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.
no subject
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.