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]

"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.