He turns his collar of his leather jacket up against the biting wind – a rather familiar action that is almost instinctive. It's only then that he realizes that he is slipping back into his old ways, and he knows that doing so is dangerous, almost as dangerous as climbing onto a park bench and proclaiming his identity to everyone enjoying themselves in the park. Not that they would care, he muses rather grouchily. It's been nearly a year, and he's in Nice for god's sake, not London. Couples are scattered around the park, their arms wrapped around each other. They couldn't care less if a bloody bomb descended upon them, so absorbed were they in each other's lips, with each trying to rub the other's raw with all their exertions. He represses an eye roll. He knows he still needs to be careful, because the intricate web that Moriarty assembled has not been fully shredded, and before he finishes that job, he has to avoid doing stupid actions like yelling his name, no matter how tempting it might be to throw caution to the wind. All the same, he rather misses the attention he could command in a crowded street in London, when he was still Sherlock Holmes and not boring William Brown. The clever detective in the funny hat and not the boring man who has a penchant for leather jackets. God, he gazes in slight disdain at his current leather jacket, what would I give to have my good old coat and scarf back. There's something nagging at him though, and he scrolls through his thoughts to pinpoint the phrase that has sent alarm bells ringing. The clever detective in the funny hat. That sentence; the Woman. Why had he suddenly thought of her words?
Stupid, he curses inwardly, I'm getting slow. He spins around, and just catches a glimspe of a woman turning a corner, vanishing rapidly out of sight. There's a split second of hesitation, and then he hurries after her, out of the park and into one of the narrow streets. He slows to a walk as he tails her down the street; he's not quite certain yet that it is her, but perhaps the clenching feeling in his chest is more an indication of her identity than his deductions.
Irene senses rather than sees that someone is following her. Spikes of fear shoot down her spine as she catalogues the person's identity. It could be anyone really, one of her clients maybe, or even Kate. She narrows her eyes as she listens carefully to the footsteps. Too heavy for a female, she realizes. Right now, she can think of a myriad of possibilities that the man following her could be, and the list of possible identities she has drawn up in her mind are flagged red. These are the people who mean harm. She draws up the faces of the people she has walked past. An image of a tall, blonde man makes a particular impression on her. She is sure she has seen him somewhere before, but she can't quite place the exact location, and that only adds to her mounting worry. Paranoia grips her tightly, and when she feels the grasp of a hand around her wrist, she lets her well-honed reflexes take over. She swings her other arm and feels it connect with flesh with a satisfying thud, before she finds both of her wrists pinned onto the rough alley wall at her back.
He winces slightly when her fist connects with his cheekbones, and he realizes he should probably have anticipated that reaction. But if he could read her that well, than she wouldn't be the Woman. He tries to ignore the fact that he was probably a little too distracted by the possibility of her being the Woman. Sherlock Holmes, being distracted from a deduction? The idea is almost unthinkable. Somehow, however, the statement doesn't sound as solid as it should have been. Giving his head a little shake, he clears his thoughts to the back of his mind palace and focuses on the slight form in front of him. She's dyed her hair a brilliant auburn and her blue eyes are obscured by the green contact lenses she's wearing, but he knows those lips. The memory of them brushing against his cheek is clear as day, and it probably helps that he has replayed that scene at least a hundred times in his head. Not now, he murmurs to himself, annoyed, and pushes this thought firmly into one of the rooms in his palace, and turns the lock on it. Instead, he focuses on trying to deduce what the Woman has been up to these days. Other than gleaning the information that she is still living in relative luxury, a thought that relieves him for some unknown reason, from her immaculately painted scarlet nails and the evidently new and expensive coat, he can't deduce anything else. She's her usual unreadable self, and he almost relishes the fact that at least someone is able to pose him a puzzle. A challenge. Someone who's not another ordinary, boring person.
The moment she relaxes against his grip, he knows that she too, has seen through his disguise. Clever girl, he thinks, she's almost as good as me. Almost. He nearly smirks, but holds himself back at the last minute. He should be annoyed, really, that she has can read him so quickly and effortlessly, but he just feels a sort of pride. "Mr Holmes," her voice is a familiar purr, and it worries him when he realizes just how much he misses it's sound. "Is this how you seduce a girl?" Her tone is languid and teasing, painting a rather vivid contrast with the punch she just threw. "How?" He is pleased to find that his own voice is equally devoid of emotion – not Sentiment, never the word Sentiment – as he relinquishes his grip on her wrists. She raises a perfectly drawn eyebrow and replies nonchalantly, "Your coat collar, and also, the cheekbones are a dead giveaway." Here, she smirks, "Look at those cheekbones, I almost regret bruising them. Then again, you should have known better. And let me guess, Mr Holmes, was it my coat that gave me away, or my shoes?" Sherlock scowls – he's not used to being seen through easily, and he definitely does not like it. "Neither, actually," he pauses, wondering if he should admit that it was her lips. But no, that would be admitting that he remembers her lips, and worse, that would be admitting to sentiment. So instead, he lies. "It was your hair, actually." Internally, he cringes. That was a rather ridiculous answer, seeing that he could read almost nothing from the loose, gleaming waves of hair that fell over her shoulders and spilled over her back. It bothers him that he can never, truly, read her. He wonders if she notices that he is lying, and schools his expression into one of boredom, one that seems to be saying, "of course, isn't it obvious?". Lies and deception; they were just playing the game. Irene returns his expression, and he can't tell if she has bought the lie. Instead, she pulls away from his gaze and reaches into her handbag and writes on a spare piece of paper tucked away somewhere. She presses it into his palm, then turns to continue her walk down the street. As she rounds the corner, she turns back and gives a small wave, lifting the corner of her lips ever so slightly, before disappearing.