THE BOLDED PARTS COME DIRECTLY FROM THE SIGN OF THREE DRAFT SCRIPT
Headcanons I decided to make:
= Irene crashing into John and Mary's wedding reception.
= Sherlock and Irene meeting after Sherlock left the reception.
= Based on the video on FaceBook where this woman in the plane was just staring at the camera in confusion because the other woman behind her raised her foot up and placed it on her armrest.
= Irene staying in Switzerland.
—oOo—
As Sherlock sits beside his friends, he sees the mass of around eighty people whose glasses are now being filled with champagne by the waiters. Sherlock masks his own undiscovered emotions by doing what he does best—observing. Yet, before he actually starts deducing, it starts.
Bing bing bing.
The sound of spoon hitting the wine glass will never cease to haunt him—his turn to talk. As a man of words, Sherlock absolutely loves hearing his own voice since it's the most sensical one around an area...
...but right now? Exposing himself in front of these strangers as he watches his two best friends leave him to be happy? He doesn't know... especially since he swallows it down and ignores it.
"Pray silence for the Best Man," the toast master announces as a wave of applause follows it from the strange audience.
From the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John clutch Mary's hand—partly in anticipation, partly for comfort—Sherlock doesn't really know himself since he doesn't know exactly what his speech is about to convey.
Clearing his throat as he stands up, buttoning up his jacket as his own symbol of armour, keeping parts of himself hidden from this sea of eyes observing him for a change, he starts.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Family. Friends. Um... Also..."
At this exact moment, Sherlock's mind turns into hyper drive as the mass of people begins sprouting information he had observed and is now being deduced.
First and foremost, deducing whether they are here for John or Mary, and then anything else he finds worth noting.
JOHN: AUNT (NOT POPULAR)
MARY: LINE MANAGER
JOHN: FIRST SNOG
MUTUAL: FRIEND FROM BALLROOM
He blinks once from the overwhelming amount of information—eighty and more of them—and tries his best to continue, whilst John and Mary both ready themselves from the oncoming storm brewing from the mouth of one Sherlock Holmes.
"Colleagues. Schoolmates. Couple of exes..."
His eyes glide over to a woman in the yellow hat.
"You in the yellow. Are you in the right wedding?"
She flushes in embarrassment and clutches the hand of the man sitting next to her.
Ahhh, a plus one, I should have known that, idiot, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.
He clears his throat once more to settle the discomfort everyone is receiving from his own body language.
"Some of you have come a very long way to be with us today."
Immediately, his mind snaps up the information of where each and every one of the guests had come from...
...Alicante...
He sees the information "Alicante" in his brain from one of the guests. He blinks profusely to remove the visuals he had made, removing everything else to focus on that one word—on the person with that information.
Alicante.
As the words in his head settle down, except for that one location, he looks down from the "Alicante" hovering on one person and to the face of the owner of that information.
A tanned woman. The word "ALICANTE" above her.
A fake tanned woman, in fact.
He curses to himself as words left his mouth at the sight of her—especially when her small smirk grows into a predatory grin.
What are you doing here? he wanted to demand.
Unfortunately, demanding in public with all eyes on him would gain more questions, especially if he starts acting like a detective instead of the awkward best man character he had not realised he had invented for himself.
He observes her. Like all those years ago—three, in fact—she never fails to baffle him with the lack of information except the fact that she had just come from Alicante.
Her clothes are definitely not from her, now that he thinks about it. They are too casual—too normal—borrowed. It is nothing at all a disguise that shows a self-portrait of her own character... or perhaps it is?
By borrowing clothes from another, does that show that she is able to grow close with any other human being? That her adaptability as a woman shows how much she is able to adjust to any kind of situation? That the fact that she had showed up here at all shows her boldness and willingness to be risky and to display her capabilities?
Or maybe he's just over-thinking when it comes to her. She never fails to make him question his own abilities.
She raises a brow at him, bringing him back to real-time and making him realise that he had been standing there for a few seconds longer than necessary, gawking at her.
"Sherlock?" John whispers beside him.
He clears his throat, looking at the tanned woman in the eyes—eyes that should be blue but are instead brown.
"Sorry about your luggage. Glad you managed to borrow something," he tells her.
He pauses as she raises a brow in challenge. He decides to go for the kill.
"Your bag is in Karachi. Terminal two. First carousel."
The "tanned woman" looks daggers.
—oOo—
KARACHI TERMINAL TWO
FIRST CAROUSEL
about three years ago
"I'm tired," she finally whispers. His eyes briefly gaze at her, standing tall beside him despite her state, before he looks back at the baggage carousel.
She's already clothed in something a bit more casual—some tracksuit bottoms and one of his jumpers (which looks baggy on her)—whilst he is wearing one of his own tracksuit bottoms, a polo shirt, and a rather baggy kagoul jacket [1].
At this time of the night (or morning, rather) there is only about twenty people around the airport.
They had already been in two planes—the first one to go to India, and the second one to go back to Karachi. No one would think of them going back so if anyone would be informed of their escape, they'd be searching for flights from India to another location except Karachi.
It explains why she's tired despite them having about two to three hour-breaks before both flights for her to rest, eat, and change clothes.
The fact that she had told him that she's tired at all is very telling in itself.
"We have to be quick," he finally replies, hoping it doesn't sound as apologetic as he feels.
"I know," she answers.
And he knows she knows he's apologetic, that they have to do this, that he wants her to be okay but he has to priorities her safety rather than her comfort. She always knows and she always understands.
How on Earth she puts up with him will be a mystery to him.
"We'll get you into a hospital when we arrive," he tells her, noting her shivering form and removing his kagoul jacket as an offering.
She sighs and takes it from him—briefly making him remember the time he offered her his coat on the day they met.
"No," she whispers as she cocoons herself.
"You just said you're tired."
"Doesn't mean I need to be sent to a hospital, Mr Holmes," she replies.
He sighs. One doesn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know she's feeling worse than she wants him to think. She's skinnier than he'd expected, paler then he'd imagined, and physically weaker than he'd hope...
...but her eyes show more strength and determination than he'd ever seen on her.
"Which country?" she asks, shifting uncomfortably as she tries to stand up straight.
He wants to tell her to sit somewhere, that he could wait for their bags alone—but he doesn't. It's not safe for them to separate. This way, he could keep an eye on her, and she could keep an eye on him.
The things the John-in-his-head is telling him are idiotic reasons on why he doesn't want her to leave his side.
He pushes down the urge to help her stand—a simple hand on her back, reaching for her hand to place on his arm, looping their arms together, SOMETHING. But he knows it won't be welcomed.
He'll wait for her to ask for help. But he also knows she won't ask for it because she's as stubborn as he is.
Taking a deep breath, he places a tentative hand around her shoulders, resting it on the arm away from him, pulling her closer so she'd be able to lean on his body for support.
His jaw clenches at the reminder when he feels her flinch at the contact: She's been tortured. He knows that much. She's good at hiding how long, how frequent, and how severe, however.
He regrets killing the terrorist cell: too quick, too merciful. It would have been more satisfying if he was able to torture them as much as they did to her.
He blinks at the idea. When did he become so angry in behalf of another? He doesn't care.
Yet, when he doesn't feel her move away, when she doesn't comment on the gesture, and when she seems to accept his help and lean on him, feeling her body resting on his, he can't help but sigh in relief that she is willing to trust him.
"Switzerland," [2] he finally replies to her question.
"Oh?" she asks.
"Quiet, calm, peaceful," he replies because he knows she's asking why, "less trouble, high standard of living, near France and Italy... safe."
"Good," she comments, sighing.
He notices that he is holding more of her weight as she leans on him more.
"You sure you're okay?" he finally asks, turning his head to look at her completely.
Irene looks up at him, a bit of surprise on her face. She wasn't expecting such a blunt question, or such an exposing one from him.
Her eyes softening, she replies, "I'll be fine."
"Right now?" he asks.
"We have to be quick," she answers, repeating what he told her moments before.
And she knows he knows that she's trying to tell him that she is strong, that she can do this, that they have work to do and she is not letting her sorry state stop them from doing what they need to do.
"I know," he replies.
And she knows that he knows. He always knows and he always understands.
How on Earth he sees her for who she really is, she will never know.
They stare at each other for a long time before he looks away first since their bags had just arrived.
And she hates the fact that their little moment of vulnerability is the beginning of something far greater.
—oOo—
GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY
at the present moment
Sherlock licks his lips when it had dried from the memory, trying not to stare at the "tanned" woman. Irene, on the other hand, hates being reminded of the beginning of their long-tern torture.
Just as the information popped up once more on whose side she's on: John's, Mary's, or a mutual, it pops out:
SHERLOCK: "THE" WOMAN
He takes a deep breath to remove his thoughts and go back to saying his speech.
"John Watson is my friend... He's been my flatmate, my confidante, my colleague and—on more than one occasion—my saviour. I owe him a great deal."
He takes a deep breath.
"Wrong. I owe him everything. I wouldn't be standing here without his intervention. He has rescued me—time and again. Sometimes from mortal danger. Often from myself."
He tries not to notice that the "tanned" woman had tilted her head at the last part.
"I don't have many people I call 'friend'. It's not a word that comes easily to my lips. John is the very best of them."
He notices that John is clearly moved as Mary strokes his back.
"Most people actually thought we were gay," he says.
His eyes seek hers and unlike the others who are feeling embarrassed for him, her eyes twinkle in amusement.
"We weren't... Aren't... Never were... Probably this is the moment to make that clear... It's an obvious error. I'm very blokey and John's quite gentle."
He sees her successfully suppress her laughter.
John tries to make light of it. "No. They thought I was the blokey one."
"I'm more assertive," Sherlock replies.
"Yeah, but I was in the army. I ate bugs."
"Boys. Moving on, yeah?" Mary mutters.
"We've been through a lot together as flatmates. Bad plumbing; rewiring; kidnapped by a Chinese Drug Cartel. But I'd like to begin by saying what an honour it is that with so many friends... he picked me to be the best man. Instead of any of you. Bad luck. You all came second."
John tries not to face palm at the last part.
"This wedding wasn't a total shock to me. John and I had discussed the subject of marriage many times."
At that, his body betrays him by gliding over to her for a brief moment. He sees her eyes widen in surprise before he looks away, flustered at having been caught, and so he makes a joke to distract everyone before he exposes himself.
"In the past I'd always told him I was flattered. I knew we'd become close. But I felt that marriage was a step too far for us."
And everyone laughs... except her.
He sighs.
"When he told me it was Mary he was marrying—I knew that they were destined to be together forever. Every time he found himself chained up in a dungeon he instinctively thought of her."
Knowing he'd fucked up anyway, he manages to let his eyes glide over hers, dead-in-the-eye, and she looks at him as intensely as he is.
"The chains reminded him of their nights together."
Her brow rises at that and he smirks despite himself, knowing that he is now talking about her—about them, and though it seems like he is losing, he isn't.
He's challenging her. He wants her to feel confused with this other way of attack—by actually addressing her instead of ignoring her as what he would have done in the past.
But not anymore. Not since he pretended to be dead.
—oOo—
SWITZERLAND
ZÜRICH
months after Karachi
Irene walks down the stairs, just managing to wrap the tie of the blue dressing gown—one of his dressing gowns—which she had worn after she heard the news.
It is two hours after midnight and she hadn't been sleeping when she heard a small crash on the floor below her bedroom. Quickly taking the gun which he had provided for her (how he smuggled it in the country, she'll never know now), she gasps as she opens the light.
"Oh God," she gasps at the sight of him, bloodied and bruised.
"I—I—I know that this is—er—I didn't expect that you'd be—"
"Kitchen, now," she orders him, running to the said room where her first aid kit is.
They spent hours in total silence. Sherlock watches as Irene doctors him as much as she is capable of.
He doesn't need to ask where she learned it—being a dominatrix probably got her to learn how to deal with accidental injuries as well as aftercare. She, in turn, doesn't need to ask what he'd been doing nor why he faked his death. It was always Moriarty. It's why he helped her faked her own death.
Now, they're both dead—both knowing the other isn't. She isn't THE dominatrix anymore and he isn't THE detective anymore.
They're equals.
"What's your name?" she asks quietly, breaking the silence as she grabs some water from her fridge whilst he stays seated by the table.
"Sigerson..." he whispers. Before she comments about the name, he continues, "Wolfe."
She freezes on her steps before continuing onwards, sitting in front of him.
"...Sigerson?" she asks him instead.
Sherlock smiles for a brief moment. "My father's name is Siger." [3]
"Sigerson," she whispers before chuckling, shaking her head at the reason for his name.
She tries not to think about how he had thought of her name.
—oOo—
PLANE TO DUBAI
coming from Karachi
Irene looks down at the name on her passport once more as they head towards Dubai in the United Arab Emirates on a plane.
"Gertrude Wolfe?" she asks him quietly since a child, as well as his mother who is sitting on his other side, is sleeping beside her.
She doesn't see his expression since they are both sitting beside the plane windows with Sherlock sitting in front of her to avoid suspicion, but she knows that he is slightly embarrassed with the question.
"Mata Hari," he whispers.
She nods to herself. Mata Hari, Dutch exotic dancer and successful courtesan as well as a double agent in the First World War, had the name Margaretha Geertruida MacLeod...
How very her.
"Alright," she replies.
Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes as he looks out of the window, watching as the city grows smaller and smaller beneath them.
After a moment, he feels something on his armchair and looks down from the window to see a pair of feet—her feet—resting on top of his armrest.
He turns on his seat to the other armrest to look at her in the eye and complain, but his words fall from his lips at the look of discomfort on her face.
She has her head leaned back on the seat, stretching her upper body as a hand holds on to the side of her ribs, her lips twitching in discomfort, whilst the other hand rubs one of her thighs as she stretches one of her legs in discomfort.
Idiot, he thinks. They had just run from a terrorist cell. He gave her a few hours to rest and eat in the airport in India as well as changing her clothing before going back to Karachi and immediately leaving to Dubai.
She did just say she was tired, he thinks to himself.
Turning back to the lone foot settled on the armrest below the window, he takes a few moments of hesitation before finally deciding to rub her foot. He sighs when she flinches, the reminder of her torture coming back in his head.
He notices that it is calloused—barefoot in a terrorist cell does that as well as running away from said terrorist cell without any footwear.
He hears a sigh from behind his seat before another foot wedges itself on top of the foot he was massaging.
"Thank you," she whispers from behind.
He doesn't reply back.
—oOo—
SWITZERLAND
ZÜRICH
months after Karachi
"Thank you," he whispers when she hands him the glass of water.
"...Siblings?" she asks him quietly.
He immediately understands. "No," he simply answers.
She nods slowly once, twice. "Alright," she replies quietly.
They keep silent—the fact that they are now married via alias swimming in her head.
"I have to leave early," he suddenly says, clearing his throat.
"You still need to heal," she counters.
"...How long?" he asks in a whisper.
"A few days?"
"Alright."
They don't talk much the days after as Sherlock rested and healed. It gave her some time to ponder over the fact that he had chosen her as his safe haven—trusted her to keep his secret. Then again, he gave her a chance of a second life.
She knows he's going around the world destroying Moriarty's web. Perhaps he is even here to ask her on information about it. She was a giver of information in Moriarty's network itself.
It doesn't matter.
Because as quickly as he came back in her life, he was leaving it again.
"Mr Holmes," she says whilst Sherlock attempted to sneak out of her house in the middle of the night without a goodbye.
"Yes?" he asks.
He turns around and doesn't apologise because they both know why he's leaving without saying it: there is no guarantee whether he'd even be alive after his suicide mission... and saying goodbye is too formal—too finished.
How can one say goodbye without even saying as much as a hello?
She walks over to stand in front of him, offering a brown envelope. "Here."
He looks down for a moment, putting his bag down to take it. "What is it?" he asks, his eyes focused on the envelope as to not look at her in the eye.
"Everything I remember about Moriarty's web."
He looks up at her at that.
"How did you—?"
"Why didn't you ask me in the first place?" she says.
Sherlock's jaw clenches and looks away. He doesn't want to tell her that he doesn't want to make her feel like he's using her—that he only came here for information... because that would expose him, because he denies it, because it's the truth.
"Thank you," he replies before leaving.
She doesn't complain that he didn't even give her as much as a kiss.
—oOo—
[1] Basically what Junkie!Sherlock was wearing.
[2] Reichenbach was in Switzerland. Also, my sister and I stayed at our aunt's house there and we found a house that says "HAUS ADLER" there. There was even a "House Restaurant Adler" there.
[3] A lot of people had theorised that Siger is the name of Sherlock's father because in "The Adventures of the Empty House", it was said that there was a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, which Holmes used as an alias. Sigerson=son of Siger. Tada.