Author's Note: I don't mind Sherlock as an asexual, but I have a soft spot for Adlock, Sherene, SHIA, by any other name. This is meant as a standalone, for now. It's not a particularly happy fic; my try at angst.
Please review! And if criticize you must, please try to be fair and constructive.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock does not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended, no money is made; this fiction was written for the love of the characters and the show.
Fallacy (fa-lu-see) n: a misconception resulting from incorrect reasoning.
Fallacy of Presumption, n: a fallacy that fails to prove the conclusion by assuming the conclusion in the proof. (WordWeb and Wikipedia).
All of 221B expressed the loss.
It was dark, and silent, and the chill that covered every corner was testament to the fact that the fireplace hadn't been used for hours. There was no sign of John. Mrs. Hudson was notably absent. No life stirred within the frigid walls of the flat.
Not even the seated figure of Sherlock Holmes. Which was strange, because his body was aching, so there must be life within him still.
He knew the precise moment she arrived, as the air changed. Her perfume floated in, tantalizing his sense of smell, and he thought about lighting up a cigarette if only for the welcome intrusion of tobacco. To dispel her fragrant harbinger. But she would see the action for what it was, and she'd seen enough of him already. So Sherlock remained still.
She slipped in through his bedroom window, as stealthy and as pervasive as the shadows that covered his abode. Her footsteps were so light, she might as well have been walking on air. His eyes have long adjusted to the dark, and he can decipher her silhouette, saw the exact moment she realized she was alone in his room, and saw too when she turned and headed for his living room.
There was no hesitation in her movements, no missteps. Her familiarity with his home was yet another testament to just how far he'd fallen down the circles of failure. Loathing burned the back of his throat.
"Your home is like a tomb, Mr. Holmes," she murmured, sashaying up to him, hips swaying in that same, natural grace she'd exhibited the first time they met. Her smile was the same, as well, predatory and victorious. And why shouldn't it be?
She'd won the game, after all.
"It's so dark and cold and lifeless. What happened here? It wasn't like this the last time I visited." She did a little pirouette and sat down on John's chair.
"Don't sit there," Sherlock said shortly, voice a little too loud in the stale air, and gruff from hours of disuse. "That's John's chair."
She remained where she was. "Well, he's not here, is he? Where is the doctor? Where's Mrs. Hudson?"
"I sent them away for the night." John had taken a lot more work to send away than Mrs. Hudson. And most likely the doctor wouldn't stay away as long as Sherlock hoped he would. But at least, for now, Sherlock was alone.
"Oh. Why is that?"
"I didn't want anyone I care about near me right now."
He didn't tell her why. Whether or not she'd know, or understand why, he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that John and Mrs. Hudson were away for a while. They would be safe if they weren't within his general vicinity. They can come back when the sun rises, when the light was natural, and the gloom in his home dispelled in that most ancient and effective of ways.
When the beast inside him has calmed down and stopped demanding victims.
Till then, Sherlock wanted them away. Far away.
"What do you want, Irene?" He sounded more weary than interested, even to his own ears, but that was fine.
The game was over. And he was done playing, anyway.
Irene didn't answer right away. She curled up in the chair, barefoot, wearing an elegant pair of linen slacks, and a matching button down blouse, the sleeves of which flared near her wrists. It was the first ensemble he'd seen her in that wasn't a dress, and though she looked perfect in it, as always, he found himself flashing back to the little black couture number she'd donned on earlier tonight. He preferred her in dresses. Not that it mattered. Sherlock thought it amusing—in a bitter, mirthless sort of way—that she'd dressed up especially for her victory and his defeat. It must've been quiet the event for her.
She was watching him carefully, studying him, the way a person trying to read a foreign language she was only just beginning to understand would. The silence between them stretched on to nearly a full minute, and just when Sherlock would have repeated his question, she murmured, "It wasn't so hard, was it?"
He would've played dumb if he had the ability to do so with her. "Evidently not for you," he bit out, instead.
Irene seemed to recoil at his harsh tone. But that was impossible. She must've just leaned back against the chair for more comfort. "Are you so upset, Darling?" Her voice sounded different. Well, no, not really. It was still that same low, slightly husky, velvety tone. But there was something off about it. It took him a second to realize that the flirtatious edge that colored all of their conversations was missing.
And why should it still be there? he asked of himself impatiently. The play is over, and she doesn't have to act, anymore. Even gloating can get boring if you do it constantly. Probably.
"You haven't answered my question. What do you want?"
"I just . . ." Again, she lapsed into silence.
"Well?" He was beginning to feel restless. The beast was sensing her presence and wanted to investigate. It was getting harder to remain seated and still.
Even more so when she slinked off John's chair, in the exact same manner she had early that evening, before his downfall took place. Only this time, there was no fire to warm the both of them. There would be no Mrs. Hudson to interrupt. All pretenses had been stripped away. And in the dark, they should've been safer from each other.
Only he wasn't.
Irene didn't touch his hands, this time. Instead, she reached up and cupped his face in her palms.
Inside, Sherlock rebelled at the liberties she was taking and wanted to yank his head away. Pride stilled him. Pride, and anger, and fear of something else. Something else that even Irene Adler—yes, even she with all her power, and all her cleverness—would be so much safer never provoking.
Her thumb ghosted over the cut on his lip, the bruise on his cheekbone. In the half-light of the moon and a streetlamp, her eyes glistened like wet sapphires. "What have you done to yourself?" she whispered, and her voice fractured near the end, sounding almost like a pained whimper.
Sherlock had taken enough humiliation for one night. Grabbing her slender wrists, he tore her hands away. "I don't have to answer any more of your questions," he growled. "Now, if you refuse to answer the only one I've asked, we're done here. You should leave." He made as if to stand up, forcing her to sit back on her haunches.
"I came here to see if you were alright," Irene said, raising her voice, steadying it with audible force.
At that, he couldn't help it. He laughed. "How kind of you."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," she snapped, getting to her feet, and looking down at him with something that looked almost like worry. "Is this what you always do when things get out of control?"
"What're you on about?"
"I had you followed after we left Mycroft's battle fortress tonight." Irene hugged herself. A shiver worked its way down her slim frame. "What the hell were you thinking, throwing yourself in some vile underground pugilist ring?"
"There were no CIA agents conveniently hanging around for me to throw out the window."
"That was stupid of you. I had to call Scotland Yard to break up the illegal fighting."
"Oh, was that you?" Sherlock sneered. "Why on earth did you do that?"
"So you wouldn't get killed, you imbecile!"
Sherlock grunted. "If you think that some thug whose single knuckle is bigger than his brain can kill me, you don't know me that well. Obviously, the reverse is true." He glared at her. "You have everything you've ever worked for, Irene. No one can decipher your pass code. You've gotten my brother to give you the most impenetrable protection in the western world, and don't you own half of Coventry by now?" He stood up, looming over her. He didn't know why he bothered; his superior height had never intimidated her before. "You've won. I lost. There, now, I've said it. Why don't you just leave?"
"Is that what you want?"
"Immediately, and in graduating levels of intensity."
"Liar."
She was doing it again, looking at him in that way she did that made him feel as though she was reading his mind, sorting through the contents of his palace and picking at every piece that made him who he was. Picking and choosing what she'd like to keep, and what she had little use for.
The air between them throbbed. There was a tickling sort of pull over the hair on his skin; a tautness in his muscles.
She was doing it again, looking at him in that way she did that made the beast in him rumble.
Be quiet! he raged at it, but he could feel the beast straining against his mental leash.
"Leave, Irene." He took a step back, putting some distance between them. "If you know what's good for you."
Her eyes changed. Even in the darkling cocoon they were both in, he can see the ice-blue had turned to black. He knew the physical meaning of it, he'd seen it in her orbs before, and his response was as involuntary as it was primal. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a man who can learn very, very quickly, and he ruthlessly pushed back the emergent want.
"You'd never hurt me," Irene crooned, reaching out to bridge the gap between them. Her fingertips caressed the air just above his jaw, before she grew bolder and placed her skin on his. It felt hot. "No matter how much you want to, you wouldn't."
"Don't be so confident about that."
Irene lowered her hand, never breaking contact, and stopped just at his left breast, just the spot where his heart was trying to break free of the confines of his rib cage. "I did what I did for protection, you understand that, surely?" If her voice sounded imploring, he tuned it out. He focused on her words, instead, and on their literal meaning.
"Of course I do. Let's hope you don't find yourself in yet another situation that you would need such extreme protection for."
"Oh, Sherlock, don't worry." She smiled. It was an odd smile, foreign, at least on her face.
Sincerity had never been a trait he'd associated with her.
"For as long as I'm satisfied, the security of England remains as it is. The country sleeps safe tonight." She bit her lip slightly, the gesture strangely coming across as vulnerable. Or The Woman's affectation of vulnerability. "And this is where the game ends, Darling. I promise."
"I don't believe you."
"No, and I didn't think you would." Finally, she stepped back, allowing Sherlock a few minutes of easy breathing. "I'll be leaving England tonight." She looked up at him expectantly.
Sherlock gave her a smile as brittle as it was bright. "Have a pleasant trip."
Irene flinched. It was probably the first sign she'd ever shown him that anything he did had any unintended effect on her. "Yes. Well . . ." She looked away. Looked back at him, again. Something passed over her face, something he didn't recognize. And then she sighed. It sounded like a hum. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock stood, rigid as a statue, as she brushed past him. Her scent trailed after her, fine-spun and deadly.
That was Irene Adler.
"Irene?" he called.
"Yes?" she readily whirled around, almost as though she'd expected him to call her back.
With narrowed eyes and steeled resolve, Sherlock said, "Leave through the front door this time, if you don't mind."
Irene stared at him as though he'd just slapped her. Something inside Sherlock twisted into a knot. He stared right back, though. Just what did she expect? He may have lost, but he wasn't broken.
Nothing ever breaks Sherlock Holmes. Anymore.
But she regrouped quickly, Miss Adler did, and the vexed Irene transformed into The Woman, once more. Sherlock couldn't help but watch the transformation. It was rather fascinating. The lovely face and that shapely body remained the same, but it was almost as though her physical self was yet another of her numerous designer clothes. And now a different woman was wearing it.
Irene relaxed. She never became rigid, never froze. Instead, her stance became a dancer's pose. Her lips quirked into a smile, The Woman's smile, and she tilted her head at him that was a message, a challenge, all on its own.
There she is, Sherlock thought, partly relieved at the sight of her. This Woman, he knew. It wasn't to say that he can handle her, that had never been the case, and he knew himself well enough not to deny it, privately, anyway. But he knew her, and better the devil he knew.
Better this devil, than the stranger who acted as though he can hurt her.
"Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Holmes," she purred, a bittersweet parody of the first time she'd said goodbye to him. "The only time I'll be walking through your front door . . . is when you invite me in to stay."
His defense was automatic, but no less truthful. "I've never invited any woman in to stay."
Her eyes sparkled, and her smile showed her white teeth, this time. How irritating. It seemed he'd inadvertently pleased her.
"Ah . . . but I'm not just any woman, am I?" And she glided toward him, stood on tiptoe, and touched her lips to his.
. . . like warm rose petals . . .
Huh. Fancy that. A question answered without being asked. Maybe she really can read his mind.
Those were his last thoughts before his mind careened to a grinding halt, and then went into free fall. The kiss had the effect of complete surprise on him—it was like the first thunderstorm of the summer season. Something people knew to expect from experience, but still catches them off guard.
He shouldn't have been surprised. This was just something Irene Adler would do.
But storm him, she still did.
The kiss was as fleeting as it was spontaneous, and soon she was pulling back. If Sherlock wasn't still astonished, he would have smiled at Irene's expression—it was gratifying to see his surprise reflected on her face. Gratifying, and also confusing. Just what did she have to be surprised by? She'd instigated the kiss.
But caught in a summer storm, she looked.
Sherlock breathed out, softly, the air escaping past his lips in a soundless whistle. Irene's eyelids fluttered, like the fragile, nervous beating of butterfly wings.
They continued to stand there, in a state of suspended animation. Lights from outside filtered in through the windows; there were sounds, too. Downstairs, there was the slamming of the door.
For the next few seconds, those variables were from another world.
And then Sherlock's mind kick-started yet again, in the form of an unwelcome and recently developed memory. They'd been in this hazy, cloud-like spell before, he and Irene. Just tonight, as a matter of fact.
Barely an hour before she revealed her real intentions and humiliated him in front of Mycroft.
Now there was a bucketful of ice-cold water.
Sherlock took a step back, putting the necessary distance between them. The air in the space that separated him from The Woman felt cold and uncharged. It was a phenomenon, of that he was certain, because she stood only twelve inches away, and where she was, the energy was practically crackling. But it was not a phenomenon he was equipped to investigate. Not tonight.
"Goodbye, Miss Adler," he whispered.
Well, there goes another of his theories. He barely knew her, after all. If he'd known her better, he'd understand exactly why her heavy-lidded eyes slowly widened; why her lips formed his name, but the word didn't come out; why her face looked as though she'd witnessed the sun's supernova.
All this, before The Woman smiled her cat's smile. There she was again; as playful and as cruel as a kitten.
"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes," she murmured, stroking his bottom lip with an index finger that felt as light as a feather. She walked away without looking back, strides as confident as though nothing had changed. Everything that had happened in the last few minutes was just as she'd planned it.
Of course, that was highly likely. She was The Woman.
And, true to form, Irene Adler, The Woman, left Sherlock Holmes' flat through her preferred exit: his bedroom window.
It wasn't until the early hours of the next morning, when he was awakened by her singular text alert that he realized she'd left her phone in his bed, underneath the pillow she'd once slept on. The one that still smelled of her.
Her text message was simple: Take care, Darling.
Note: Irene's character was shifting here, I know, but I was trying to see her through Sherlock's eyes, and she's always been so changeable, anyway. I realize she might come across as OOC, but that wasn't the intention. I was simply trying to capture her mutable quality, even more pronounced when she has something she needs to say. And Sherlock is also emotional here, which was frightening to do. SiB was an episode loaded with unspoken sentiment, but I don't know that I did the both of them justice. Interpret as you will.