Open to irene_adler (BBC's Sherlock)

[mmkaternater]

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.

Comments

[elementarysaidhe]

"Someone didn't think so," he said ominously.

He watched her as she fixed her eyes on the middle distance. It registered with Sherlock that she was in shock; she would experience the full spectrum of grief in the wake of her friend's death, compounded by the niggling idea that she had had some part to play in it.

"What was the nature of your relationship with Roubaix?" he asked.

[irene_adler]

"Friendly." Irene was answering his questions quickly and almost automatically, without now adding any questions of her own into the mix. Those could come later. But it was very clear Moriarty had changed the rules of the game for a reason she didn't understand.

Her phone buzzed once more.

"Exactly what you thought it to be. I remind him of the daughter he lost. There was friendship there, and nothing more."

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock's eyes dropped to the unchecked pocket. "Until you abused that friendship in order to steal his life's work," he finished for her. "Approximately two weeks ago. Did your relationship change following the theft? What was Roubaix's mood?"

[irene_adler]

"He was.." Irene brought her hand to her temple for a moment, then let it return to her side. "Quiet. Then he confided in me about his fear for what might happen if the files found into the wrong hands. He didn't suspect me."

[elementarysaidhe]

"Are you sure?"

He stepped toward the chair, hands clasped behind his back: an inquisitor in a tight, aubergine shirt and an almost pathological need to know.

[irene_adler]

"Unless Moriarty told him."

And the possibility wasn't entirely outrageous. At this point, Irene didn't put anything past the man who was so intent on having her.

[elementarysaidhe]

If that were true, it would had to have been after Roubaix came to see him in London. The alternative -- that Roubaix had been in on the deception from the beginning, having been informed by Moriarty, and that his showing up in Baker Street was just another piece of an elaborate puzzle -- was less likely. Even under duress, Roubaix would have revealed something in the initial interview, something that betrayed his true motivations. Sherlock would have seen it.

He closed his eyes. "...Unless he saw it." A murmur, almost inaudible. With a snap he opened his eyes and strode toward the mantel on the far side of the room. It had been carved from elaborate plaster and filigreed with gold. Sherlock ran his hands over the surface, feeling for soft spots. When that proved fruitless he checked the undersides of objets d′art on top of the mantel; even upended an entire vase of calla lilies onto the floor. A rolltop desk and a bookshelf got the same treatment; the floor was soon littered with papers and open books

"It has to be here somewhere." He raised his eyes to the perimeter of the room. "So obvious that it's --" he paused, his eyes having landed on the Vermeer "-- hidden."

In a moment he had the painting in his hands. The wall behind revealed nothing. For a moment, Sherlock seemed crestfallen. Then he swept to the couch, laying the painting on a cushion while he went to one knee in front of it. His hands felt along the edges of the gilt frame; 'pressed the whorls of paint beneath his fingertips. For all of his work, his hands were surprisingly tender. This was, of course, the lost work of a master painter. Even Sherlock was aware of its value.

His thumb froze in the corner of the painting. He reached into the interior of his coat and produced a small, folded knife. With a flick he released the blade and stabbed it squarely into the corner of the painting, pulling backward toward himself in a long, ruining rip.

[irene_adler]

It was on her lips to ask what Roubaix could have seen, but Sherlock was moving far too quickly for any words to come out. He was running on a different frequency, the way he had when she'd given him a snippet of email to decode, rushing down twisted turns and paths towards a possible outcome. Towards the only outcome, the only answer, the only possible, terrifying -

- No -

What is it? The words wouldn't come from her mouth, instead there was a dry, cracked exhale of air from her lips and Irene was on her feet to rush towards the painting. Sherlock saw something, knew something that she didn't, and her mind was rushing down the path he'd left behind to catch up.

Unless he saw it - saw it - oh, God.

Irene's hand lowered to retrieve her phone from the pocket of her robe again, albeit with a slightly trembling touch. Three texts had come through that she had purposely ignored.

It's very quiet here.

Letting your hair down?

Tell Mr. Holmes to not kiss what's mine.

"Sherlock.."

[elementarysaidhe]

He could not hear her. He was miles away in his own head, pushing his fingers beneath the ruined lip of canvas, toward the abnormality he had detected near the edge of the frame. He let out an audible "ah" when his thumb nail snagged the edge of a thread-thin wire; with slow, careful patience he followed the wire to its source: a very tiny camera. Sherlock prised the edge of the knife against the frame and slowly worked the canvas free, thereby exposing the device. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light.

"CMOS sensor camera with a micro pinhole lens, capable of recording images from up to one hundred meters away, fully rotational at 72 degrees --" he pulled a magnifying lens from his pocket and stood, inspecting the camera by the light of a better lamp. "Transmitter uses switch-and-phase circuitry which meant that it wouldn't interfere with cell phone reception; virtually undetectable."

He stared into the fish-eye lens. "Hello," he said, very quietly.

[irene_adler]

Her heart was crashing against her ribcage, blood thundering in her ears, and for perhaps the third time in her life panic was twisting itself in her lower stomach. Moriarty had been watching her. The entire time, all the while when she thought she had been safe.

The phone chimed again.

Hello, Sherlock.

Irene's free hand lifted to cover her mouth, stifling the cry she couldn't stop. Fear was creeping up her spine in great, grasping fingers, clutching a hold around her heart.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock half turned at the sound, and at the same time flinched as the french doors behind him exploded inward with a deafening explosion of glass and metal. The curtains on either side were instantly eaten by flames, crawling higher toward the ceiling. Sherlock ducked instantly and charged to the left, sweeping his arm around Irene's waist and pulling her away from the boiling fireball that had now consumed half the room. He half-landed against the side of the wingtip chair, sending its legs scuttling backward toward the fireplace. A second explosion roared through the open window; Sherlock heard the sound of breaking glass and saw a mushroom cloud of fire explode across the back of the couch.

"Molotov cocktail!" he shouted, spinning her around by the wrist as the lamp beside the couch burst from the heat in a firework of crystal. Small shards clung to the back of her robe. "I believe that's the end of our quiet evening indoors," he exhaled, "come on!"

[irene_adler]

Everything happened too quickly for her to react, and Irene was against his chest before she knew what had blown through the glass. Irene's arm wound around his neck and it would have been romantic had it not been in the middle of an explosion.

Sherlock had been right. Moriarty had come for her. The phone in the pocket of her robe was a weight now, a reminder of just how naive she had been.

Her fingers clutched at his wrist as they ran out into the corridor. "The stairs are this way," she said breathlessly, not willing to step into an elevator with Jim Moriarty anywhere nearby.

[elementarysaidhe]

It was twelve floors down; not an easy descent by any stretch of the imagination. They burst into the stairwell, Sherlock in the lead. "We have to find a way to get back to --"

He was cut off by a blast of gunfire from the lower floor. A sharp plink and a spark lit up the railing next to him. Other shots blasted upward, taking out chunks of plaster above their heads. Shouting from below: a babel of languages. Sherlock heard Russian and Greek; smelled the sour reek of gunpowder. He grabbed her by the arm. "Other stairwell?"

[irene_adler]

This can't be happening.

Irene met his eyes and nodded, but said nothing to indicate where it was. Her fingers clutched hold of his and she ran back into the hallway, past the elevator and to the other side of the floor. She pulled Sherlock with her around the sharp corner, towards another closed door. The building needed two staircases to account for evacuating all possible tenants, though right now the complex held only one.

"Down here," she said breathlessly, pulling him into the stairwell with her.

[elementarysaidhe]

The fire had spilled into the hallway, climbing across the carpet like a living thing. At once the sprinklers kicked on, sending a spray of sooty water down the walls. They emerged into the stairwell and started their descent, clattering down toward the ground floor. Once Sherlock thought he heard garbled Russian on the floor above them and grabbed Irene's hand, making the final three steps in one giant leap. He hit the door hard with his shoulder, breaking into the startling cold of the open air.

At once he saw a convoy of dark vehicles lined up beneath the porte-cochère, their headlights illuminating the entrance to the building. He gave Irene's wrist a squeeze, indicating that she freeze. They were in the shadow of the complex now, with the west wall at their backs. Sherlock peered around the edge of the building and saw no fewer than three men standing guard over the vehicles, assault weapons in their hands.

He squared his thoughts. "I need you to surrender yourself," he said quickly.

[irene_adler]

"What?"

It was the only response that could be expected, because he was asking her to do the one thing she hadn't been prepared to do. Irene knew how to run for her life in five inch heels and maneuver her way through high speed traffic in a very fast car. But surrendering wasn't something she did. The terrorist cell had taken her kicking and screaming, for lack of a better term to put it.

Her eyes found his in the semidarkness.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock glanced around the corner again. "I need you to walk out there and offer yourself to them. The big one, in the middle. He'll have you put your hands on your head and then he'll pat you down for weapons. When he does, I would suggest the liberal application of your elbow to his solar plexus." That still left the other two sentries. Sherlock shook the lapels of his coat, loosening it around his shoulders. "You'll make for the nearest vehicle. The keys will be in the ignition."

He met her eyes. "If I am not directly behind you, you will apply the gas and get out of there as fast as you can. Look at me --" his gaze was unwavering, insistent "-- get out of there. Do you understand?"

[irene_adler]

"I'm not going without you."

Her eyes were on his, every bit as firm and insistent, and the fear had subsided from her face for the present time. Irene had spent much of her life running, caring about no one's safety and well being other than her own. People were either collateral damage or pawns in a greater game to secure her livelihood and survival.

Except now.

Irene's hand found his in the black, her fingers wrapping around his. The steel blue of his eyes held her gaze, but there was resolve in her face, too. She was as strong as he was, in some of the same ways and other different, but still strong.

[elementarysaidhe]

"Hold up your end and I'll be right behind you." He looked down at their joined fingers and awkwardly pressed his palm to the back of her hand. He appeared ready to say something else, but at the last moment called it back from his lips.

Instead, it was -- "Go. Now."

[irene_adler]

If it had been a good bye, she would have kissed him again. Hard, without any kind of hesitation behind it. But she wasn't leaving without him, and there was no reason to say a good bye. Not now. Not tonight.

Irene held his eyes for another moment, then drew away to step into the light. There was no fear in her walk, as if she'd slipped immediately from the clutches of fear and back into the confident, eased gait that had carried her down city streets as the Woman.

"Jim certainly knows how to make a girl feel special."

"Hands on your head, Miss Adler."

Without a sound or a sharp quip, she complied with their request. Waiting as the larger man brought his hands to her midsection, across the wrap of black silk and lace, in search of anything she might have concealed. The only thing he found was her phone, which he took into his large, slightly meaty hand.

"Seems to be working all right - oof!"

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock would deny himself as a man of sentiment until the very end, but it would have taken a man of considerable mental fortitude not to admire the way that Irene Adler walked out into the middle of the lion's den, when all of the lions had semiautomatics. He saw her briefly silhouetted in the headlamps, her arms outstretched like a pieta, and did not fight the smile that built at the corner of his mouth.

And then he was on his feet, sprinting round to the other side of the building, launching himself in a full, sideways side across the pea gravel that took the legs out from underneath one of the remaining men, and gave him the momentum to duck into a roll that brought him back to his feet. The second man came toward him, rifle making a high arc in the air as he took aim. Sherlock jammed his elbow into the man's trachea and heard the sharp crack of the windpipe breaking. 'Grabbed the gun as the man fell to his knees, gagging and clutching his ruined neck. A spray of bullets hit the car behind him. The first man had gotten back on his feet and was hiding behind a pillar of the porte-cochère. Sherlock fired a volley of return shots, dropping back behind the SUV.

[irene_adler]

The larger man had fallen like a ton of bricks with one hard, carefully placed hit of her elbow, coughing as the air broke from his lungs. Irene lost her balance with the force of him falling towards her, meaty hands reaching in a desperate grasp, but she righted herself and ran towards the string of vehicles.

The keys were in the ignition.

Gunfire sounded outside as she twisted the key, roaring the engine to life. The SUV thrummed beneath her fingertips and she slammed her thumb against the power window button, rolling it down. Her fingers banded the steering wheel with a white knuckled grip, night air and chaos spilling into the car's interior.

He said to go. Told her to go, and he was nowhere in her sight. But she wasn't leaving without him.

"Sherlock!"

[elementarysaidhe]

The remaining goon leaned out from the pillar and fired another chorus of bullets at the front of the SUV, sending up pops of smoke and chips of enamel. Sherlock dug his shoulder into the wheel well and felt for the magazine of the rifle --

Twenty shot capacity; less than half of that left. Estimated range to target: forty meters. Wind resistance: twenty kilometers per hour. Multiple obstacles. Reinforcements likely on their way. Probability of successfully incapacitating gunman and making it to the vehicle before the man on the ground has had enough time to recover: low.

-- swinging the weapon up to his shoulder in anticipation of return fire.

"Just GO!"

[irene_adler]

The gunfire connected with the front of the SUV and Irene ducked instinctively behind the wheel, she shock of her hair fluttering like a train. Two more men, one on the ground, the other behind the pillar and too far away to reach without a weapon, but the one that had fallen, that one, that one -

If there was a way, a weapon, a means -

- a weapon. A gas guzzling, air polluting, cost as much as one of the dresses she'd worn and loved weapon.

"The pillar!" She hoped it was enough for Sherlock to know what she meant, because there wasn't time for words. There wasn't enough time for an explanation, there was only time for one action, one impossibly mad action.

Irene threw the SUV into gear, driving directly at the fallen man on the ground.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock had never been so happy to hear the roar of an eight-cylinder engine in all his life.

The SUV kicked up a storm of gravel and lurched forward, drawing the attention of both the man on the ground and the one hidden behind the pillar. Sherlock had a split-second window to act, and he took it. Irene's grand gesture had gotten the second man out from behind his pillar and while he fired a barrage of gunfire at the windshield, Sherlock took the opportunity to introduce the butt of his own rifle into the man's lower jaw. The sudden snap of bone was like a bunch of dry twigs. The man reeled, dazed and enraged, blood streaming from a gutting gash in his cheek. He tried digging the barrel of the rifle between Sherlock's ribs, but the detective had seized his wrist and bent it back at a horrifying angle. The man yowled and tucked himself into a crouch on the pavement, gun forgotten.

Sherlock felt the shoulder of his blazer jump and pucker -- the man on the ground had retrieved his gun and was firing indiscriminately in his direction, trying to get off last shots as the SUV roared down on him. There was a satisfying thump, and then the gunfire stopped. Steam swayed in the headlights of the SUV. Sherlock straightened, breathing heavily, and faced the vehicular leviathan. He tugged the lapels of his blazer back into order.

"What was that you were saying about subtlety?"

A fresh burst of gunfire interrupted what would have been a very impressive moment of self-congratulation. Reinforcements. More men poured from the back of the building. Sherlock jumped the rifle into his hand and made a mad dash for the SUV, swinging up onto the passenger door frame even as Irene was pulling a mad, backwheeling turn toward the driveway.