TITLE: Delicacy: A delicate operation.
AUTHOR: clarrie
DISCLAIMER: It's a multiple crossover.
I do not own any of the Conan-Doyle or Laurie R King characters used or the concept of Slayers and the Watchers Council

1957: Wapping: London: 4:20am

'Marie,' The slim, well dressed woman patted her dark black coiffure and sneered back at the girl, sniffing irritably at her gangly inelegance, watching her stumble along the gangplank beneath the weight of the luggage, laughing at her frustration. 'What on earth are you dallying for, come, come.' She reached dissmissively for the arm of her male companion, 'Marie you lump, what on earth are you doing, you're holding us all up dear....' The woman shifted her posture, from dominant to artfully submissive and pouted, 'I want to be in Clarridges by sunrise, you promised, Slim' She whined, playing with the buttons on her companion's coat. 'I feel queasy.'
An odd pairing, standing out from the other passengers trickling onto the dockside.
He stood rather over six foot tall, neat as a cat in tailored black coat, a profile reminiscent of a tethered bird of prey with eyes dulled, but across which passed the occasional brief flash as something on the periphery of his vision caught his attention. The woman at his side provided a contrast to her mate, unrestrained in pastels and as self absorbed as a spinning top she stood fully a foot short of her companion. Taking his attention with a touch to his chest, she pouted, and whined, and bathed in the knowledge that in his eyes she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her sex. 'Slim.' There was a continental trill to her voice, a riviera style to her clothing and manners which contrasted oddly with her skin tone, pale, so very white it seemed blue in the pre-dawn moonlight. An odd pair - and both exuding such an air of smug cruelty that the eye did not care to linger.
She turned, balancing a slim pair of sunglasses on her upturned nose, the daintiest thing under a flower trimmed cloche on the planet. 'Marie,' she barked as the crowd of departing travellers swarmed around her, 'If it would please her highness to stop being such a lazy little cow and hurry along with our baggage -' She paused in confusion as an anonymous figure jostled her, 'You stupid - This is Chanel! I -'
A pair of pale eyes, burning with the joyous flame of the devout stared up at her. 'Die, witch.' Hissed the Slayer, as she drove the thin cylinder of wood deep into Irene Adler's heart.

Confusion, the unthinking panic of a crowd who had seen but did not understand, and taking advantage of the conditions the Slayer - melting away into the darkness....