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's ankle twisted out from under him and he feinted sideways to catch his balance, only to be swung back underneath Irene Adler, his head against a brace of pillows so quick as to make his back teeth click. She had positioned herself astride his hips, her hands on his chest. His knees were bent, so that her bottom rested in the angle created by his waist and the tops of his thighs.

He considered her from the new angle she'd created for him.

"And you intend to sit on me until I see reason?" he ventured, drolly.

[irene_adler]

She smiled then and the expression was punctuated by her laugh, something low and kept in the back of her throat. Her hands kept their place to hold him still, but she did have enough consideration in her to avoid his injured shoulder. Pain was pleasure to a degree, but putting pressure on an open bullet graze wasn't something she was prepared to try.

"Reason is very clear, Sherlock." Leaning in a little more gave her a better view of his face, her breath moving across his cheek. "Jim Moriarty wants the memory stick. He will chase whoever has it across any continent or ocean to acquire it. And I happen to be fond of keeping you alive."

[elementarysaidhe]

"I fail to see how you will do so. You are effectively homeless. Certainly jobless." He glanced toward the foot of the bed. "Definitely shoeless."

[irene_adler]

"As jobless, homeless and shoeless as I will be when you put me on a plane tomorrow morning." Irene tossed her hair back across her shoulder without dislodging her grasp from him. "With the stick, Moriarty will come for me. And not you."

[elementarysaidhe]

"And you believe I will allow that to happen."

[irene_adler]

"I believe he'll kill you if you have it. And I won't allow that to happen."

[elementarysaidhe]

"I'm very interested as to exactly how you plan to do that."

She had exhausted her one resource on the continent; if Moriarty were as angry as Irene Adler suggested he might become, there was not an organization in Europe -- criminal or otherwise -- that would take her on. Anonymity was increasingly becoming her only viable option.

[irene_adler]

"You said it yourself, I know how to survive. If not on this continent, then the next." Her hand touched the arch of his cheek then, a touch that was barely there. "You want me to run. So I will. With the memory stick. If Moriarty is chasing me, all the better ease for you to chase him."

[elementarysaidhe]

"That is in the very unlikely scenario that you leave this hotel room with the memory stick in your possession," Sherlock pointed out. He slipped two fingers around the curve of her wrist, meeting his thumb on the other side.

"I am a creature of learned habits, Miss Adler, and I would be very surprised were you able to produce a hypodermic needle from that nightgown of yours." He was referring to their first encounter in her flat, when she had made good her escape via a well-timed jab.

"As it stands, I remain alert and fully intent on reclaiming what I'm after."

[irene_adler]

"Why?"

The question that was at the back of her mind, insistent upon her attention and refusing to fall silent. There wasn't a needle or a drug hiding anywhere, tonight she was unarmed with any such devices. But she was determined to not allow the memory stick to leave her possession. Not when handing it over to the detective could mean his life. Irene knew how to disappear, how to vanish without a whisper. She'd falsified her own death and escaped under cover of night after Sherlock Holmes had saved her life. She could run from Jim Moriarty.

"Moriarty will come after whoever has the files. Why not let him come after me?"

[elementarysaidhe]

But Irene's current company was clever, and had full confidence in his ability to both survive and outwit. Even now, in circumstances that were arguably superficially to her advantage, Sherlock Holmes's calm sustained and fortified him. The bones of her wrist were small and delicate. She had worn a thin chain recently, probably silver, perhaps an alloy of silver and platinum; Sherlock could see a faint discoloration separating the bottom of her palm from her wrist. A gift from Roubaix? A fan? Moriarty? He was yet unsure how far the boundaries of their working relationship stretched.

"Isn't it funny that what some people consider to be courage, is in the end, reckless stupidity? Your role in this case is over, Miss Adler. I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger when I have the ability to stop you." And, lest that be mistaken for actual human concern, Sherlock shrugged his eyebrows. "I am confident that I will be able to pursue this case to a satisfying conclusion and still be home in time for tea with John."

[irene_adler]

They were opponents with sharp minds, and each was quite stubborn in their own way. Each had their desired outcome in mind and neither was willing to budge an inch for compromise. For as sure as Sherlock Holmes was that he would be leaving with the memory stick, Irene Adler was equally certain she wouldn't be parting with it. Two participants, one intricate dance.

It made no sense. Taking him out of the crosshairs did make sense to her. Why walk directly back into Moriarty's line of sight with the item he would kill to have? That he had already killed for?

But as calm as Sherlock was, Irene held the same poise. She wasn't parting with the drive, and whether it was for reasons of sentiment or bravery made no difference in her mind. She wasn't letting it go.

"Why Sherlock Holmes, it sounds as though you're trying to protect me." Her voice held a tone of curiosity, yet mixed with the same confidence she always held. It took the whisper of death itself to rattle Irene Adler.

[elementarysaidhe]

"That, Miss Adler, would be a formidable endeavor."

He was perhaps trying to preserve her, but for reasons more complicated than even he understood. Keeping her alive was implicit in finishing this case. The recovery of the memory stick was, in his mind, necessary to facilitate that end. He had far more trust in his own abilities than he had faith in others -- even those as wily and survival-bent as Irene Adler.

[irene_adler]

She regarded him calmly and with a degree of curiosity, something that had sparked in the back of her mind. A man out for himself didn't care about the destruction or lives he left behind - such as Moriarty. And Sherlock was fixated on the case itself. Nothing more.

Or was there something more?

"Well, then this is quite the situation," she said. "I am not willing to let you leave with the files and you are unwilling to allow me to do the same."

And both were incredibly strong willed.

[elementarysaidhe]

"We're at an impasse," he agreed, but did not sound entirely regretful. He lay beneath her quite contentedly, as if he had chosen the predicament. "I assure you I am immune to most forms of persuasion."

[irene_adler]

"As am I." Irene had been begged and pleaded with before, and she had made a business of not only saying no, but of keeping her secrets. Her eyebrows lifted slightly, as if in amusement.

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock would have placed his arms behind his head -- the ultimate 'I'm not going anywhere' gesture -- had his shoulder not been such a source of complaint. He would need to get by upon looking incredibly arch. Not a stretch of his faculties, by any means.

[irene_adler]

It was a stare off, more than it was anything else. Irene held her hands against his chest and felt the steady beating of his heart. A bit of a closer lean allowed her breath to brush his cheek. She wasn't budging, either.

[elementarysaidhe]

And Sherlock continued his regard of her face, unimpeded, curious to see how far she might take their current situation.

They both knew that she had to board a plane in the morning. Whether or not she did so in possession of the memory stick was a matter that was up for discussion. Or, rather, not, since the two of them seemed equally disposed to merely staring at each other until someone relented or fell asleep.

[irene_adler]

The thought of tying him up crossed her mind, and not entirely for the reason of keeping the stick from him. But she wasn't planning on letting him have it. Not now, or at any other time.

Irene kept her eyes on his, and when she spoke her voice was quiet, level.

"I don't want him to kill you." Simple, and honest.

[elementarysaidhe]

"I'm touched."

He wasn't, particularly. Though her attention and her methods were of particular interest to him, Sherlock had difficulty analyzing anything but the motivations behind them. He understood caring and fellow concern as much as a gnat understood particle physics: in the end, it was too big and outside of his scope of day-to-day concern. John Watson cared about him. He was beginning to understand that. And, in his own way, Sherlock cared about John Watson. He had not yet expanded his vision to accommodate the idea that others might care about him, too.

Irene Adler was an anomaly. Anomalies were interesting.

"Why?"

[irene_adler]

"For all of the intelligence in your head, you can't figure that out? "

This was curious to her as well. Sherlock was known for his intelligence and observing skills. How could he not see it? Sentiment was a crippling force when used inappropriately, but that didn't mean she felt crippled by it. Or that she was. It might have served to fuel her own resolve.

"I thought I had made it clear. Shall I repeat myself? "

[elementarysaidhe]

"For the same reason you orchestrated the charade with Roubaix, sending him to Baker Street. For the very same reason you adopted an easily identifiable stage persona and made your debut as the pima donna, rather than going to ground with the information you had acquired. It would have been much more difficult to track someone who did not want to be found. Not impossible. Only more difficult."

He raised a brow. "You like the attention --" he tilted his chin to give himself a better view of her face "-- you like my attention."

[irene_adler]

"I certainly don't mind it." Her eyes followed his wherever they went, a match and sometimes a mirror. They were similar and different all at once. "But in a way, it's very simple. "

Her position atop him changed a bit, shifting so her legs were on either side of his hips. She had held many a man (and woman ) beneath her this way for hours. The bedroom was Irene Adler's battleground as much as it was other things.

"I like you." Three simple, small words so easy and yet with a different meaning. "That should be obvious. Why else would I kiss you?"

[elementarysaidhe]

Sherlock remained absolutely still, aware that her subtle change in position was as much a power play as anything. Colour had returned to her face; she was flushed. Clearly interested in...something. (Said the detective with the woman on his lap.)

"You used to beat your clients with riding crops for money," he said, dryly. "Forgive me if I am suspicious of your motives."

And to her sly, disarming smile: "I have also been told that I am not inherently Iikeable." He didn't appear to be overly plussed in admitting it. In fact, to a certain extent being disliked galvanized Sherlock Holmes. He had no reason to comply to what others expected of him, having already failed to conform to their expectations.