Holmes did not know it, but Irene occasionally took on a few cases of her own. Women, especially those in delicate situations, often felt uncomfortable going to a male detective for help- and, in case she ever fell astray of the law in a way that couldn't be remedied by a sweet smile and a bit of lock-picking, it was important to have allies on the outside who were neither members of London's criminal underworld nor impoverished shopgirls, but respectable women with disrespectable problems.

Such as the woman who sat in front of her, dabbing at reddening eyes with a linen handkerchief. "My husband simply disappeared, Miss Adler," she said in between distraught sniffles.

Irene handed the woman- Mrs. Martinson- her second-best handkerchief.

Mrs. Martinson took it and blew her nose into it. This was why she never offered clients her best handkerchief.

Leaning forward in her chair, Irene asked, "What makes you suspect that it was foul play?"

"Well… nothing, to be honest. I just can't imagine him leaving me!"

I can, Irene thought. It was nothing to do with her client- Mrs. Martinson was rather pretty in the tall, blonde, willowy sort of way that Irene always half-envied, or at least she would be if she'd stop crying. Some men just had an aversion to marriage. They woke up one day and realized that they were dying of boredom, and that if they didn't escape, they'd go mad- or, even worse, waste their lives. Irene had felt that way about several of her husbands. In fact, she'd even faked her death to escape the last one, an unscrupulous Russian businessman. Yes, he'd deluded himself into believing that he truly loved her, not just the way she flattered him, meaning that he'd be deeply hurt by her supposed 'drowning.' However, black looked good on him, so he'd probably have a new wife within the year. Not to mention that he'd kicked her cat…

Irene put on her most sympathetic expression. Even though part of her could understand their motives, she despised husbands who abandoned their wives. "I'll have him back safe and sound within the week."

Mrs. Martinson blew her nose again.

"Irene! Irene's here!"

Maggie and Elizabeth were the sort of girls Irene could see herself as having been if she'd grown up on the streets of London instead of in a touring vaudeville troupe. Maggie, short and sturdy with perpetually tangled red curls, led a gang of younger children. She had a stubborn temperament and a gift for pickpocketing that Irene considered invaluable. Elizabeth- taller, frailer, with flaxen hair- was Maggie's second-in-command. No one ever suspected that, under Irene's tutelage, the delicate-looking child had learned to throw a mean punch. They hugged her simultaneously, spinning her around; to humor them, Irene acted like they'd made her lose her balance, even though nothing ever did.

"Oi, you!" Maggie called, pulling away. "Did any of you hear me? I said, Irene's here!"

Within seconds, a girl with short dark hair climbed down a fire escape; a pair of twins in blue pinafores ran out from a doorway; and the tiny creature who'd been sitting under a nearby lamppost with a basket of paper flowers nearly dropped them in her hurry to join her friends. Irene sat down on a building's front stoop and let the girls swarm her.

"You'll never believe what I got away with yesterday," Maggie shouted into Irene's ear.

Elizabeth displayed a bruise on her forearm- "You should've seen the other guy!"

Zylphia, the girl with short, dark hair, bounced on the tips of her toes. "I been practicing that tumbling trick-"

"Irene," Charity and Chastity sang simultaneously. Glass cracked in a window across the street- she'd taught them well.

Katherine, who had the most unsettling blue eyes, tucked her basket under her arm. "I've practiced watching everyone who passes by, just like you told me to-"

Irene's girls, they called themselves, with an unselfconcious pride that made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously if she thought about it too much.

She had gifts for them all, as usual: lollipops, sheet music, hair ribbons, and Russian nesting dolls. After listening to Elizabeth's blow-by-blow account of a tussle with an Irregular, she brought up the case. "Have you seen- or heard- anything about a Mr. Martinson? He's about six feet two inches tall, red hair turning white at the temples…"

When she finished her detailed description, the girls exchanged looks. Then, in unison, they said, "Twenty-nine Threadneedle, second floor, room twelve."

Irene kept her expression carefully blank- it would disappoint them to see her lose her composure. "How did you all know that?"

"A man told us," Maggie said. "A Chinaman, or maybe an Indian. I dunno- he could have been anyone."

Irene's fingernails dug into her palms. Holmes!

The girls held their breath around her, waiting for her response.

She turned to them, smiling beatifically, and clapped her hands. "Well done! You passed the test."

Irene caught a hansom cab to Threadneedle Street. Part of her wondered if the information was intended as a trap, but she remained mostly curious. Twenty-Three served as an inn; how could she get inside without arousing the innkeeper's suspicions? She knew all too well that the more unsavory members of London's criminal underworld usually looked after their own…

Aha.

Ducking into an alleyway, Irene unpinned her hair, letting it tumble over her shoulders. She pulled one of the silk flowers from her hat and tucked it behind her ear, then attached a pin to the front of her blouse, lowering the neckline. Finally, she applied another coat of rouge to her lips and cheeks. Yes, she could certainly pass as a high-class prostitute.

The disguise worked, and she made her way up to the second floor without comment, the stairs creaking under her feet. To her surprise, the twelfth room's door opened at the slightest touch. She stepped inside-

And laughed.

Mr. Martinson sat in a chair in the center of the room, neatly tied ropes binding his limbs. Upon seeing Irene, he glared at her and attempted to say something, but the gag in his mouth prevented speech. Around his chest ran a perfectly tied red bow, such as the sort that fastened heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. A slip of paper attached to the bow bore the following inscription: From: S. Holmes. To: . Happy Valentine's Day!

It took Irene several minutes to stop chuckling.

A.N.

Hi! This will probably be the second-to-last chapter… one more than I said I'd post, yeah. To make up for not actually posting this on Valentine's Day, I've decided to include a little list of books/websites that I find completely invaluable when writing fanfiction for this fandom.

Websites:

Victorian Dictionary (just google it.) Basically everything you'll ever need re:Victorian England knowledge. Be warned, though- this site is ADDICTIVE.

Books:

The entire Sherlock Holmes canon. Yes, I know there are lots of long words and stories that don't have Irene in them (sadfaaace!) but it's great for headcanon, and you can get it on an Iphone for *free!*

Complete Stories of the Great Operas. Okay, I could just look 'em up on Wikipedia, but books are cool.

Deadly Doses: A Writer's Guide to Poisons. …I don't think I need to explain this one.

If you're planning to write smut, whether for the shkinkmeme over at LJ or for any other website, (or any other fandom for that matter,) I'd advise you to pick up "BDSM for Writers" and "How to Be A Sex-Writing Strumpet," both of which are available on e-readers for pretty gosh-darned cheap. The second one's kind of invaluable. Badly written smut = DNW, no?

Anyway, thanks for reading my fics! Heart you lots! 3