, I h-"

"Oh, spare me the act"- she cut Adler off unceremoniously, all pretenses gone. It was time to talk woman to woman. Professional to professional-."I know this isn't a coincidence."

They were close to each other now, almost touching. To the average bystander they'd be just two ladies having a chat while shopping, but if someone were to pay close attention to the stare down that was going on behind the storefront they'd call the police.

"And what are you going to do about it?" – Adler challenged her.

Elia expected it, really. As a nineteenth century woman you don't get to be a renowned criminal being soft.

"Oh, it's not me that you should worry about." – Elia let that comment hang in the air for a few moments-. "I've had time to think about it, you know. I was so lucky to survive that attempt on my life. But luck rarely has anything to do with the way things turn out, does it?"- She pinned Adler with a stare.

She didn't need to go into details. Just let her know that she knew. It was only logical. If you need to poison someone and you know your way around poisons, you just give them the right dosage. And if you don't know your way around poisons, you go overboard to make sure it delivers. When you play with poisons in general, and with something as dangerous as curare in particular, it takes more expertise to fail than to succeed. Why did she do it? Who knew? Maybe there was a conscience inside there, somewhere, that still reminded her how despicable the man she worked for was. Elia knew the kind of soulless beast Moriarty was. Adler was another pawn, just like the rest of them. She pitied her, really. She was probably scared of the man, as she should be. Too scared to disobey directly, but foolish enough to try and get away with failure.

"How does he deal with failure? How does he deal with treason?"

Elia already knew. She knew how the story ended for the Woman.

"Here they are!"- Mr. Gaunt came from behind the curtain with her tights-."Oh, don't worry about it!"- He swatted Elia away when she approached the counter ready to pay-."I'll put it on your tally. I still have to procure some dresses, remember?"

"Oh, I can't wait to see them!" –She faked making him smile.

The assassin stopped by the thief before reaching the door, with her little parcel under one arm. She took a moment to look at her, really look at her. Gosh, she was beautiful. She put a delicate hand over the woman's forearm and gave her a last genuine warm smile, earning a nonplussed look from her.

"Take care, Irene."