Irene's P.O.V
It was cold. A bitter cold that eats away at your soul. But in a way, sweet. Delicate. I can feel the smooth pebbles under my shoes and hear a little creek, very close by. And the sound. The beautifully busy sound of London behind me, going about their last Christmas shopping before tomorrow. Honestly I never understood Christmas. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed this day. But I was far away from that now. Memory of last Christmas seemed … faded. Fuzzy. Compared to the wonderful, colourful world I was a part of now. It felt glorious to be ALIVE. To feel each individual snowflake land in my hair, the soft hand at my back guiding me forwards. The fractured white light slipping threw my blindfold. This, this was my first proper winter in England.
My mind skipped through the rest of the day. Due to the drugs or just not wanting to remember, I don't know. But laying under that old Victorian style bridge, next to the creek with a little fire crackling away, us laughing and mucking about. Just to hear the way he saw the world. I could get lost in the way he talked of things. He voice was just so mesmerizing as he got into a heated debate with himself over politices or science. I never really pay attention wonce he starts, but God it was beautiful just to watch his mind work. The last thing I remember of that Christmas day was curling up next to him on his spread out coat under the stars, slowly slipping away as his warm hand caressed my hair.
I tried dragging myself back into conciseness, but I was tired and sore. Not quiet able to remember why, I curled Into the hand stroking my check then BAM I shot straight out of bed and landed on the stone marble floor like a cat. Waking up next to James Moriarty was not a very pleasant experience. It just goes against every instinct you have. That's why I love it. James was just lounging there with a lazy smile across his face as he admired my stance. The look on his face was almost adoring as he took in every inch of me with his eyes. If it had of been appreciation or respect on Jims face I'd have gotten back into bed. But Jims attitude was making my stomach roll. He was looking at me like he owned me. I grabbed his jacket and tossed it over my shoulders as a walked from his room without a word. Sometimes I like to remind him he doesn't own me, I'm not one of his pets. He's my client.
I wander my way through this renaissance style mansion, feeling amazingly small amongst the high roofs decorated in bible paintings and murals and tall golden carved arches were doors should be. I tiptoed my way through the ball room, my bare footsteps not making a sound on the polished floor boards. Stopping at one of the floor to roof bay windows, I stare out at the massive garden. Bathed in the early morning sunlight, I pick out the rose bushes and name each and every one of them. He has every species known growing in his garden. Colours, vines, beauty and thorns twisting, growing together, and forming a kind of intricate maze. It felt odd standing in Jims own home, knowing all this glorious beauty was sculptured by the unstable mind of the world's only consulting criminal. I couldn't shake this uneasy feeling that was slowly spreading through me as I sipped my coffee. I hadn't dreamt of Sherlock Holmes in almost 4 years… and with Jim sending me back to London, I know I will not be able to stay away.