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.
no subject
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."