Open to elementarysaidhe; The fall in Morocco

Morocco's temperatures were debatable in the summer and winter months, but in the spring and fall there could potentially be nothing other than a perfect day. Rain came and went, never choosing to stay for more than a few hours and leaving a pleasant, shimmering shine across the outdoor marketplaces. Nightfall was cool but not cold, and the windows of hotel rooms and suites were often left open to invite the temperature indoors.

For the past two weeks, Irene Adler had left her own suite windows open wide. The sun awoke her in the morning and the night air coaxed her to sleep at night, little pieces of paradise that came into her suite. Marrakech had become home for the time being, a length of which she had yet to determine, but there wasn't an end yet in sight. She had gone from France to South America, on to North America to visit New York City (and the lights of Broadway), then back across the ocean once more. Staying in one place for too long wasn't in her better interest.

And of course before Marrakech and other stops along the way, she had returned to England. The death of Sherlock Holmes was an impossible piece of news to miss, and Irene had visited his grave. The rain had fallen against her back and she had stood there for at least a hour, watching the glossy black grave stone spill off the water in small streams. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Moriarty had been behind it of course, as he'd been behind the entire scandal that had dirtied the detective's name. An elaborate scheme meant to destroy was far more crippling than any fatal injury, and Jim Moriarty had never been one for the simple way out. Better to destroy the credibility of his enemy than end his life. No matter what it looked like, though it had been labeled a suicide, Irene Adler would always believe that Jim Moriarty had been the hand behind the death of Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock wouldn't have taken his own life. Not in the way that the papers had painted him to.

The guilt had clutched at her chest ever since, a cold grasp of ice somewhere around her heart. If she had kept Roubaix's files in her possession, kept Moriarty on her heels like a cat chasing an evasive mouse, then Sherlock might have survived. But he had taken the files from her in France and put her on a plane to get her off the continent. Told her the fight wasn't hers anymore, that the part she had played was over.

And she knew Moriarty would kill him.

Irene disappeared after that, traveling continents for close to a year until she arrived in Morocco. The Baldaquin suite of the La Mamounia hotel then became her home. To the staff and patrons there she was Lillian Langtry, a name she had taken in a nod to the deceased actress of many years past. She passed her days walking in the hotel's lavish gardens and frequently ate at the small cafes not too far from the property.

The sun was warm against Irene's back when she crossed the square. The marketplace was filled with activity, small booths both covered and uncovered with a variety of different things for sale. If one knew where to look then there were treasures to find, but most of the tourists who came and went preferred the less expensive trinkets. Irene came to look and to converse with the locals who called Marrakech their home, but very rarely to make a purchase. While she looked nothing like a native in appearance she had chosen this city for her home for the time being, and she did what she had to in order to survive, and consequently be a part of its surroundings.