for elementarysaidhe ; Escaping Karachi

[irene_adler]

It’s a strange feeling, knowing you’ll never see the sun again.

For the past week, Irene Adler had not seen the outside world at all. Her world had consisted of a small, damp room with a tiny window too high to reach. More than once she had tried, even taken a running start from the other side of the room and jumped as high as she could (in bare feet), reaching in desperation for the iron bars. Her fingers had barely touched the edge, but she hadn’t been able to get hold. A moment later she had fallen, taking most of the impact in her right shoulder. She didn’t cry out when colliding with the ground, not because the fall didn’t hurt, but to avoid drawing attention to herself. Two armed men stood outside the door, their guns shouldered and ready for any unexpected sound (or potential escape attempt).

Almost five months had passed since Belgravia, when Irene Adler had fled with a hastily packed suitcase and adrenaline pulsing through to the tips of her fingers. Kate, devoted to a fault, had followed her employer up the staircase.

“Miss Adler, is -?”

“Kate, bring me the contents of my safe.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”

Minutes later Kate returned, her hands filled with stacks of currency. A small furrow appeared between her eyes at the sight of Irene hurriedly throwing clothes and shoes into a suitcase. She nearly tripped over one of the Louboutin shoes that had been hastily discarded as soon as she entered the room.

“Here you are, Miss Adler.”

“Thank you, Kate.”

Irene took the money and buried it deep in the suitcase, dragging the zipper closed. A slight tremor in her hands prolonged the process, and she made a sharp sound between her teeth.

“Miss Adler, are you all right?”

“No.”

“Has something -?”

“Kate, there isn’t time. You need to leave the country now.”

“Miss -“

“There isn’t time, Kate!” Irene’s voice rose sharply, and she whirled to face her assistant. “You need to pack a suitcase and leave. Now.”

Kate turned quickly and left the room, her heels clicking rapidly down the hallway. Irene disappeared into her own closet, the black crepe dress and stockings thrown into a corner. Minutes later she emerged in dark pants and tunic, a pair of mid-calf high boots on her feet. She gathered her hair in one hand, twisting it up atop her head with the help of two pins. A black knit hat was pulled on, the edges rugged down to her ears.

There wasn’t time for anything else. Irene Adler fled into the night, shadowy in dark and discreet clothing, and she ran.

She’d run for months, never staying in one place longer than three days. The cities and countries began to blur together, initially only distinctive by their files on her (former) camera phone. A photo of a diplomat’s wife tied to a bed, the royal who preferred kneeling to being knelt before - nearly anything possible with anyone in a position of power. Irene Adler had collected blackmail (protection) on them all, and as a result there was nowhere safe to go. All she could do was run, and keep running.

Pakistan had been where her luck ran out. Irene Adler had been taken prisoner while trying to leave Karachi by boat, caught by both arms as a cloth bag was pulled over her head. She had fought, but the soldiers had been too strong and in too great a number. One struck the back of her head, and she had lost consciousness.

The days to follow had been a blur of interrogation, both verbal and physical. Irene Adler was kept in the same room the entire time, her only company the soldiers who yelled questions and struck her regardless of the answer. She was by no means a stranger to pain, but her previous line of work involved limitations, a mindfulness for the other person - consent. The soldiers didn’t care what Irene did or didn’t say. They knew she was vulnerable now - no protection, nothing to hold over anyone - and now they wanted revenge. Revenge that would be taken with canes, leather straps, a strike with a gun if they so chose - it didn’t matter, as long as a mark was left. Irene Adler’s neck, back and shoulders held an array of bruises and welts, and her side still showed the multicolored bruise left by a soldier’s boot where he kicked her. She had fought to not cry out.

When the door of her cell was opened, pulled wide to show the outside world, Irene had known something was different. The soldiers opened the door only slightly, not allowing any light in to keep her as disoriented as possible. If that no longer mattered, then something else was coming. And it was with that realization a cold knot of fear formed in Irene Adler’s stomach. Her Urdu was not strong, but it didn’t matter. Many residents of Pakistan also spoke English, and there was no mistaking the calls outside the door.

They were calling for her death.

Hands pulled Irene from the ground and dragged her outside. The sky was dark but the artificial lights were blinding, and after several days in the cell she was disoriented, squinting every way she turned. Her bare feet caught on the ground, causing her to stumble, but the soldiers pulled her onward and to the tarmac. There more soldiers waited, heavily armed - and the executioner, light glinting off his silver blade.

Unceremoniously, Irene was forced to her knees before the executioner. Guns were trained on her, but it didn’t matter. There was nowhere to run any longer.

One soldier spoke, his accent thick but his words clear.

“Final words, Miss Adler.”

“May I have my phone?” In that instant, knowing her death was at hand, Irene Adler’s voice did not waver. There was only the slight hitch in her breath before she spoke.

Some dissent rumbled among the soldiers - why allow her to have her phone? - but in the end, the one who addressed her had given her the BlackBerry. All navigation and tracking had been disabled on it long ago, but it still worked the way it had in London. Her eyes trained on the screen, Irene slowly pressed the buttons for a final text message.

Goodbye Mr. Holmes

The soldiers were becoming restless now, demanding the return of the phone, but Irene didn’t hurry. The outcome would be the same. Pressing the SEND button, she handed the phone back to the soldier and turned her gaze straight ahead. Behind her the executioner’s blade whistled as it was raised, and Irene Adler closed her eyes.

Goodbye, Mr. Holmes

Comments

[elementarysaidhe]

John Watson returned to 221 B Baker Street twenty minutes after he left it, but in significantly different comportment, bearing the indignity of another failed exercise attempt. In the days and weeks following their involvement in the Irene Adler Affair, it had become increasingly clear to the former army doctor that a certain degree of physical fitness was required when you were in Sherlock Holmes' vocational orbit and that his habit of thrice-weekly fish and chips from Speedy's cafe was not doing him any favors. So, he had bucked up his pride and gone down to the high street for a pair of expensive trainers and wind-resistant running gear, bought a fitness tracker, and had Mrs. Hudson do a thorough purge of all of the sugary sweets from their kitchen cabinets. ("I'm your landlady, doctor, not your housekeeper. But I will take these biscuits off your hands.")

Unfortunately, all of the preparation and expensive gear in the world could not withstand the predictable onslaught of a London sudden shower, and John Watson burst back through the door of 221 Baker Street shortly after he'd set out, soaked and bedraggled, tracking mud up the thirteen steps to the second floor. His watch beeped insistently as his heartbeat decelerated --

"PLEASE RESUME YOUR SESSION --" came the tinny voice from his wrist "-- NO PAIN, NO GAIN."

Watson dug his fingernails under the strap of the watch and tore it from his wrist, flinging it across the parlor in irritation. He toed out of his wet trainers and rolled them inconspicuously underneath the divan. Tomorrow for sure, he told himself, running his fingernails through his hair to disturb the damp. It was then that he noticed the eerie silence that held command over the flat.

“Sherlock?”

When he’d gone out moments before, his flatmate had been hunched over his workbench with an array of odious chemicals at his fingertips, face pressed against the eyepieces of a microscope. It was unclear whether John Watson’s departure had even registered with the man. Now the workbench was empty but the chemical samples still present, standing like loyal soldiers around the base of the microscope. A cup of black coffee steamed next to a packet of ammonium nitrate.

Watson padded in stockinged feet down the hallway toward their suite of rooms, pausing to glance around the open doorframe of Sherlock’s bedroom. No movement there, either. The flat hummed with its gaunt occupant’s non-presence. Sherlock’s absence was, in and of itself, not unusual. He often went on spur-of-the-moment errands and rarely, if ever, alerted Watson to his departure. It did not strike the doctor as strange, therefore, that the detective had apparently abandoned his chemical work for the chase of something else.

That he did not return by that evening – or the next morning – was slightly worrying, however. Still, Watson demurred from alerting the authorities or (heaven forbid) Mycroft Holmes. That evening, full of endorphins following his first successful exercise session, he submitted to texting Sherlock a single message:

Where in the world are you?




TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER
24°51′36″N 67°0′36″E
Korangi Industrial District, Karachi, Sindh, Pakistan

The smell of the sea and freshly-laid asphalt. The hollowing orange-yellow glow of sodium bulbs perched atop industrial light fixtures, lending tepid light to the tarmac that stretched, seemingly for miles, in either direction. Upon this road, a tiny retinue of military vehicles crawled: two jeeps, their doors stripped of identifying insignias, and a white passenger van, similarly anonymous.

The Jeeps stopped near the end of the runway, their running lights illuminating the dark beyond. A man stepped down from the driver’s seat of the passenger van and swung around to the sliding passenger door, rolling it heavily aside. Darkness within. The man gave a command in an indiscriminate tongue and reached into the black of the van, grappling with something inside. A moment later, another man joined the first, having descended from the front passenger seat. Both men were similarly garbed – a loose shalwar, a long chadar, and a pagri of cotton cloth – all in black. The second man, taller than the first, carried a wicked sword in the belt at his waist. He stood back while the first man handled the occupant of the van onto the runway.

Irene Adler would not -- could not – be stooped or cowed in any circumstance, least of all in the moments preceding her imminent demise. She descended from the back of the van with the haughtiness of a queen, stone-faced, resolute. It would be impossible for her not to grasp the severity of her situation, yet she seemed steadfastly opposed to letting her captors know that she was afraid. The road to her present circumstances was unquestionably written on her skin -- that at least, she could not hide. She flinched, just for a moment, when the first man wrapped his fingers around her upper arm to lead her to the center of the tarmac. Bruises there, perhaps; maybe even a temporary dislocation. Forced to her knees, her captors allowed her the small mercy of last words – the very last text message she believed she would ever send.

The second man – the executioner – stepped forward while the first man turned on his heel and lit a cigarette, eager to keep his shoes out of the line of fire when it happened. A moment later,

a sigh,

and the executioner hissed a warner to the condemned: “When I say run, RUN.”

The wicked blade sawed through the air, catching the driver across the middle and slicing through a quarter of his spine. The cigarette tumbled, partially lit, from his lips and hit the pavement in a small shower of sparks.

Sherlock Holmes wheeled on the ball of his foot, dropping low to avoid the spatter of gunfire that erupted from the other occupants of the Jeep, catching three of them across the shins and groin and finishing them with an undignified upward chop of the blade. He reached into the depths of his shalwar and produced a pistol, cutting down the final two soldiers before they could climb out of the Jeep. They fell, indignantly, beside their associates.

Sherlock tugged the scarf from his nose and chin, tossing the pistol to the stunned Irene Adler.

“Run. Jeep. Now.”

He jerked his head toward the idling vehicle.

[irene_adler]

Pressing the "Send" button on her Blackberry had a note of finality to it, the realization this was actually, truly the end. Years of running, of "making her way in the world" as she called it (by whatever means necessary), of collecting scandal and blackmail the way some collected postage stamps - it was all coming to an absolute, final end. The urge to run was screaming in her legs even as they were folded beneath her, but there was no point in trying to escape. Her captors were too many and too thoroughly armed, and far too interested in bringing Irene Adler to, what they believed to be, a very well deserved end.

Without the BlackBerry now, Irene hid her hands in her lap. Fine tremors ran through, but she was not about to let that show. It would be a small act of defiance even now, to show as little fear to the men who now called for her death. Behind her the executioner lifted his blade, a quiet hiss in the air, and Irene Adler closed her eyes as she did not want to see -

- and then a sigh reached her ears.

Her eyes flew open, astonished, thoughts tumbling end over end in a matter of seconds. The sound - that very specific sound - had only been recorded in one instance (she was quite sure of it, as she had made the recording), as a text tone. And the text tone had been assigned to only one phone, which meant -

Irene's head turned to the left, eyes lifting to the executioner's face. Only his eyes were visible around the swaths of dark fabric, but they were eyes she would know anywhere.

When I say run, RUN.

He was gone from her sight then, blade lifted, and an expression of astonishment changed into a slow smile. It didn't matter how he had found her (though the why did register as something of curiosity in her mind) - he had found her. The last time she had seen Sherlock Holmes it had been through the blur of her own indignant tears as he left Mycroft and her alone, having deciphered the code on her camera phone. A very different end had been her intention for that night, but that didn't matter right now. What mattered was that he'd come to get her - to save her.

Sentiment, Mister Holmes? Had it been her imagination, or had his pupils been dilated in the artificial lights?

Irene got to her feet, the black fabric of what was meant to be her shroud tumbling around her legs like a shadow. This was one time (one very rare time) she would do exactly what was asked of her, and so she waited to run until Sherlock's words of instruction. Her hands lifted reflexively to catch the pistol, fingers wrapping around the weapon and taking immediate comfort in no longer being unarmed.

Run. Jeep. Now.

Without hesitation or regard for the bodies in their immediate proximity, Irene Adler ran for the Jeep. Her feet were only covered in thin, black slippers but that didn't stop her - more than once she had run barefoot for a longer distance than this. She ran, one hand holding tight to the pistol, and did not stop until she reached the Jeep. Her fingers locked around the passenger door of the jeep and wrenched it open.

[elementarysaidhe]

In the moment his sword fell, Sherlock's involvement in Irene Adler's liberation had gone from "extraction" to "international incident." The pistol had been an overreaction, the noise almost certainly serving to attract unwanted attention from the sparsely-populated guard tower at the far end of the complex. In the moments before he had fired, Sherlock had mentally read the guards' total BMI and calculated -- with cold and ruthless certainty -- that the scimitar would stun, but not incapacitate, his foes. Thus, the necessary finality of the pistol. A shame. Though, in the long run, it would have hardly mattered -- two of the guards would have met early deaths at the hands of the very government they were monied to, and the third would have doubtlessly died of a massive bowel obstruction as a result of his hither-to undiagnosed Crohn's disease. If one were pragmatic about the whole affair, one could argue that Sherlock had done them all a favor.

He sprinted across the tarmac and vaulted himself into the driver's seat of the Jeep, throttling the engine into gear in a sputter of motor exhaust. As they peeled off the runway and toward the distant chainlink fence, Sherlock rooted around beneath the seat and came up with a set of men's camo fatigues, size S, in the similar make and style as a captain in the Pakistani army. These he thrust toward Irene Adler's side of the Jeep.

"Change. Quickly. We'll be at the perimeter in twenty seconds."

He jerked the wheel to avoid a tower of oil drums, neatly putting them beyond the vision of the nearest mounted security camera.

He'd let her have her modesty, of course.

[irene_adler]

It had taken seconds - a minute at most - for them to climb into the Jeep and speed away from the tarmac, and Irene Adler casts one glance out the window. The world blurs by at a dizzying speed, but it's enough for her to see that - for now - no one is following them. Sherlock had been thorough, and everyone that would have witnessed her death was now dead themselves. Her hand lifted to the side of her neck, catching hold of the black material wound around her head and pulling it free. She balled it tightly into her fist, and then the army uniform fell into her lap.

There was no time for questions or for speech of any kind, that could come later. For now, Irene reached down and caught the hem of the long black garment her captors had her change into. She pulled it to her waist, then crossed her arms and quickly tugged it over her head. Nothing remained above her waist, which hardly mattered now. Her skin held a collage of multicolored bruises and welts, but if any caused her pain she gave no indication of it. It took a matter of seconds for her to pull the camp top over her head and thrust her legs into the pants. There was no time to worry about footwear, but she could conceal her feet in the shadows the Jeep's dashboard and console afforded.

Gathering her hair in one hand, Irene twisted it quickly into a knot and held it atop her head with one hand. The other pulled the army cap atop her head, and she gave a quick tug to pull the ends down to her ears. With the last seconds they had, she gathered up the black clothing she had been wearing, balling it up and pushing it beneath her seat.

Outwardly she may not appear afraid, but her heart was crashing against her ribcage. The perimeter was upon them now, artificial lights glaring down on them in the darkness. Irene Adler did not glance to the left at - her rescuer? - but instead rested her left hand on her lap. Her nails were no longer red and painted, and she curled her fingers briefly to clutch the camo print fabric of her pants before relaxing again. The fingers of her right hand kept hold of the pistol, tucked out of sight between her thigh and the Jeep's door.

With a quick inhale of breath, Irene Adler straightens her back in the seat but keeps her head tilted slightly down. The dark provides the protection of some shadow, and her eyes remain fixed on the distance. It is a likeness to the posture she had seen on the Pakistani soldiers when they moved her from one location to the other.

The perimeter rushed up to meet them and Irene's grip on the pistol tightens slightly.

[elementarysaidhe]

The southwest edge of the perimeter of this particular industrial complex is notable for two reasons: first, Sherlock knows through his cursory surveillance of the area that there are no functioning security cameras to monitor the comings and goings of the base. This rather convenient fact is complemented by another -- the guard that is posted to this particular location tonight is entering his fourth straight night of duty and, thanks to generous dinner of karahi mopped up with buttery aloo paratha (provided by an anonymous benefactor), is dozing dreamlessly in his cramped little tower. It will take the squawk of the radio -- currently tucked under his expansive underside -- to rouse him, and even then Sherlock has bought them more than a few minutes of leeway to make their escape.

In the seat next to him, Sherlock senses Irene Adler rally all of her remaining self-composure and acting aplomb to deliver the final performance of the evening. He is aware of the suffering she has undergone at the hands of her captors and is, frankly, amazed that she is even upright and coherent at all. A frisson of...something tickles the nape of his neck. A similar feeling must vibrate through two lions when they lock eyes on the edge of the savannah. Like recognizing like.

Sherlock eases the Jeep into a lower gear as they approach the guard station. Inside, the blue-green luminescence of a single, flickering neon bulb illuminates the figure of the sleepy guard, his chin tucked into his chest like a resting bird. Sherlock slips like a wraith from the driver's seat and into the guard's station, flipping the switch for the movable cordon and grabbing an aluminum tin of naan as he sweeps back into the driver's seat. He handles the steering wheel with one hand while passing the tray to Irene Adler with the other. Eat. An unspoken command. For the time being, she'll have to get used to obeying them.

Once they are past the cordon Sherlock accelerates, racing into the Karachi night with a squeal of protesting tires. They drive for a few miles before he takes a hard left turn, seemingly at random, down a ramshackle alley barely wide enough to accommodate their girth. He peels into a low-slung thatched garage of sorts, its walls manufactured of wattle and straw. Nearby, a midnight black Audi A8 idles, indistingishable from the thousands of other luxury vehicles that occupy the city streets.

Sherlock cuts the engine of the Jeep and swings down, discarding his black robes to reveal a sensible set of black trousers and a black cashmere turtleneck. He ducks beneath the Audi for the hidden magnetic ignition key and then steps 'round to the passenger side, holding her door ajar.

"After you, Ms. Adler."

[irene_adler]

The number of times Irene Adler has followed any kind of order given to her are, as expected, few and far between. It has little to do with her (previous) chosen line of work and everything to do with making her way in the world by whatever means she deems fit. But there will be no argument or contradiction tonight regarding their fleeing Karachi. There will be, she is certain, no detail left to chance. It goes without saying that Sherlock Holmes has a brilliant, sharp mind. He would not have come to her rescue without a tightly mapped, carefully laid plan to accompany it. For that reason alone, Irene Adler knew she was - well, neither of them were safe by any means. But in this Jeep, speeding through the dark of night, they had the best possible chance.

She accepted the tin without hesitation, tucking it between her knees to open the lid. The scent of the naan reminds her it's been days since she last ate anything (her captors had not been concerned with that, only providing small bits of food and sips of water to keep her alive, yet weakened for her execution). Irene Adler has enough sense to know eating too quickly after a period of time without could well result in a wildly upset stomach. As the world speeds by outside she eats, the gnawing in her stomach she had come to ignore abating one moment at a time. Her right hand still keeps hold on the pistol in its place, but no one is speeding up behind or beside them at the moment.

When Sherlock springs from the Jeep, it's clear they are changing cars. Irene replaces the cover on the tin and tucks it into the curve of her arm, changing the pistol to her other hand only long enough to open the Jeep's passenger door. Her feet hit the ground a second later and she hurries to the Audi without hesitation. For a second she is allowed her first full look at him, severe in black as dark as the night around them, hair tousled from the robes and eyes sharp with purpose. The smile that came to her on the tarmac when she first caught sight of him reaches not only her mouth but her eyes as well.

"Thank you, Mister Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is the same as it was moments after he'd unlocked the combination to her safe and they made short work of the American intruders in her home (Thank you; you were very observant). She slips into the passenger seat, the tin of naan and pistol held safely in her lap. Flyaway strands of her hair peek out from the cap on her head.

Thank you had not been merely for holding the door for her; a far greater meaning was behind those words, but this was absolutely not the time for anything other than following Sherlock's plan. For now, Irene asks her first (and perhaps only) question of the night.

"Where to?"

[elementarysaidhe]

The door closes with the cushy snikt that only a luxury vehicle can provide. Despite appearances to the contrary -- the theatrical costumes, the expensive ride -- Sherlock has had to make due on this little reconnaisance mission without the assistance of his older brother's octopal government connections. What he has done to get here, and what they will do now, are the result of two months of meticulous internal planning. In his vast mind palace, the mechanics of the mission fit together like the cogs and gears of an infinitely complex pocket watch, and he is attuned to the infinitesimal twitch of each and every piece.

He slides into the driver's seat beside her. The interior of the car is dimly lit and blue. There are two bottled waters in the cup holders in the center console, bearing the logo of of an Omani company. In answer to her question, Sherlock's eyes land briefly on the bottles between them.

"You'll be tempted to down both bottles," he says, sliding the car into gear and easing them out of the wattle garage and back toward the highway. "Don't. Your kidneys are compromised by lack of fluid intake; overwhelm them now and you'll be spending the first night of your freedom in hospital."

He says nothing more as they cruise onto the highway bordering the city. The lights of the famed Mohatti Palace blur and burn brightly in the distance. Soon, the salt smell of the sea. Sherlock eases the Audi to a crawl at the edge of what appears to be a disused pier. He eases the car into a parking space between two other vehicles, their license plates both of Indian origin. Sherlock leaves the car and does a rapid exchange of plates -- it will take the authorities a few hours to sort the mess, buying them even more time -- and pulls two "go" bags from the trunk, tossing the keys to the car into the water beside the pier.

Across the water, the glittering shoreline of Muscat, Oman's port capital, glitters like a jeweled box. Sherlock strides down the pier on long legs and drops both "go" bags into a Zodiac Milpro inflatable boat that bobs discreetly beneath the pylons. When he turns to regard her, the lights of the distant capital city silhouette him in golden-green luminescence.

"I hope for your sake you're not prone to seasickness."

Said as he vaults over the edge of the pier and into the prow of the boat.

[irene_adler]

Admittedly, she had not expected a direct answer to her question. There were many moving parts at work here, coming together one piece at a time, the outcome carrying them to an undisclosed destination. Sherlock's thought process was wholly unique, something Irene Adler first glimpsed in her own sitting room. She had been wrapped in his coat (and nothing else, her Louboutin heels on the floor by her bare feet), and the mystery of the dead hiker had unfolded. It had taken her a little longer to come to the same conclusion, to see what he saw, but that did nothing to dull her appreciation of the detective's mind. It was one thing to read of it, another to see it at work herself.

His remark about the water brings back the full extent of her own thirst, but she has enough sense to abstain. Irene takes one of the bottles from its holder and twists open the cap with a soft click. She takes small, slow drinks from the bottle as the highway rolls out beneath them, keeping her eyes trained on the distance ahead. With every mile they travel the tarmac is further away, and while Irene knows they are by no means safe yet, the coldness in her stomach has abated.

A little more than half of the first water bottle remains when Sherlock pulls the car into its space, and Irene Adler replaces the cap as the car is eased into park. She collects the second bottle as well as the tin and pistol, exiting the car and staying in the protection of the night. One water bottle is tucked into each pocket of her camouflage pants, and with the tin held under her left arm she can freely maneuver the pistol in her right if needed.

There is no hesitation - when Sherlock moves along the pier, Irene follows. She casts a quick glance across her shoulder, but they are alone. The saltiness of the sea is a welcome scent, far more pleasant than the combination of sweat, damp earth and car exhaust she had faced the past several days.

"Not at all. I've been on the water before."

Of course, that was on her own yacht that had been acquired from a British banker (she knew what he liked, after all), but that hardly mattered now.

Irene Adler reaches the edge of the pier and doesn't hesitate, springing from the edge and into the boat. More strands of her hair work their way from under the cap, swiping against her face in the slight breeze. She pulls the cap from her head to avoid losing it (leave no trail to follow), tucking it into her pocket. The water bottles are removed and tucked, along with the aluminum tin, into one of the outer pockets of the bags.

Sherlock has, of course, thought of everything. There is no surprise on Irene Adler's face, only the same calm and resolute expression she held as they drove through the night. But she is impressed, and the feeling zips through her in a quick, warm rush. Go on, impress a girl. And he certainly has.

Irene settles herself into the boat, her legs tucked beside her and the pistol held in one hand across her lap. She finds his face in the lights of the city, though his eyes are temporarily hidden by shadow. She is ready for whatever comes next.

[elementarysaidhe]

There is a fair amount of distance between their current location and the Omani shoreline. Given the current wind conditions, the power of the tide, and the oomph of the Zodiac's motor, it takes them approximately twenty-six minutes to make their way across the skipping waves. On the way, whether through necessity or an unmentioned understanding, neither of them speak. There is danger here, still.

When they are fifty yards out from a sheltered cove, Sherlock cuts the Zodiac's engine and reaches underneath the seat for a pair of oars, passing one to her. He raises one arm, palm turned sideways, and indicates a specific place on the shoreline. A single nod. He then lowers his oar soundlessly into the black water and begins to stroke toward shore. Under their combined power, they make landfall in less than three minutes. Sherlock splashes out into water that is shin-deep, looping the bow ropes around his forearms and pulling the boat onto the sand. He waits for Irene to disembark before he fetches both "go"bags from beneath the seat, swinging them up over his shoulder. Producing a serrated knife from a hither-to-unseen holster on his hip, he punctures the inflatale side of the Zodiac and gives it a good kick back into the water, tossing the oars after it.

The beach around them is dark and silent, an ebony loop of sand at the base of the jeweled Omani skyline. Nearby, a dilapidated Four Runner sits hunkered down over its wheels. Sherlock approaches the vehicle and sweeps a hand beneath the driver's side wheel well, scooping an ignition key into his palm. He unlocks the car and gestures for her to climb in. Once inside, he drops the bags into the back seat and starts the engine, navigating the Four Runner along the surfline and down the beach, up a boat ramp, and into the flow of late night traffic.

[irene_adler]

Their passage across the water was devoid of speech, but that didn't mean Irene allowed herself to relax. She remained still and silent during the first part of the trip, only moving to ensure their bags and supplies were secure, her eyes shifting between the shoreline and the lines of his profile in the darkness. More than once she had been in a position to leave one place for another, and she was no stranger to the importance of getting to the new location without detection, following a carefully placed together plan to do so. This would be one of the handful of moments in her life where Irene Adler did exactly what was asked of her without question. The strangeness of the concept was not lost on her, rather it was wholly dismissed. The most important thing was for them to get to whatever destination Sherlock had in mind.

When they are on solid ground again, Irene looks back in the direction they came. There is nothing, no indication they are being pursued, and she did not expect there to be. No doubt there are other pieces of this plan in place behind them as well as ahead on their path, all meticulously laid out to give them the best possible chance at escape. A brief surge of admiration pulses through her and she allows it to show in the lift of her mouth when Sherlock's back is turned, taking care of the Zodiac and oars.

In the protection of the night she follows to the Four Runner and slips into the passenger seat, pulling the door to a tight close behind her. Sherlock has taken care of their supplies, and it occurs to her that he has requested as little assistance from her as possible during their flight. She doesn't think it has anything to do with his belief in her capabilities, rather that he is moving from one step to the next of a carefully laid plan. He may have planned this out weeks, months in advance, and something about that realization brings another quick surge of emotion in her chest.

When the Four Runner merges onto the road, Irene Adler allows herself to take in a full breath. She's not naive, she knows they aren't safe yet, but they are making progress through the night and the tarmac is far behind them. It is a far better situation than she had thought possible. She curls her legs up beside her on the seat and watches the outside world rush by, all dark shadows and shapes.

There's no need for her to say anything right now. Time for that will come later.

[elementarysaidhe]

The highway loops like an ornamental ribbon around the edge of Muscat, showcasing the harbor and the much-lauded opera house, the fashionable shopping district and the palatial homes that leach their afternoon heat to a chilly midnight air. The Four Runner flies like an arrow past these tender offerings, past rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods like Al Azaiba and Al Qurum, toward the tentacles of the outer city. The Hajar Mountains loom like a broken spine against the starry horizon. Sherlock does not look to the passenger side of the car once during their drive, but he feels the heat of the body in the seat next to his and senses how closely she is guarding her candor, much the same as she protects every facet of her duplicitous lifestyle.

After about half an hour, Sherlock exits the highway and guides the Four Runner onto a series of narrow dirt paths. The homes here are more rustic than those in the heart of the city; these are generational homesteads, intimate family spaces. Sherlock slows the Four Runner to a crawl on a residential street, then eases to a stop in the alley of a four-storey apartment complex. Lamplight flickers in a few of the windows; many other windows are dark. There is electricity here, and running hot-and-cold water, but they are clearly luxuries. Sherlock stops the engine and gets out, slinging both "go" bags over his shoulder. He quickly switches license plates and then drapes the vehicle in a dusty tarp, not dissimilar from the other vehicles on the street.

With a look to Irene, Sherlock proceeds into the darkened foyer of the building. A once-resplendent chandelier hangs in the lobby, its brass arms fuzzed with dust and disuse. Sherlock mounts the stairs to the second floor, where he proceeds down a long corridor that smells of intoxicating spices. Producing a key from somewhere on his person, he lets them both into a small but functional apartment. There is a table, a hot plate, a prayer rug, and a single bed in the main room. A darkened doorframe on the far side of the room leads to the apartment's only bathroom, thankfully fitted with a copper tub and hot water. Sherlock has made sure that the bathroom is stocked with a full first-aid kit in advance of their stay. He drops one of the "go" bags -- hers, by all accounts; packed with a change of clothes in her size, as well as a few feminine hygiene products -- inside of the bathroom door. He turns to face her, his expression sphinx-like. His gaze lingers on the uniform she's wearing. A slight downturn of his left lip.

"Might have been a bit excessive with that," he admits of the uniform, then turns to the hotplate. A cuppa' is in order.

[irene_adler]

It has been awhile since she has seen the inside of a room, an actual room of any kind with four walls and a ceiling, electricity and running water, and the relief registers in her eyes. For now they are in a place of comparative safety (Sherlock would not have stopped here unless that were the case), and there is time for rest and to clean up. Irene Adler takes a moment to familiarize herself with their accommodations, and is pleased (though not surprised) to find everything they need is here. This is not the first time since the tarmac that she has had this thought, and a twinge of admiration echoes again somewhere in her chest.

Sherlock's voice causes her to turn, facing him in the soft light. His remark brings a slight lift of her eyebrows, and she tucks a smile at the corner of her mouth. It is not unlike a look she had given him in London, nearly a year ago when John Watson's eyes had moved from one of them to the other and back again as if he had been watching a riveting game of tennis.

"Not at all. It worked very well."

There is more she wants to say, but the words stay tucked at her lips. Sherlock's attention moves to the hot plate, and Irene Adler steps across the threshold into the bathroom. Her reflection registers in the mirror above the sink, and she is able to see herself for the first time in several days. Fatigue shows beneath her eyes in purplish smudges and her hair is a thick, dark twist down her back, but the face that looks back at her is still her own. Most importantly of all, her head is still firmly attached to her neck. The rest can be dealt with.

Irene twists the handles on either side of the faucet, and after a brief hiss a mixture of hot and cold water begins to flow. She adjusts the temperature, then cups her hands and bends towards the sink. Warm water is splashed up to her face for a few moments, and then she reaches for one of the towels folded nearby. The small gesture makes a remarkable amount of difference to her.

The bathroom door moves slightly, drifting another inch towards closing, and Irene turns towards the sound. Hanging on the back of the door is a robe, black and cotton from the looks of it, and another smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Baker Street was months ago, but the memory of climbing through 221B's window was still fresh in her mind. That night she had slept in Sherlock's bed - literally, not figuratively - and later taken a shower, wrapping herself in his own blue dressing gown, much to the surprise of John Watson. It was a very smart addition to the supplies Sherlock had brought, though - of course she would need to clean up after their flight through the nighttime streets, and the robe would prevent her from changing into the clothes he'd brought right away. Those would be needed to make it to the next stop on their journey, wherever that might be.

Irene turns back to face the mirror, then lowers her hands to the hem of the uniform's top. Crossing her arms she pulls the camouflage material up and over her head, letting it fall by her feet in a small puddle. There is nothing underneath - the Pakistani soldiers had not been concerned with her modesty and so the only undergarment she wore was at her waist. Reaching to the side of her neck she gathers her hair in her hands, pulling it around and to one side.

It has been at least two days since the last soldier struck her, across her upper back. She hadn't seen what he used, but her guess had been a rod or a cane. A lash would have broken the skin, and there had been no bleeding. There were other marks, too, multicolored bruises in varying shades of red, purple and green depending on age, spilling across her back and shoulders. Irene Adler would remember each one for the rest of her days, but she had not given her captors anything. They had pumped her for information, but she gave nothing up. Even when alone in the small, damp cell they left her in, no tears had been shed. It was not in her nature to yield, and she would not do so in (what had been thought to be) her final days.

Cleaning up sounds more than appealing, but she doesn't know how much time they have. Irene tugs the uniform pants down her hips, stepping out of them before collecting both the pants and top beside her bag. She retrieves the robe from the back of the door and wraps herself in it, tying the sash at her waist. Leaving her feet bare, she retrieves a brush from her bag and steps back across the doorframe. The smell of tea reaches her first, and it takes a moment for her to find his silhouette nearby.

"How long do we have?" Irene lowers herself to sit on the edge of the bed and begins to pull the brush through her long dark hair.

[elementarysaidhe]

While she is ensconced in the bathroom, Sherlock tends the kettle and the hotplate. He is as adroit with the cup and saucer as he is with his chemical bottles; his hands move about like those of a magician. Soon there are two cups of an acrid, bracing brew on a small wooden tea table. Two chairs -- their cushions threadbare but functional -- sit facing the tea. The moon has long ago dipped beneath the horizon, and the room is lit by he glow of a single lamp in the corner. It might be romantic -- were the threat of imminent death and dismemberment not inexorably present.

When she emerges, Sherlock is standing, his tea cupped gingerly between his long fingers.

"We're safe here until morning," he says, "then we'll move."

[irene_adler]

It feels like a very long time has passed since she last had tea, and the notion is irresistible. Irene tugs the brush through her hair a few times, working loose the tangles, before rising from the edge of the bed. She sets the brush down and collects her own mug of tea. Her fingers wrap around the mug, and the warmth reaches her palms a second later. It feels good and familiar, and for a moment Irene Adler stays that way, inhaling the heat and scent before taking a first sip. The tea is strong but it's good, and the realization that Sherlock made them both tea isn't lost on her.

Another sip of her tea and Irene steps away from the table, closer to him. The lamp casts them both in slight shadow, but she can still make out the angles of his face. Or maybe it's that she memorized his face long ago, either consciously or not.

"Thank you. For coming for me."

[elementarysaidhe]

There is particulate in the bottom of the teacup; a few fine grains of tea that sit like punctuation marks on the bottom of the chipped porcelain. The tea itself is deep amber, a color not entirely dissimilar from the sodium lamps that had recently been the illumination for her failed execution. He takes a considering sip.

"Getting caught was stupid." The blunt rejoinder to her thanks. The tea is still bitter on his lips; he tastes the harsh sun in the sting of the dried leaves.

[irene_adler]

The corner of her mouth lifts slightly, the beginning of a faint smile in spite of herself. That was nearly the exact response she had expected; Sherlock Holmes was far from the type to coddle in any circumstances. He hadn't said anything that she had not already said to herself dozens of times over. Irene Adler had gone over her escape route in her mind multiple times, beginning to end, during her imprisonment in the small, dark cell. The changes she could have made to avoid detection were obvious now, but there was no point in thinking on them any longer.

"It certainly wasn't part of the plan."

Her fingers tighten their hold around her cup and Irene bends her head to take another slow sip. A sore place on her back gives a quick throb of pain, but she makes no sound to show it. Her eyelids flicker to a brief close, and her expression is as it was before when she lowers the cup again.

[elementarysaidhe]

"Beheadings rarely are."

It is Khareef, or "monsoon" season, and the streets below their tiny flat are thick with red, alkaline mud. At any moment the skies are likely to open up and unleash a deluge of rain; the air all but crackles with potential energy. Someone on a motorized scooter buzzes by underneath the window and causes the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck to stand briefly at attention. The retreating bike leaves deep rivulets in the mud as it retreats, single red tail light flashing like a winking eye. Safe. The muscles between his shoulders slowly, gradually, unrope themselves.

A little thunder here.

Sherlock appraises her out of the corner of his eye. He registers that brief moment of discomfort and catalogs it, quick as a camera apeture closing.

"You should sleep," he says, returning his gaze to the street below. The bed, with its multicolored duvet, is deep and inviting. "The next few days are going to be arduous."

[irene_adler]

The idea of sleep is appealing. Irene Adler was able to sleep in small increments when in the custody of her captors, though not for an extended amount of time. She had been accustomed to that as well, sustaining on less sleep than others might have required, but the damp cell with the soldiers just outside the door was far from a comfortable setting. Here, they are comparatively safe, and Sherlock is right - the days to come will be a challenge, to say the least.

Irene raises her cup to her lips again, and she takes a longer drink than before. It's familiar, comforting, something she would have done in any of her previous residences, and maybe that is why she lingers over it. Or maybe it's to avoid movement and aggravation to her shoulders and back - truly, it's impossible to be sure. Her head remains tilted downwards until she draws the cup away from her lips, and she turns back towards the table. Setting her cup down she takes a seat in one of the chairs and retrieves the brush.

She has only pulled the brush through her hair twice before lightning flashes outside. It's far away for now, as measured by the gap between lightning and thunder, but the world outside is briefly illuminated. Irene's head turns sharply towards the window, and while she maintains her hold on the brush it's with a grip that has turned her knuckles white. Even with the distance put between them and what would have been her death, she is still on edge.

The quickness of her movement sends another, sharper pain along her back and into her right shoulder. Irene Adler clenches her jaw briefly, then sets the brush down once more. With her eyes on the window she rises from the chair, crossing to the edge of the bed. Bending her left knee she eases herself to sit, pulling her hair to the left side of her neck in a dark twist. Her hands come to rest on her lap again, one concealed beneath the other. It's a few moments before she speaks again.

"And you?"

[elementarysaidhe]

Her dark rope of hair, still wet, evokes a sharp snap of sound each time the brush is pulled through. It's like counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. Sherlock remembers, in a split-second of asymmetrical memory, waiting for the rumble of thunder after a lightning strike with his dog, Redbeard, by his side. The Irish Setter had always quaked during thunderstorms. Sherlock remembered holding the animal in his arms in the window of the family seat, the thick paws smelling of ozone and sweet hay, as he attempted to soothe his friend through the worst of the squall.

A strange memory, that. Sherlock blinks it away and he will not think on it again.

He replaces his teacup precisely on the saucer. There is a chip in the porcelain, he notes, probably from being rattled about in the cabinet. The chip clangs off something in his empathetic awareness and Sherlock is suddenly and acutely aware of her discomfort.

Lightning flashes again on the horizon. The motorbike, revving in the distance, is joined by a pair of others.

"I'll keep watch until morning," he says.

[irene_adler]

If Irene realized Sherlock was aware of her discomfort, that she'd disclosed a tell in spite of her efforts to do otherwise, she would have registered (nearly) equal parts of irritation at herself and a lack of surprise at his observations. It was to be expected after all, but that didn't mean she wanted him to know the extent of what had happened to her. Maybe it was rooted in pride (likely), but Irene Adler didn't care to show any sign of her own pain. For the moment, she remained unaware of his realization.

The motorbikes do not go unnoticed by her, and Irene's eyes narrow slightly in the direction of the window. Her captors had not used motorbikes that she had been aware of, perhaps preferring four wheeled vehicles, but that doesn't mean the sounds do not indicate a threat. Everyone is a threat as of now, with the exception of the man in the room with her. The man who, for reasons she does not understand, came to her rescue. It isn't that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have known where she was or what had happened to her - of course he could have. Knowing where she was would be the simple part for him. But why had he come? It was a question that would be useless to ask now, and possibly never to be answered, yet a question ringing quietly in the back of her mind.

Her toes curl into the carpet as she stands again, crossing the room towards where he stands near the window. The angles and planes of his face are cast in shadows, both from the lightning and the candle flame. Irene drifts to his side, enough to allow her a view of the outside street. Thunder booms again, closer in time now but still not quite on top of them. Her body tenses again at the sound, and she crosses her arms over her chest to conceal the resulting throbbing ache across her upper back. She's almost come to anticipate them now.

"Three motorized bikes," she says quietly. "Moving away from here, not toward. Away from the storm." Irene flexes the fingers of her right hand before settling them back onto her upper arm. Her thumb strokes the fabric of the robe absently. Another flash of lightning, a bit closer now.

[elementarysaidhe]

The detective does not turn to register her presence, though it does register, her body filling the space beside his like the weight of a gravitational body in deep space. This far out, almost everyone has a motorbike. Far cheaper than larger vehicles, they are easier to maintain and can be repaired far more readily. The motorbikes outside of their window, going by their sounds, have been refurbished multiple times. One of them sounds like an asthmatic sewing machine. It grunts and chortles away in the darkness. A gust of wind brings the smell of incoming rain and the sweet tang of medwakh tobacco. Sherlock's shoulders settle imperceptibly.

He senses her shift beside him and his eyes briefly alight on her silhouette; he thinks he has had to have memorized and catalogued her whole range of movement by now. It has run, on loop, inside of his memory palace since their first meeting in Belgravia. In Sherlock's mind, Irene Adler is a constantly running scientific diagram, one to which he has devoted more than an allowable level of interest.

He blinks back toward the window.

"It'll pass," he says. He means the storm. He means something else, too.

[irene_adler]

He knows. The realization hits her suddenly, like one of the flashes of lightning in the oncoming storm. Of course he knows; the greater surprise would have been the knowledge escaping his notice. Irene does not feel a rush of shame or embarrassment, but rather a touch of relief. She does not care to show any sort of weakness, most of all in Sherlock's presence (something carried over from their first meeting), but he knows now and there is no undoing it. Add this to the realization that were the motorbikes a cause for concern his demeanor would be different than it is now, and Irene Adler feels some of the tension in her body relax. Not all, but some.

She does not respond right away, instead takes another few steps to the window. The outside world is dark for now, the wind picking up further. Irene lifts her hand, touching her fingertips to the glass. The surface is slightly cool but warms quickly with her body heat. Another flash of lightning comes, closer still, and while she does not start from it, she does return her hand to her side. Her face is illuminated with the flash and she turns from the window, this time lifting her eyes to his face.

"Yes, it will." Of course it will. From what she was able to see in the bathroom's mirror, there should be no permanent damage. The soldiers were not aiming for killing or crippling blows, but rather something to pass the time. To them, Irene Adler deserved exactly what was coming to her. But Sherlock Holmes had other plans, and because of them she was standing beside him now. The question was echoing quietly in the back of her mind, over and over in its own rhythm. Why did you come for me? Not the first time she had thought it and certainly not the last. Thunder crashes again, closer than before. The pattering of rain is distant.

Irene takes the step that will bring herself into Sherlock's immediate space. Slowly her hand lifts and comes to rest atop his own, the one not occupied with the teacup on its saucer. It is not unlike the gesture she made on Baker Street, when she crossed the room and knelt before him, the room illuminated by firelight.

"It should pass over us in a few hours." Now she is talking about the storm, though previously she meant something else as well. They are similar in more ways than perhaps either is yet aware.

[elementarysaidhe]

The smooth, caramel-colored intrusion of her hand. Of her touch. It rises out of the same dull gray shadow as the rest of the room but, as it permeates his own fingertips with warmth, sends a thousand ringing klaxons singing off the ramparts of Sherlock's mind that no warning, however asute, could preface. His tongue finds a home at the base of his molars, swishing imperceptibly, slick as an eel over its reef at the inkling of new prey.

There is a dull shift of threadbare floor as he turns imperceptibly nearer.

"Hardly enough time," he rumbles, his voice a deep baritone. "Given everything."

The long violinist fingers scoop the soft flesh of her inner arm.

[irene_adler]

Her pulse gives a sudden, wild leap, and the familiar gesture does not go unnoticed. Lightning flashes outside again, and she too moves a slight distance closer. The tips of her toes curl against the carpeting, and Irene tilts her chin up further, allowing herself a closer view of his face. His eyes are just visible by the room's candlelight, and his touch is warm, perhaps surprisingly so, against her skin.

As thunder booms outside again, Irene Adler lifts her free hand towards Sherlock's face. Her fingers, curled towards her palm, move across the high arch of his cheek. The pad of her thumb brushes across the corner of his mouth.

"There's time," she says, her voice nearly lost to the thunder's sound. Her fingers uncurl and her palm rests against his skin. "We have time."

[elementarysaidhe]

The smooth inner groove of her palm smells like the grease of the naan and...something else. Sherlock's remarkable olfactory machinery dives down the rabbit hole of atomized categorization, alighting on all of the likely suspects until -- ah. The unmistakable scent of a firearm, from where the handle of the pistol hugged her palm. Surely not the first -- or last -- time that Irene Adler would be required to pack heat, and Sherlock idly wonders what kind of markswoman she is.

Her thumb leaves an impression at the corner of his lip. His own hand slips nimbly down the swan curve of her am, beneath the tent of the dressing gown and into the supple dark beyond.

His eyes remain fixed on her own.

"What are you doing?"

[irene_adler]

What is she doing? The question finds its way into Irene Adler's ear, echoing over and over again and insistent on a response. It's not that she doesn't have a response, rather that several present themselves immediately and in a great, warm rush. Oh, Mister Holmes, you're the detective, think. What I should have done in London, in front of your fireplace. I'm not hungry, let's have dinner. These and a half dozen more tumble over one another, but none make it past her lips. They all seem inaccurate, and possibly inadequate, when it comes to articulating the reasons behind what she is doing - what she is about to do.

For another moment she remains silent, the pad of her thumb stroking his cheek with the barest touch. Irene feels rather than sees the touch of his hand against her arm, and the rush of warmth it brings registers in her eyes. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely a whisper.

"I think you already know."

Her toes curl into the carpet as she raises slightly on the balls of her feet, slowly bringing herself nearer to his height. His breath is a warm wave across her nose and cheek. The path of her fingers moves backwards, allowing the palm of her hand to rest on the back of his neck. Irene Adler tilts her head ever so slightly and closes the slight distance between them, kissing Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

Her lips are slightly parted, allowing the barest pass of her tongue against his lower lip. For a long moment she holds the kiss then draws back slightly. Her eyes open to find his again, searching that impossible gaze. Another flash of lightning illuminates his face, a crash of thunder directly behind it.

[elementarysaidhe]

There's a spiderweb crack in the ceiling. Just there. Foundational. Eventually, with the good push of a northern tectonic plate earthquake, the building itself will crash down like a house of cards. Sherlock's eye remains on this fissure in the plaster now, of course, even as Irene Adler's perfume swells up like a summer squall around him; even as her fingers walk, spindly and purposeful, over his chest. There are additional seismic incidents taking place at the moment, of course...

Her lips pass across his -- the first time Sherlock Holmes has been properly kissed -- and already his regimented mind is slotting the various sensations into place. A singular electric frisson up his spine, of course, goes undiagnosed by the acumen -- though it, in itself, inspires the inward trace of his palm across her elbow, pulling her close.

Thunder rumbles the kettle and cups. I think you already know.

Sherlock Holmes' fingers slide up the back of Irene Adler's silky back, twining at the base of her neck, drawing her in for a deeper, more purposeful kiss.

[irene_adler]

There is suddenly warmth, originating from the touch of his hand at her elbow and the long, sure fingers at the base of her neck. It is the first time in weeks Irene Adler has felt a touch that was not a strike or a blow, something connected to pain or torture. The feeling grows from those places, rushing outward to the rest of her body, and the sensation draws a soft exhale from her in the moment before their lips touch. It feels so impossibly good, beyond descriptions or adjectives, to be held like this; to be kissed by him.

Her toes curl into the carpet more tightly as Irene raises further on the balls of her feet, meeting Sherlock’s kiss with parted lips and a warm sweep of her tongue. The hand at the back of his neck trails downwards, resting her palm against the high arch of his cheek. Her other hand is against his chest, fingers splayed slightly, and is it her imagination? Or is there an irregularity, an acceleration in his heartbeat now? The question registers briefly, then fades to the back of her mind as her hand moves from his chest, bringing her arm to wrap around him in a closer embrace. A slight tilt of her head allows the kiss to deepen, the pass of her tongue warm against his lower lip.

[elementarysaidhe]

The hand not at her neck comes to settle upon her hip, gingerly, mindful of the bruises beneath. His gentleness should not be mistaken for coddling; he knows her well enough (or thinks her does, anyway) to know that she would find coddling to be an insult. Her directness is a brittle but welcome thing.

He, too, is intimately acquainted with the freedom of being direct.

Sherlock steps backward, pulling them both away from the uncovered window and further into the blue murk of the room. Many shadows here, many scents. This safe house has seen its fair share of trauma, much of which sticks to the walls like painted remnants. He is intensely aware of the smell of sweat, blood, and sand. Aware, too, of the heady cocktail of olfactory impressions rising from Irene Adler; from her hair, her fingertips, the deep vee of her parted robe.

He kisses her again, the intensity of it pushing forward, seeking, like smoke curling into an empty room.

[irene_adler]

He does know her, whether she wants him to or not; and the reverse is also true (whether he wants her to or not). It’s one of the reasons - perhaps the reason - this moment has been building for as long as it has. They were maneuvered into each others’ paths by the ulterior motives of others, and this particular outcome was unforeseen.

This is a rare moment in which Irene Adler will (briefly) allow herself to be guided. A warm stirring of curiosity rises in her, wanting to see where Sherlock will go and what will be to come. There are little frissons of sensation wherever they touch, spreading warmly out and away, a feeling almost inexplicable in itself.

Irene lets her back arch slightly, allowing her to press that much more against his chest. Her fingers move up from his cheek to tangle in the dark curls of his hair, and a soft sigh escapes from her mouth to the warm air between them. She’s responding to the intensity of his kiss with her own, a mixture of desire and hunger and so much more.

The tips of her toes curl into the carpet and she raises to the balls of her feet to bring them that much closer. There is no hesitation in her steps as she moves with him, further into the room and the dark, slanted shadows.