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]

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."

[irene_adler]

Now free, her hand came to rest on the arm of the chair so she could lean in towards him that much more. Her eyes stayed on his, her breath soft in the space between them.

"I'm in no one's employ," she said. "Moriarty will never have the files."

[elementarysaidhe]

"Of that we can both be certain," he returned evenly. "But your part in this performance is over."

[irene_adler]

"That isn't for you to decide, " she countered.

[elementarysaidhe]

"It must be. From here on, I must act alone. In order to engage Moriaty effectively, I can have no distractions." He raised his chin, regarding her with that cool, impassive expression. "You have a talent for survival, it's true, but survival would be more effective if there were a few continents separating you from the particulars of this case, and those involved."

[irene_adler]

The word distraction rang about in her mind, something in its meaning registering with her. He didn't want her to come to harm. Strange to think about, but it had to be true. In some way, she was a distraction, and -

"And Moriarty will know what to use against you," she said after a moment. "Including me."

[elementarysaidhe]

"Moriarty has the mind of a genius and the resolve of a criminal, and no reservations about the frequent and applied use of both. However, I am certain that he is fallible. Your presence is a complication --" he thought he might prefer that word instead "-- and I can brook no complications in my work."

[irene_adler]

Irene didn't like the idea of leaving, not because she wouldn't be safe but because she didn't much care for Sherlock's impending encounter with the man. Sentiment was dangerous, and love could either cripple or fuel a person. It was difficult to determine which.

"In the morning," she said after a moment, "in the morning. But not now." Her hand covered his again, her palm against his knuckles.

[elementarysaidhe]

"I agree," he said, glad that they had at last landed on the same side of an argument. He turned his wrist beneath her hand, eyeing his watch. The cracked face read 1:37. He frowned. So much time lost. By now Moriarty's men would have had ample opportunity to toss what remained of Irene Adler's flat, looking for the memory stick. Sherlock sulked inwardly that he had not determined its location before the fire.

He looked down at her hand. 'Cast a skeptical upward brow in her direction. "Is there something else? You're holding my hand."

[irene_adler]

He truly was oblivious to her advances, either or he was so intent upon the case at hand that he had already pushed any kind of distraction from his mind. Which quite prominently included her.

"Your shoulder," she said, after a moment passed. "If you're going back to face Moriarty, at least do it without an open wound. " Her fingers stayed wrapped with his.

Was there something else?

Oh, yes. Many somethings else.

[elementarysaidhe]

"Oh." It was as if he had only just remembered that he'd been shot at earlier in the evening. He moved his shoulder experimentally. It felt stiff. "A graze. Nothing more."

[irene_adler]

She wasn't taking that for an answer. Irene moved her thumb across his knuckles again and shook her head once.

"If it gets infected, it will slow you down. Take off your shirt, Sherlock, and let me see to it."

[elementarysaidhe]

Reluctantly, he admitted that she had a point. It would do him no good to operate with only one arm, regardless of the severity of the injury. Sherlock shook her hand from his knuckles and sat forward on the chair, threading his fingers beneath the shoulder of his jacket, as if to remind himself once more that intervention was necessary. The edges of the wound were hot. It was possible that it was infected. He would be at a dangerous disadvantage of the infection spread.

He still had the gun beneath his coat. He placed it on the side table before sliding out of his jacket. The sleeve of his aubergine shirt sported a blossom of dried blood. It probably looked worse than it was, but Sherlock was taking no chances. He held the muscle of his upper arm, just beneath the wound, and winced painfully.

"I'm not sure if I should be thankful or disappointed that Moriarty's men are such terrible shots."

[irene_adler]

"Thankful that it was a graze and disappointed in Moriarty's taste." Irene retrieved the basin of water, then disappeared for a moment to retrieve warmer water in place of tepid. She knelt beside the chair and passed her fingers across the unmarred skin near the wound. Retrieving one of the cloths from the fresh pile, she dipped it into the water and began wiping the dry blood and grit from the surrounding area. Her touch was very close to tender.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock clamped down on his back molars, determined not to grimace. "I've never been shot before. I don't think I care for it." He watched her closely as she worked.

[irene_adler]

"And yet you're stepping back into the crosshairs." Irene spoke without lifting her eyes from her task. One hand held the shirt away while the other worked gently at the dried blood. When the cloth became too soiled she exchanged it for a clean one.

"Take off your shirt," she said, without further explanation. She couldn't reach the full range of the wound with the rest of the shirt in the way.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock freed the top two buttons of his shirt. "I have been assured that my demise is imminent," he said, without affect. Gingerly, he peeled the ruined fabric away from his shoulder. The bullet had clipped his shoulder. The wound was moderately impressive, but the resulting bruise would be the worst of it.

"Imminent," he repeated, "but not certain. I remain an eternal optimist."