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]

"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."

[irene_adler]

Her touch followed the outer edge of the wound now that she had a full view. It wasn't severe but it could be if it wasn't treated. Irene finished wiping away the dried blood, then dipped a clean cloth in the ointment. It was going to sting, and she kept up with talking in hope of distracting him from some of the pain.

"By now Moriarty is angry," she said, her voice thoughtful as she worked. "Very angry."

[elementarysaidhe]

"One hopes." He sounded almost gleeful at the prospect, his eyes glittering "Anger means that he's more likely to make a mistake. Once he loses his objectivity his motives will become clear to me." He sucked a breath past his teeth when the antiseptic bit into the raw wound, his attention momentarily diverted.

"Do you carry a field kit around in your nightie, Miss Adler?" he asked, nodding at the gauze and bandages.

[irene_adler]

"The girl at the front desk was most accommodating," she said, her mouth lifting intiba smile at the corner. "But that's an interesting idea, Mister Holmes. I could hold the solutions to all problems...in my nightie."

Her fingers rested against his uninjured skin, her touch at the base of his neck.

"You could come with me. In the morning. We could leave together."

She knew he wouldn't, but all the same.

[elementarysaidhe]

He half turned to regard her, the inevitable question on his brow before it reached his lips:

"Why would we leave together?"

[irene_adler]

She was silent a moment, working gently to clean the wound before she spoke again. Her words were soft, and near to his shoulder.

"Why do you want to go back?"

Nevermind she already knew the answer.

[elementarysaidhe]

It had something to do with the kiss; with the way she crafted reasons to touch him, however superfluous. He blinked several times, as if he were resetting data in his mind. "Miss Adler, I -- I think it's important you know that I make my work my life. I have no room for other things, often to my detriment." Such as when he forgot to eat, or when he spent hours sawing away at the violin instead of sleeping.

"I don't find fault with others having relationships -- they are sometimes more revealing than the individuals involved in them -- but such intrusions are not for me. It's grit in a sensitive instrument. A crack in a high-power lens. I simply cannot abide the fact that such distractions might throw my own perceptions into doubt."

[irene_adler]

She was undaunted, and displayed such in her expression. Instead of adopting the visage of a woman rejected (which Irene Adler never was) she continued her task of working at his shoulder. HEE fingers brushed the dark hair at the base of his neck.

"Oh, Mister Holmes," she said, as if on the edge of a sigh, "you're trying to deconstruct my motives again. Why do you think I'm asking you to leave with me? Because if you think it's solely for that reason, you will find yourself mistaken once more."

It wasn't the first time Sherlock would be wrong about Irene Adler.

[elementarysaidhe]

"Once more?" he demurred, emphasis on more, as if it were impossible that his impressions of her could be incorrect in successive quantities. "Your motives are perfectly clear to me."

[irene_adler]

Again she was silent for a moment, now applying the ointment to the wound. It would soothe the pain and prevent infection. Irene collected a fresh bandage and secured it over the marred patch of skin. It would hold.

Finished with her task, she now had a chance to appreciate her view of him. Shirtless and jacketless, he was without pieces of his usual armor. Irene crossed to stand in front of him, her fingers tucked at the sash of her robe before coming to her side.

"Now, Mister Holmes, tell me." Her hand against the arm of the chair before her body leaned closer to his once more. "Tell me. Why do you want to go back to Lille?"

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock palpated the edges of the bandage with his fingertips, then let his hands drop to either side of the chair. She had risen up again and Sherlock saw shadows of their first meeting in her eyes; that cool, uncompromising confidence and hauteur that lesser men (and women) had gone to their knees for.

"You know why," he replied calmly. He had to look up to meet her eyes, but his focus was absolute and unwavering.