She was alone for once, abandoned by her customers and clients, friends and servants. It was dark, foggy and almost midnight when Irene Adler casually sat slatted against the window-frame in her relatively large residence. Normally she didn't smoke because of the horrid smell, but tonight did she sense something different in the old villa. A poisonous silence hung over the surroundings and it certainly felt like someone or something was observing her. She slowly lit a cigarette and scrutinized the street that substantially lay in front of her little window, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of being watched.
Irene Adler sensed a movement outside her front door and flinched in astonishment. She considered to open it, but decided not to. If it was an urgent matter, the person in question wouldn't be restrained by something as unpretentious as a locked door. The silence abruptly broke, as gently as a whisper in the wind and she could hear her uninvited guest approach the main room (where she was sitting). She smiled to herself when she recognized the determined footsteps. It was him, obviously. The door swung open and Irene tilted her head to the right, resembling an expectant child very much.
He seemed upset. She knew why he was visiting her, without even asking. Something was obviously awfully wrong. His eyes were glowing with energy and his entire appearance indicated the emotion of exhilaration. His eyes searched hers at once. They didn't even bother to analyse each other, simply staring. He cleared his throat loudly, as to confirm his presence. Irene rolled her eyes, fighting an impulse to snort.
"Sit."'
"I'd rather not." The tenor of his voice was wrong. It expressed too much despair to sound natural and had lost the sarcastic undertone that Irene had gotten so used to. Irene started to feel anxious, he was clearly upset about something that involved them both. And that couldn't be a decent matter. Her face features remained unemotional; she was still waiting for him to explain the hypothetical complication that had emerged.
"They're going to kill us." He blurted out. "Both. In about…" He threw a quick glance at his watch. "Ten minutes." Irene's high functional mind processed the information briefly. She extinguished the cigarette and offered Sherlock one. He wordlessly accepted it with a grateful nod. Irene assumed that they meant Jim Moriarty and company.
"Not much to do then." She shrugged as she passed him the lighter. It was as if her statement allowed Sherlock to relax, his eyes transformed into the familiar ones that she loved and his expression eased visibly. He took the seat opposite her and smoked the cigarette slowly, clearly enjoying every second of it. Irene grasped his long, nervous hand in her own. He answered to her touch by gently squeezing her hand.
"A bomb?"
"Yes, obviously." She nodded.
"What have we done?"
"We exist." He shrugged and didn't bother to explain further. She decided to let the subject rest. They were still holding hands.
"Aren't you supposed to admit that you love me?" She asked teasingly and smirked. Sherlock shrugged again.
"Why?"
"We're going to die in seven minutes?" She suggested gravely and offered him another cigarette. He declined.
"I know." He rolled his eyes. "Why would I admit that I love you?"
"Last chance. Here we are then, the end of the world and too late for dinner? Tricky, I do have to say." Sherlock coughed sharply with laughter and almost smiled unenthusiastically against her. Though, the smile never reached his eyes. They remained cold and hard as stone.
"You never seem to bore me, Irene Adler." She unexpectedly leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss. She wasn't even frightened, why would he reject her? Five minutes left of her life and she couldn't possibly find something better to do than kissing Sherlock Holmes. His lips tasted of bitter sorrow and she could feel the distinct desolation in the kiss.
"There is no bomb, Sherlock dear." She whispered in his ear as she ended the kiss and pulled away. She felt the pistol muzzle against her temple before she even saw him pull out the gun of his pocket.
"They're coming," She stated in disbelief and he released her hand from his firm grip, letting Irene raise it to carefully rest it against his cheek.
"They're coming." He confirmed. She gave him a stretched smile.
"Why this?" She gestured towards the gun and the question hung in the air like a thick wall between the two of them.
"Don't you understand? They will torture us until we're going mad, and I can't take it. Just the thought of you in that situation… isn't bearable." The expression in his eyes changed radically and he kissed her again, letting the sweet taste of bitter characterize their last moment together.
"You just admitted that you love me." She told him. She would probably feel smugger if he had confessed his affection for her under different circumstances.
"Perhaps I did." He breathed heavily and shifted position, the gun still pressed against Irene's temple. His muscles tensed as he heard a car approaching the villa. Irene looked straight into his eyes, mentally preparing herself for the shot. She opened her mouth only to close it again, hesitating before she actually decided what to say.
"Don't forget me. Ever. If you survive, I mean." Sherlock's expression softened and if she didn't know him, she would have thought that his eyes reflected true sentiment and love.
"Never." He whispered and embraced her as the sound of footsteps got louder and louder. He heard her raging breath sing in his ears and soothingly stroke her back.
"You've always been the woman, Irene." He confessed and created a small distance between them, just so he could meet her grave gaze. He looked deeply into the significant eyes of Irene Adler, trying to memorize their exact shape and colour. Sherlock knew that if he survived, though it was rather unbelievable, he would be hunted by them during the rest of his despondent life. There was so much he never had told her, so much he wanted to say. And now was hardly the time.
"I know." She whispered. "And I've always been Sherlocked. I regret nothing, and honestly, I rather get shot here and now by you, than having never met you at all." They didn't believe in god, obviously. The theory of religion held too few proofs to seem logical in the world of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. But in that tense millisecond did they perhaps at least consider the possibility, craving to meet each other in another life. They jointly froze their movements when the door swung open.
And he pulled the trigger.
AN: Obsession with killing my characters – yes. Don't worry I'll write a happy one-shot next week. If you, obviously, review. Remember to follow me on tumblr; .com.