Some clarification about Irene, and how she knows Helen Stoner. How Holmes and Ms. Adler have a healthy respect for each other but no romantic interest--in fact, how he has no reason for finding her memorable the first time around. Some filling in of gaps in plot about Holmes's missing year in America, and his acquaintances there. How Helen kept busy in New York, and a small part of Holmes's 1884 visit to her there.
Let's see. A spunky, shrewd American actress who rose to the grand (and sometimes absurdly grandiose) heights of opera. She revelled in the flirtatious play of being somewhat respectable but still judged condescendingly by innumerable eyebrow-raising, tongue-wagging prudes of elegant society who gossiped and cadded about as much as anybody. Social elites who just assumed, more often than not, all manner of dubious, glamorous, and scandalous backgrounds for her out of their fantasizing imaginations. They invented a history of passionate affairs and sordid heartaches for her all by themselves, so why bother going through the pain of actually living it, when she could just concentrate on having fun with her reputation?
What harm could a teasing flirtation of innuendo do so long as it gave her, at so small a price, all the more addition to her glamorous mystique? She smiled at how she had even changed the pronunciation of her name from plain Eye-reen to all the funny, exotic accents that so pleased these Europeans. She enjoyed the treats of acting out this grand role offstage, meanwhile winning an intellectual point or two at the expense of those pompous gentleman who weren't paying attention enough (with their minds, at least) to notice.
Certainly, Irene was not an innocent. But neither was she an over-amorous, dreamy-eyed diva in search of one more exalted paramour after another, one more romantic swoon after another. The way that these gentleman behaved, she felt perpetually on display as they each came to pursue her attentions, in a parade of hopefuls for the enviable claim that "That ravishing beauty was mine once!" They collectively indulged in their delusions of being characters out of one of those melodramatic operas in which she performed. Irene still knew, though, where fantasy ended and reality began, and she drew the line with cool and sure efficiency every time.
No, their proffered bouquets, their jeweled tokens, their glittering carriages, and their fine speech--no, they were not substance. They were fine for an evening's entertainment, but she was neither naive nor vain enough to mistake such silly games for scandalous or serious affairs.
In fact, sometimes she became bored really, with these gentlemen. Her occupation offered her far juicier roles, especially since as a contralto she was suited to "pants parts" in opera. The rising star of her critical fame (which she treasured more than the popular fame) had been her professional ability to shine even in these odd parts. No pampered adventuress relying on her bedroom skills, she was a real, hard-working actor who earned each and every laurel. She laughed sometimes to think what high society would think of her humble, working-class origins. She still retreated to her ordinary life and her ordinary friends back home in Jersey even now, for those dear old mates could actually treat her normally and talk with her about real life, not rich people's society. For these mates, there was nothing particularly scandalous or astonishing about her profession, for anything that brought in a good income was a happy and reasonable situation, not a matter of socially stepping down. To them, she was still "an honest American girl" as her father called her, (and as a certain charming fellow actor, whose attentions she still enjoyed, lovingly imitated). So Irene went on her almost chaste way from one successful premiere to another--until Bohemia.
What had made her lose her good sense then, with that Crown Prince? He had seemed cynical and utterly amused by the social game that he saw through as well. He treated her as worldly wise, but refrained from certain assumptions and from insulting her intelligence. He had been intriguing and original in his manner and his courtship of her, coming to observe her at certain cast rehearsals. He had called her a woman of steel, applauding her fencing skills on the stage. He had arranged a most silly, but lovely photograph of themselves standing together; she was in male costume at the time, but he affectionately kept his arm around her waist all the same. She had thought that she met her true kin in this man, and indulged in the indiscretion of falling in love with him, of all things.
But she hadn't counted on his being cowardly and treacherous. When the matter of succession to his father's throne came into some dispute, he deferred quite immediately to his advisors who warned of scandal and gossip. Suddenly he became the stern soul of discretion and propriety, packing her and her bags off to parts elsewhere, without a kind goodbye or note of apology. He portrayed himself as entrapped, even planting the seeds of rumour about some supposed attempt of hers at blackmail, to make sure that she would be shunned out of the national opera house and indeed, out of Bohemia. It was a selfishly brutal move that wounded her heart more than anything else he might have done. He had changed, his prior sweetness now overwhelmed by expediency and his arrogant belief that the world revolved around him.
So Irene had fled home to America, had come upon Helen Stoner's doorstep unexpectedly, suddenly needing support and kindness and womanly friendship as she had truly never needed them before. She felt somewhat ridiculous pounding on that door, when she had known Helen as only an acquaintance previously. --Helen Stoner had been a part of Irene's eclectic circle of Jersey friends some months ago. Her old mates assured her that the Englishwoman had been found acceptable and surprisingly un-snobby, despite her class. Apparently she had been suffocatingly sheltered all her life, and now that she had independent means, wished to taste some wide and diverse life experiences, even to the dismay of her fiancé back in England. She welcomed all sorts into her rented rooms in New York, with an intelligent knowledge that social class and appearances were not all that they seemed to be. She came to the circle as a friend to policeman Wilson Hargreave and even some Pinkerton detectives, having received a rather exclusive introduction from a former agent in London.
Irene had spoken with her occasionally, but hardly knew her. Certainly not enough to come pounding on her door tonight in this frantic, illogical state. But Helen Stoner it was. Irene tried to stay focused and proud once she realised that she came unexpectedly upon Helen and her visitor. (This proper Englishwoman with a man staying in her house? An odd idea.) But Irene had uncontrollably broken down into tears and apologies, even as she insisted that she would not intrude. Helen would take none of her protests, bringing her inside.
"Holmes, this is Irene," she murmured. Then she asked with a silent look, "Do you mind?" and just as silently he nodded to her request and slipped away, going up the stairs as if fully comfortable and familiar with the house.
Irene and Helen then had a nice long talk, and after her thorough cry, Irene felt better enough to insist again that she would go. Helen protested the lateness of the hour and urged her to stay the night, only yielding finally to Irene's insistence that the sitting-room sofa would do for her. Irene apologised again and asked if she had not been rude to Helen's guest. "Mr. --?"
"Holmes," she answered. "The detective I told you of--Sherlock Holmes."
"London Pinkerton," Irene nodded, recalling how Helen had earlier described the man. "Detecting another case?" she ventured.
"No," she said, rather sharply. After an awkward pause, she elaborated. "Visiting, that's all. We have mutual friends in New York and London."
"Oh." Irene watched Helen rise and go fetch some linens and blankets for her. "Helen?"
She did not turn around. "Yes?"
"Am I--Did I interrupt... something?"
Helen stared long and silently into the linen closet. "No." She left it at that.
They made the sofa as a bed and then said good-night. Helen went up the stairs silently.
Much later, awake after a fitful sleep, Irene heard the sound of whispers. She crept from the sitting-room and peered out to find the door across the hall ajar. The hearth fire lit and glowing upon them, Helen and her guest sat upon the floor in their night-clothes and dressing gowns, murmuring back and forth.
Irene discerned only that he appeared to be showing her some card game, and meanwhile telling stories of how some Pinkertons had taught it to him long ago. She laughed and happily clapped at each successful turn she played. Even when he won this "admittedly irregular game", she remained amused and dropped her cards with a shrug. She yawned and blinked.
He leaned near and patted her hand softly, murmuring that he kept her too late. She smiled and leaned against his shoulder, returning his caress.
After a pause, he reached up and touched her face very faintly, as though only to brush aside her stray, disordered hair. But he lingered, and they were both silent, almost... expectant, for some moments. His eventual letting go and looking away seemed to explain why they had risked coming downstairs, rather than meet in either's bedroom. There seemed so much more to risk upstairs, than here below. He only stared into the fire.
I set the SCAN story five years later in 1889, when the now King of Bohemia becomes obnoxious in his efforts to retrieve the photograph from Irene, who's still nursing a heartache and wounded pride even though Godfrey has been trying to win her affections and her trust, however slowly. (Watson surely changed the date to 1888 out of discretion, and I'm thinking he referred to her reputation when he spoke of her "dubious and questionable memory".) After suffering burglaries and such nuisances, she threatens to send the photograph to the King's fiancée, just to spite him. He plays himself off as the victim of her malicious intents, but we all know how Holmes came to respect Irene more than he during the case. Holmes looks Irene Adler up in his index books, but doesn't recall his brief personal acquaintance with her at the time.
After SCAN, Holmes writes of the event to Helen. She answers by confessing her (distant) part in the affair, and apologising. See Irene's story in the Twilight bit. Thus he finally recognises and recalls Irene from the 1884 visit which he has tried so hard to forget. As for her marriage, Irene disappears to the Continent with Godfrey, keeping a low profile in case the King is still treacherous, so it afterward remained unknown for certain whether she did legally marry Godfrey or was content with the theatrical pledge she made to him in SCAN.
Holmes also thinks about how Helen's invisible hand, even now, touches his life. She can correct his errors and faults even after all these years and this long distance. How extraordinary. How... lonely.