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.
no subject
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.