Author's note:

Sherlock is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

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Chapter 1

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Sherlock Holmes hated New York.

For him, it was one of the most awful places in the world. Dirty, tawdry, insecure, a combination of all the human sins. So sparkly in appearance, but detestable once one bothered to look a little more carefully. Sherlock always compared the town to biting a nice fruit then discovering a rotten heart.

He had been in there once, for a case. Murder. He remembered the very proper widow, worthy and straight, her knees together in a hundreds dollars dress. The thousands dollars diamond at her left finger, often removed. The millions dollars life insurance. God, he had hated that case, full of arrogant lawyers, insipid vamps and inept investigators. He had taken deep aversion to the old Uncle Sam.

And today, he was back here, at the JFK International Airport, waiting for a cab with his cabin suitcase beside him. All around him, people went and came, families, couples, individuals, tourists, businessmen, strolling, rushing, suitcases covered with tags, just simple figures passing through his field of view, appearing quickly to disappear just as quickly, like the ghosts of a life that Sherlock didn't want to hear about. The people here seemed to him such a stupidity that forced him to silence his gift of observation not to have to endure more of their mediocrity. The air smelled of heat, fuel and cooking oil.

Finally, it was his turn in the queue and he promptly got into the cab, giving the address to the obese driver.

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As they left Belt Parkway and turned onto North Conduit Avenue, Sherlock spread his jacket and pulled the mobile phone from his inside pocket, opening the SMS that had catapulted him into this part of the world. Just a few lines. He was surprised by the identity of the sender, unexpected. Then he had opened the message, which contained an address, followed by a note. He then had packed his bags and had taken the first plane to New York, leaving behind him a very confused John, a furious Lestrade and a boring case about an apparent suicide. It hadn't been a suicide, he had left his deductions on his desk.

The taxi finally left North Conduit Boulevard to Atlantic Avenue, with its rows of low-rise buildings, restaurants and shops, the style so far from the traditional opulence that was the neighbourhoods of the centre. Sherlock frowned on the bench at the thought. Luxury didn't impress him anymore, he himself had grown away from poverty, but he couldn't bear the typical American indecency to display as much ease and power. Thank God, he avoided Manhattan.

After a while, the wide avenue narrowed, rolling between warmer and more human buildings. Few of them began to accuse a little more height. Finally, the GPS voice made tinny by years of use and dust asked to turn left and the car obeyed, advancing in a tree-lined street that smelled good residential area with beautiful houses with beautiful porches. The taxi rolled again a few minutes, then slowed and stopped.

"Here you are, sir," chewed the driver, letting see an old mint chewing gum and three caries.

Sherlock checked the address on the postcard, nodded and gave a banknote. There was confusion about the 10% tip, Sherlock had to remind the driver the regulations in kind he frequently accepted judging by the state of the passenger seat and silenced him by summarizing his heart murmur, his passion for panties and the fight he had been caught into approximately a week ago, surely a gambling debt if he could trust the horse racing newspaper forgotten under the driver's seat. And, without another word, leaving behind a silent and without tip driver, he exited the cab and got back his cabin suitcase in the car trunk.

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The house before him was very pretty, Italian brown stone. Three floors with two windows each. He climbed the porch steps in white stone and wrought iron railing, and then rang the doorbell. He waited a few seconds and heard the lock click. The door opened, and a young redhead maid with a little white apron smiled sweetly.

"Yes, sir?" She asked. "Can I help you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Your mistress is waiting for me"

He didn't know if it was customary to present a business card, but he had none. And it wasn't necessary. The domestic stepped away from the door and let him enter before inserting in a small room and to designate the sofa.

"Please wait here," she said. "I'll inform my mistress that you're here."

Sherlock put his suitcase on the marble floor as the maid receded in the house, and then removed his trench coat and his scarf. He sat down, looking around. The inside was like the owner. Old pink, soft white, a little touch of light brown. Elegant and comfortable. It reminded him of London. The hands of a clock on the mantelpiece trotted softly. Everything seemed so peaceful, it was relaxing. He began to feel the weight of his journey leave.

Sherlock didn't have to wait too long. One minute after, high heels clattered down the stairs and approached, a figure appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock could finally see the woman he thought he would never see again.

Irene Adler.

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