mmkaternater | Open to irene_adler (BBC's Sherlock)

Whenever feasible, Sherlock Holmes preferred to travel Europe by train, rather than by aeroplane.

This predilection, to which Dr. John Watson was only enlightened as he attempted to squeeze two valise cases into the overhead compartment of a sleeper car (Holmes did none of the lifting), had several sources. Holmes was particularly sensitive to the idea of airline security in a post-9/11 society, where a man who could identify who you were sleeping with (just by looking at the cuffs on your sleeves) attracted a worrying amount of attention from border agents. (Holmes had once been stuck in a holding room in Lisbon's Portela Airport for thirty-six hours merely because the pilot's shoelaces had been of a particular interest.) Holmes also approved of the thrift of the railway system and, in spite the success of Watson's blog and the celebrity it attracted, preferred a private train car to a noisy, elbow-to-elbow aerorplane cabin.

They had taken a lightspeed rail from Charing Cross and reached the southern tip of France in just under three hours. After breakfasting in Céret, they had boarded another, hardier train for the one thousand mile journey north to the provincial town of Lille where they were to begin their latest investigation. Watson had settled down almost immediately, sinking into the plush seat like a winter bird fluffing its feathers. Holmes had gravitated toward the smoking car (itself in danger of becoming an anachronism in an increasingly anti-smoking society) which he found blissfully unoccupied. He spent most of the northward journey with his back to the window, watching the passengers as they traversed up and down the corridor. He did not smoke. He seemed merely content to be in a position to do so if he chose.

Their present commission had been set to them by a doctor named Roubaix, a noted physician and medical celebrity, whose latest research seemed to indicate that he had found a cure for all forms of malignant neoplasms -- cancer. He was mere weeks away from making a formal announcement when he discovered that his research notes had been stolen from a locked safety deposit box, itself protected by a two-foot-thick steel vault door in the city bank. The security cameras had recorded nothing of the incident; no alarms had been triggered and none of the employees had access to the safety deposit boxes, save the manager, who had been away on holiday in Nice.

"These papers are priceless, Mr. Holmes," Roubaix had pleaded, wringing his hands as he sat in the sitting room at Baker Street two days earlier, "the police launched a formal investigation but turned up rien, nothing. You must come to France. I do not want to be melodramatic, but the future of the human race may depend on it."

"Never let it be said that I did not do my part for humanity, Watson," Holmes said as they stepped onto the platform at Lille, the steam of the engine swirling around their ankles.

"Oh yes," Watson replied dryly, "Sherlock Holmes: our last great hope."

Holmes narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You're irritated with me."

Watson dragged the last of the two cases down from the train and heaved them onto the platform, puffing for his effort. "No, no, not at all. I'll just get these heavy suitcases myself. What have you got in here, cement bricks?"

"Safecracking equipment." And he set off across the square at a brisk walk.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

elementarysaidhe

Sherlock, formidable mental champion and logicist, could tell you the two hundred and forty-three different types of tobacco ash and how to identify each, but his mental faculties were stunted when it came to the good, old-fashioned come on. A divot appeared between his brows. He sleighted his face away from her, one eyebrow poised in question.

"What are you doing?"

It quite literally did not compute. Her move from from bank heist to shed your clothes had no logical origin nor flowthrough. Sherlock found himself backtracking the last twenty seconds for potential gap in his perception.

From:

irene_adler

If it were the end of the world, if it were the very last night -

There had been firelight around them then, and he'd been far more preoccupied with his violin and thoughts of Coventry than he had been with her. For all of his knowledge and observations, Sherlock was oblivious to her advances.

"I'm taking your coat, Mister Holmes. What sort of a hostess would I be if I didn't - " her other hand traveled upwards to make the same push at the other side, the other shoulder " - take your coat?"

From:

elementarysaidhe

"I don't intend to stay," he reassured her, rolling his shoulders to stop the progress of her hands. Hostess or not, Sherlock was single-minded when it came to the practicalities of a case. This particular engagement was a reconnaissance-recovery operation; on the grand scale of criminal activities, this ranked somewhere between a six and a seven. Interesting, yes, but more a matter of clean hands than dirty objectives.

"I already know the location of the memory stick that contains the doctor's notes. I also know that, regardless of what you believe to be true about the man you are working for, your possession of the memory stick does not mandate your safety." He glanced at he bodice of her dress; for the impression of the three-inch rectangle that held all the world's hope in its tiny computer chip.

But why does she still have it? Why hasn't Moriarty collected it from her? What secondary purpose could she possibly serve?

He met her eyes. "He'll kill you." His voice was devoid of emotion. It was simply a fact.

From:

irene_adler

Three small words, and each held a ring of truth. Irene held his gaze with her own, even with her hands pressed against his shoulders, undaunted. It was a strange embrace, almost some kind of beginning to a dance.

For a brief instant, her mind is back on a darkened stretch of road, and the feeling of grit and ground beneath her knees is as fresh as it had been. There's foreign language roaring in her ears and masked faces by the half dozen, armored vehicles and a glinting blade sparkling in her peripheral vision like a stray star. Black gauze brushes against her cheek, the last memory she thought herself to have. And in what she believed her final moment to be, it had been Sherlock who she had said a goodbye to.

A goodbye, in three words.

Goodbye Mister Holmes.

When I say run -

For some reason - a reason she didn't quite understand, didn't understand at all - he'd come to save her. Posed as her executioner, then turned the blade on the terrorists themselves.

"It isn't the memory stick that Moriarty wants."

From:

elementarysaidhe

"Clearly," Holmes replied. Moriarty had veins of intrigue running throughout the entire corpus of Europe; if he had wanted the memory stick he could have taken it in a variety of criminally creative ways. Blackmail. Extortion. Bribery. Any number of bland, everyday crimes that would have little overhead and very few personnel on the ground.

But this...this was elaborate. Far too many bodies for a simple snatch-and-grab, too many potential loose ends. Sherlock was looking at one now: a loose end in a stunning black dress and heels that would break the resolve of all but the most confident of women.

From:

irene_adler

"Something that he has tried to buy, but can't. Something coveted, but not a material possession."

Her hands were flat against his shoulders now, and Irene took that moment to push a little harder, managing the upset of the coat by another fraction of an inch. There was a height difference between them, but not enough to prevent the brush of her breath across the sculpt of his chin.

"Something he's been denied, yet continues to ask for."

From:

elementarysaidhe

Sherlock was certain there was a very short list of things that Jim Moriarty could not obtain -- whether through money or good old-fashioned coercion -- and that if he ever came abreast of a locked door, he'd be just as moved to blow it off its hinges as ask for the key. Human casualty was a moot point. In fact, Moriarty probably felt that he hadn't done his job unless he left a lot of hats on the ground.

"I don't like riddles, Miss Adler," the detective said, arching a reproving eyebrow. "And you have something that Moriarty wants. That thought alone is enough to put ice around the hardiest of hearts."

From:

irene_adler

Moments came where Irene almost forgot how impervious to seduction Sherlock Holmes could be. It wasn't enough to deter her, but it was enough to make her try harder. Or in a completely different way.

Moriarty hadn't been enough to stop Sherlock from saving her life, though.

"You would advise I give it to him? Give him what he wants?"

Irene took a step back, her hands slipping from beneath his coat. She turned on a high heel and moved further into the penthouse.

"Come sit down, Sherlock. Make yourself comfortable."

From:

elementarysaidhe

Sherlock considered her question -- and her proposal -- and found himself spelling out his opinion on the former while he indulged her in the latter: "I would advise you to collect your things and leave France immediately for somewhere far warmer; perhaps even equatorial. The longer you are in the company of hangmen, the closer you are to the tightening noose."

He followed her through the corridors and the dark frames of doorways. Distant rooms, filled with indistinguishable furniture, passed on either side of the hallway. It was a splendid apartment. Enviable, even. But Sherlock could see that the owner spent very little time here. She would tell herself that this apartment was only temporary; that she would almost invariably end up going elsewhere, like a hermit crab searching for a new shell. Nomads did not have sentimental attachment to their homes. Sherlock, on the other hand, was London's great champion. His fondness for the metropolis nearly rivaled the pleasure he took from bringing a case to a satisfying conclusion.

From:

irene_adler

"Then you might never see me again. I doubt I'll run into you on a sandy beach in the Caribbean." Her voice came from a room away, amidst the sound of clothes and changing and moving about. Black was severe and dramatic, but Irene was home now. And home, for however brief a time, merited a degree of comfort.

When she returned to the main room, large and decorated with comfortable furniture and an unlit fireplace, she had wrapped herself in black silk and lace. Her hair was down and about her shoulders in dark waves, and her feet were bare without her heeled shoes. The flash drive, however, was in a safe place. Irene was no fool.

From:

elementarysaidhe

In her absence Sherlock had made a detailed visual inspection of the room. High, lofty ceilings. Tall windows on either side of a set of french doors, the latter of which doubtless led to the private balcony he had seen upon their arrival. Her furniture was high-end, but it too looked barely used. Irene Adler kept nothing of herself here; nothing personal, anyway. Her home, like her life, was a shade of itself. It was what she presented in place of her true personality.

The only hint of individuality was a painting in the corner. After closer inspection Sherlock discovered that it was, in fact, a Vermeer. If it were not a reproduction, it would be worth more than a few million pounds. Interesting. His first true dance with Moriarty had involved a forged Vermeer. He was in the midst of parsing out this particular memory when she came back into the room.

"You're not packed," he observed, indicating her attire with a nod.

From:

irene_adler

She was silent for a moment, her feet quiet while she walked across the carpet and to his side. Her attention was to the painting as well, a faint smile tucked at the corner of her mouth. The painting was one thing she would not be parting with. She was fond of it.

Irene crossed her arms, tilting her head a little as she regarded the painting silently, then lifted her eyes. His sharp profile filled her vision. High angles, sculpted cheekbones, a finely set mouth, a shock of dark hair.

"You're concerned about me." It wasn't quite a question, more of a curiosity.

From:

elementarysaidhe

"Why would I be?" He had made an art out of turning certain, seemingly personal questions back onto their owners like verbal double helixes.

From:

irene_adler

A moment passed in silence. Irene lifted her hand, her fingers finding the back of his hand. His skin was warm beneath her touch, and she brought her thumb across his knuckles in a slow pass.

"Because you think he'll kill me."

From:

elementarysaidhe

The contact did not surprise him, for he knew that Irene Adler was a tactile creature. (To touch was to know, in her philosophy.) Rather, he was curious as to the impetus behind it. Because you think he'll kill me. Surely she wasn't breaking her cardinal rule by getting sentimental. He watched her draw her thumb over the backs of his knuckles, focused as a scientist watching two chemicals react with one another.

"And you think that that implies concern."

From:

irene_adler

"I think if my life didn't matter to you, you'd have let the terrorist cell have my head."

The pad of her thumb moved in a slow circle across the back of his hand, coming to rest in the little space between the first and second knuckle. When his gaze was on their hands she chose the moment to drift a half inch nearer, her breath a ghost against his cheek.

"I think if my life didn't matter to you, you wouldn't have told me to run."

From:

elementarysaidhe

"You're mistaking me for a man of sentiment, Miss Adler," Sherlock said lowly, soberly. "I think if you were to ask any of my acquaintances you would discover that I do not make a habit out of being concerned for other people." If you were to ask any of his acquaintances they would have several other things to say about Sherlock's attitudes toward other humans. In blue, blue detail.

From:

irene_adler

"I'm very well aware." Irene's voice was quiet, wrapped in a thought or a memory or both at the same time. "There's only a handful of people in the world you offer the time of day to, and most of them you infuriate on a semi regular basis." Her fingers changed their pressure then, touch slipping across skin so her palm was pressed in line with his own. Her fingers bent to fill the negative spaces.

From:

elementarysaidhe

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "Oh let me guess," he said tersely, working through to the end of her thought, "you think you're different." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Boring." In his mouth, that word sounded like it should have been scooped out with a trowel.

From:

irene_adler

A little smile perked at the corner of her lips. "No," she said, "you infuriate me on a semi regular basis." The fingers of her free hand played at the lapel of his coat before returning to her side.

From:

elementarysaidhe

"Bully for me."

His thumb moved across the flesh of her palm. 'Bumped her life line up with the backs of his knuckles and raised her hand to the light, under which he put it to his casual inspection. "Your nails are freshly painted, but there's an indentation on the right edge of your thumbnail. Habitual use. I'm guessing there's a matching imprint on your other hand. Clearly from pressing small keys close together. You've sent a text message in the last half an hour."

He squeezed her hand between his thumb and fingers. "Letting him know I'm here?"

From:

irene_adler

An incredulous look flickered across her face, but it stayed in her eyes and didn't move to the rest of her face. She wouldn't tell Moriarty that Sherlock was with her, but an intricate kind of tango had happened before, involving a mystery flight and a scheme of manipulation.

"Telling my assistant to pick up the glass with my fingerprints before John could."

Irene's fingers curled back to his, resulting in a tangle around his thumb.

"Moriarty doesn't know you're here."

From:

elementarysaidhe

"Why not?" He looked almost disappointed. "It would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush. Plan more thoroughly next time."

From:

irene_adler

"You think that's what I had planned for tonight? An ambush? Hand you over to Jim Moriarty on a silver platter?"

From:

elementarysaidhe

"It's what you were alluding to. The memory stick in itself is inconsequential; a red herring. It has its purpose and its theft would certainly be enough to get international attention from the right kinds of people." He did not put particular emphasis on those five words but they somehow carried a particular weight. "But if Moriarty wanted the memory stick he would have had it by now. Clearly he wants to have you here for another purpose entirely."

He broke from her, giving her his shoulder and turning up his collar, hands fitted neatly at the small of his back. "He had to have known that Tyche would not have reported the theft to the authorities. Policemen are inept, not to mention indiscreet and quite often in the pocket of the press. A large-scale, multi-million dollar company; that sort of announcement would tremble the knees of the European stock exchange as soon as it broke. They would have wanted to keep it quiet, so as not to cause alarm."

And now he turned to face her, containing her within her own motives the way that the restorationist had framed the Vermeer on the wall behind her. "Hire a private entity. A consulting detective. The consulting detective. The only one in the world. Send him a frail old man with a dead daughter and a missing treasure and watch him run."