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]

Sherlock closed his eyes. Staying alive. Memory rose on either side of him, as if he were being propelled backward through tall reference stacks, data sprinting by his peripheral vision. Staying alive. The British Heart Foundation. No. Yes. Why? Chest compressions. 120 compressions per minute. 104 beats in --

"Carl Powers." The swimming pool. He opened his eyes. "The first time I met Jim Moriarty properly, he had strapped a bomb to John's chest in a municipal swimming pool. We were all prepared to go up. Moriarty's cell phone rang. The ringtone was our deus ex machina." He steepled his fingers together, staring intently into the middle distance. "The NHS used the song as a CPR-teaching tool. There are approximately 104 beats per minute in the song; the proper number of chest compressions for an incapacitated individual is somewhere in the range of 100 to 120." The corner of his mouth rose a bit. "How very ironic."

[irene_adler]

Irene took tighter hold of the papers, only with the desire to look more closely at the watermark again. There was no mistaking this particular symbol.

"My client was one of Moriarty's men," she said. "Either the Russian ambassador is in Moriarty's ranks as well, or he had someone masquerading as him. And the latter seems unlikely."

[elementarysaidhe]

"When you have ruled out the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth." The old axiom, as comfortable as ''i' before 'e' except after 'c'.' He pulled his elbows from his kneecaps and leaned back in the chair, draping his fingers over the arm rests. He sorely missed his violin. His nicotine patches. The inside of his throat burned with the want of a cigarette, though he hadn't had one in weeks. He would have liked to have rolled he blue smoke over his tongue while thinking of Russian diplomats.

Minutes passed: ten, then fifteen. Sherlock did not stir. The middle finger of his right hand scooped the side of the arm rest, somewhat rhythmically. Those paying attention would recognize the particular beat as the Prelude from Bach's "Cello Suite No. 1."

[irene_adler]

She was paying attention. Irene was acutely aware of everything that Sherlock Holmes did, even the things he didn't know she knew about. There had been observations happening for weeks, months prior to their ever meeting and holding eye contact or conversation. The thought process was as part of him as the music was.

The second chair became her own resting place and she adopted a slightly more comfortable position, watching him across the slight distance. Her attention was on him as a whole, his face and the movements of his fingers, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

[elementarysaidhe]

It was nearly an hour before he spoke again: 'roused himself with an indrawn breath and a blink, as if he were clearing unnecessary data after a reboot. In his absence, Sherlock had been to Odessa and back; he had scoured the SCD facial recognition database, paying particular attention to the men whose faces he had seen at Adler's flat; he had revisited the Carl Powers case, and Moriarty's involvement, and the manner in which the master criminal had behaved at their last meeting.

And beneath all of it, the thread running throughout --

"Irene Adler." He was fully in the room again, his eyes locked upon her face.

[irene_adler]

Irene hadn't moved either, through either her own desire to stay still or simply being transfixed by his stillness. She could see him thinking, reasoning, all of the things which happened within the confines of his mind. And if she was honest with herself, it had been his mind which had drawn her to him. Far more dangerous than any affair or scandal she might have conducted.

"Sherlock Holmes." Either a response or a question of her own, or something in between. Her eyes stayed held to his.

[elementarysaidhe]

"When I met you for the first time, you knew who I was. At first I wrote it off as you being incredibly perceptive; then I thought you might have subscribed to John's blog, or followed the newspapers -- they really do print the most effusive twaddle; I trust newspapers even less than I trust the Scotland Yarders -- but your first impression was far too well-rehearsed and so I immediately deduced that someone had told you of me before I even considered taking the case."

He sat forward, speaking in that low, rapid fashion that did not fully expect you to keep up. "You were -- are -- a woman of secrets. But the secrets you had were too compromising to keep to yourself, so you outsourced. Outsourced to the world's foremost consulting criminal. You had something of interest to offer him, and he was more than willing to show you the variety of ways it might be used. But what did Moriarty want in return? Money? Sex? No. A favor. Make a mental note, Miss Adler: never owe a madman anything, most especially your life."

[irene_adler]

As he spoke her position had changed, her legs now tucked up alongside her in the chair. Her feet were sore from their running, but she didn't show any indication of hurt.

"I told you before," she said, "Moriarty didn't want anything. Nothing in return. And it struck me as strange, but he didn't want anything. Nothing he named to me. He wanted to cause trouble." A pause. "I don't think anything was greater than his dislike of you."

Irene propped her cheek against her hand, regarding him curiously now. Moriarty hadn't asked her for anything, but had he wanted something else? Something she hadn't seen, because he hadn't asked for it?

[elementarysaidhe]

"Something's coming," he said, half to himself and half to the specters in the room, "something bigger. Something more." He leaned back, deep in contemplation. For the first time that evening, Sherlock Holmes wore a wrinkle of apprehension upon his brow. It was there for an instant, then gone. His manner was as smooth as silk once more.

"The security of the memory stick is even more important now than before. That was the 'item' in the Russian notes. I doubt that any of them knew what they were truly looking for. Moriarty would have informed them as far as he needed, and even then he would have communicated through handlers. It's possible that some data did survive the fire. If so, the contents of that memory stick are primary importance at this point."

[irene_adler]

Moriarty was no fool. Irene had learned that tonight, and she would have plenty of time to come to terms with it. And as sure as she was that Moriarty wanted the memory stick, she was certain the mad man knew where it was. It wasn't in her flat. It wasn't buried beneath ruins or scarred by the remains of flame.

Irene rose from her chair and crossed the short distance to his side. Her hand came to rest atop his, fingers encircling his wrist. The beat of his pulse was beneath her touch, warm and strong.

"And if you find the memory stick, he'll come after you."

[elementarysaidhe]

His breathing arrested momentarily as she came to his side like a supplicant, dropping her fingers over his. The touch was enough to put him on alert; he was aware of how an animal like Irene Adler flirted, though he was out of his depth to figure out why. His lips formed a round, forward shape. He blinked rapidly.

"That's rather the point, Miss Adler," he deadpanned.

[irene_adler]

Her fingers closed around his wrist a little tighter, and a small shake of her head moved around the waves of her dark hair. "He'll kill you," she said quietly. "Or something worse."

[elementarysaidhe]

Five pressure points on the inside of his wrist. Sherlock looked down at her fine, sharp nails and then back to her face. Puzzlement and curiosity vied for equal dominance in his brain. He judged, quite correctly, that she had shifted her focus while he had been paying attention to other things. "That would be a remarkable achievement."

[irene_adler]

"He wants the memory stick. If you have it, he'll come after you. And if you don't give it to him, he'll take it by force, or at the very least try to." Her thumb moved across the inside of his arm, against soft, usually hidden skin there. It was an unconscious thing, one she wasn't aware of doing.

"He'll come after the one who has it. That can't be you."

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock turned his head slowly, like a curious owl. His narrow shoulders rolled beneath the fabric of his ruined blazer, bringing him down into her space, well within the boundaries of intimate conversation. He could feel her breath on the back of his hand. She had a penchant for physicality when she was reminded of danger, particularly if he had suggested he might be going headlong into it.

"And why is that?"

[irene_adler]

Irene's head lifted, bringing her eyes to the level of his. Warmth tightened somewhere inside her chest, a feeling far more dangerous than any blade or bullet. Something that had spurred far more of her motions than she'd admitted aloud to herself.

"Oh, Mister Holmes." Her voice was soft, something barely breathed in the air between them. "If you don't know that answer by now.."

It was on her lips to bring forth a quip about his not being as smart as he believed himself to be, or something comparable. But the words either didn't want to come or refused to altogether, and suddenly words felt very inadequate. Instead, Irene held his gaze steady until her own eyes fell to a close and her lips, slightly parted, touched his.

[elementarysaidhe]

He had been about to rejoin her subtle little jibe with one of his own (I know that you recently switched perfumes; I know from examining the arches of your feet that you have had at least four to six years of classical ballet training; I know enough, Miss Adler, you are simply not paying attention) when he felt her rise up on her heels, body swaying very close.

His instinct was to draw back. His engrossment in the case itself had so far proved reliable, and he had assured himself that whatever charms she possessed (yes, even Sherlock Holmes was capable of recognizing that she had them) were ultimately distracting and thus below his notice. He had fixed her in his mind as a creature of control: she took it, mostly in order to stimulate the actions of others. To Irene Adler, a reaction of any kind was psychological catnip.

Sherlock rolled the outside of his feet downward into the carpet, screwing himself to the spot -- instinct was a powerful force, but pride even more so.

He watched as she bent toward him, full of grace and indeterminate purpose, and saw those heavy-lidded eyes drift closed. Sherlock managed to keep his open even as she kissed him; perhaps out of curiosity as much as anything else. Though she had long ago worried her lipstick away, her mouth was soft and warm. Sherlock's own eyes closed momentarily. His hands, fingers high and tented, were very still on the arms of the chair.

[irene_adler]

It had occurred to her, in the moments as she leaned towards him, to attempt to detect and take his pulse as he'd done to her some time ago. To see if his heart rate accelerated at all, even in the slightest, when she came near. But those thoughts were abandoned and discarded when she moved close enough to feel his breath against her lips. She had held the taste of him in her memory since their brief kiss in what had been her penthouse, but a phone call had interrupted that moment before he had a chance to react to her.

Now it was the two of them tucked away in a French hamlet, and the ever curious caretaker had retired for the evening, giving them a relative amount of privacy.

Irene had glimpsed his eyes brief moments before her own had fallen closed, right as her lips found his. The kiss lingered for a long, sweet moment, and when she felt the faint brush of his eyes closing, the flicker of his eyelashes, something jarred roughly in her ribcage.

Her eyes opened halfway, giving herself a view of his face through the veil of her eyelashes. His eyes were closed, and the sight alone made a breath catch softly in her throat. Irene lifted her free hand to his cheek, touching her fingers across the line of his jaw, drew in a soft breath and kissed him again.

[elementarysaidhe]

The world seemed to sway dangerously and, for a moment, Sherlock felt as if the floor had opened up underneath him. This was a chemical reaction, to be sure. He had an extensive collection of anatomy textbooks at the flat, and, though he was mostly out of practice, John still subscribed to a number of medical journals which Sherlock read with great interest. (He had used an article about calorie storage in the body to prove that a gentleman had in fact been part of an armed robbery, given the constituents of his breakfast earlier that morning.)

He felt momentarily dizzy. 'Realised he'd been holding his breath since she came near. When she moved to kiss him again, Sherlock captured the back of her hand beneath his fingers.

"Sentiment, Miss Adler," he said, voice as low as the bottom register of the cello, "I told you it was dangerous."

[irene_adler]

His voice was deeper than before, the heavier tone that had been held in the flat before John Watson had called and come between what might have happened. A heavier, deeper register, something that sent a warm shiver moving silently down her spine.

His palm was very warm against the back of her hand. Irene took the last syllables of speech from his lips when she kissed him again and heard his warning ringing about in her head like a siren. Sentiment was dangerous, she knew that far too well. But that danger wasn't enough to blot out the warmth that rushed through her when his lips were against hers.

Slowly, carefully, Irene moved her thumb against his curled fingers. Her lips were light against his, and she felt the in and out of his breath, the own race of her pulse.

Dangerous indeed.

[elementarysaidhe]

This time he responded, very slightly, but aware: his bottom lip scooped hers, as if he were making way for a second rejoinder that got lost somewhere along the way. He was building new scaffolding around what he already knew of her; perhaps it was out of curiosity, perhaps a legitimate and scientific desire to see one reaction foster another.

He drew back from her, as if his shoulders were on some invisible string. The angles of his face revealed confusion, as well as some consternation. He seemed legitimately bereft of an explanation. Unfamiliar territory for Sherlock Holmes -- in more ways than one.

[irene_adler]

Seduction was something familiar, and yet maybe not the sole objective tonight. Irene had wanted many things from Sherlock Holmes, some to be spoken of and others not, but tonight was different.

The end of the world. The very last night.

Irene 's eyes were waiting for his when he looked up at her, meeting his confusion and the emotions there. She didn't pull her hand from his.

"If you don't have the files," she said quietly, "you'll stay alive. And whether sentiment is dangerous or not, I don't care. I won't give him a reason to come after you."

[elementarysaidhe]

"You mistake Moriarty for a man of reasons and rationality. You assume that he vibrates on a plane with the rest of the human race; he doesn't. He's an outlier. The undercurrent. He is dangerous precisely because he is prepared to do what others will not."

His smile was grave. "I believe that what he fails to anticipate is that I am of the same constitution: I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to stop him."

[irene_adler]

"And what will that be?"

Irene knew Moriarty was mad. She had never done more than speak with the man via phone, and she had taken his threat to find her and do something rash as no more than talk. But now, the situation seemed different.

"What will you do?"

Her fingers were still wrapped with his, her pulse warn and steady.

[elementarysaidhe]

"You'll forgive me if I am not candid with you, Miss Adler. Especially as you are -- in an unofficial capacity, at least -- still in his employ." He drew his fingers from her grasp. "In the morning you must leave Europe. I will proceed apace without you."