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.
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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.