This is a very short drabble about the scene with Sherlock on the boat before he throws Irene's handkerchief. Some parts may be slightly different than the movie but I haven't seen it in a while and this came into my head and I just had to write it up. Please enjoy and review
Unfortunately, I do not own the characters present in this drabble, nor do I own the Sherlock Holmes stories or movie franchise, for that we have to thank a reluctant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and a probably more keen director, Guy Ritchie (Plus of course Robert Downey Jnr for his take on this Sherlock Holmes, Jude Law for this take on Watson and Rachel McAdams for this take on Irene)
The white cotton fabric pressed against his fingers and the scent of Parisian perfume mixed with the wafting smell of saltwater that surrounded the boat. His thumbnail ran across the fuchsia pink embroidery; Irene Adler's initials. It was a simple piece of material, not rich in design not expensive like so much else Irene owns, or owned. But it was a piece of fabric such as this that held more sentimental value that the thousands of jewels she possessed (stole).
"Leave my side and you'll be dead in under an hour."
Why was everything he said true? Sherlock always prided himself in his skill to deduce, to work out everything and anything and to expect things no others could expect. But to predict someone's death and then find out it had come true?
He felt guilty. It wasn't something Sherlock was used to feeling. Watson had caused him to feel it once or twice but never anyone else and certainly never a woman. But she was the woman and maybe that counted for something.
Sherlock pressed the handkerchief against his nose and mouth. Inhaling her scent and remembering each and every event they had shared whether it was fighting in hotel rooms, being beaten up on her behalf or intimate moments at the top of the construction of tower bridge. All their memories, together had been documented and written up from newspaper clippings, letters and a single photograph all in a file in Sherlock's home. As he gathered each article, each material that stated something directly linked to Irene he never thought about what would happen once her life had ended. In fact, he never really imagined Irene Adler could be defeated; she'd beaten himself twice as it is.
Professor Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes greatest adversary. 'Don't underestimate him, he's just as clever as you are and infinitely more devious'. How true those words were. He had fully expected Moriarty not to play fair, it was in his nature but he never expected him to kill someone who was meant to be working for him. Why he killed her Sherlock never found out, but it was something that greatly intrigued him, even now.
Dr John Watson watched his colleague with an interest and slight concern. He had watched Sherlock descend into many different emotions in the past but never had he imagined Holmes akin to sentiment. Perhaps even love, definitely admiration. Here was the great detective, one so sure of himself and his actions, now leaning against the rail of a boat breathing his soul into a deceased woman's handkerchief. Under normal circumstances and had it been any other person Watson would have been at his side, telling him it'll all be alright and how they were going to overcome this. But this was Sherlock Holmes, a man who probably could tell you in exact detail what emotions he was going through but not why.
It was not that he didn't understand Holmes; Watson was a doctor and had seen many stages of grief in the past through his patients. He had experienced many things with Sherlock, being a roommate, friend and companion in their work he had taken note of new things and Sherlock's understanding of them. But this was a new emotion he had not prepared for. And in truth, Watson didn't know what else he could do.
So instead of approaching his friend, he awarded him some privacy. Some chance to grieve alone before the case reached headway and Sherlock had to return to reality.
Sherlock breathed in the scent once more. It would be the final time he decided. He looked at the three spots of blood once more also.
"Three spots to describe the woman. One for deviousness, one for talent and one for seduction. The three drops to create the Woman." He told himself in less than a whisper, a speech for only the sea-breeze to hear. Tightening his fist around the handkerchief Sherlock allowed a solitary tear to fall onto the fabric, joined the three spots together. Unity. In this world, and in the next.
With one final gesture he tossed the material overboard and watched the seawater claim it for its own. In his mind Sherlock said a final goodbye, a careless whisper that was heard by nobody other than himself. He then returned to reality, striding over and sitting himself down next to Watson. The two gentlemen sat quietly for a moment, amidst their own musings. Then Sherlock Holmes turned to Doctor John Watson with a final quote:
"That chapter's over old boy. Onto the next, and may it be in her name."