Chapter One - Most Ardently
"Although, I want the phone."
"Sherlock, I can't give it to you, it belongs to Mycroft and the government."
"Please." His voice sounded harsh and John felt astonished. He had never heard Sherlock ask for anything as long as he had known him. He remained hesitant for another half a second before he handed over the mobile phone to Sherlock. He decided to give the detective some privacy and muttered something about "tea" before he disappeared out of the door. Sherlock listened carefully after John's footsteps before he looked at the phone doubtfully. He couldn't explain his desire for the phone. Wrong. His mind corrected him automatically. He couldn't explain his desire for, and passion for that matter, her. He walked to the window and chuckled at the thought of her. Irene Adler. How very fitting her nickname suddenly seemed. The Woman. The Woman. He didn't realize that he had spoken the words aloud until John coughed conspiratorially behind his back. He rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked irritated. John simply stared. "This… This woman. Irene Adler." He clarified. "Yes?" Sherlock answered and felt quite uncomfortable. Not a good thing, his mind kept intoning. "You didn't lo… like her or anything like that?" Sherlock snorted. John and his sentiment, feelings were for mortals. And he was certainly not one of them. "Of course not." He sneered. "Will you leave me alone now, please?" He said sarcastically. John Watson sighed, not able to work his friend out. "Good night." He went out of the room for the second time that night, and, Sherlock added mentally, hopefully the last. He felt… torn? He didn't want to trouble John's average mind with his problems. There shouldn't be a problem. Sherlock glared out of the window and picked up the phone from the desk. He smiled to himself. For once, a brief moment, he had felt that there was someone out there, like himself. An equal. The Woman. He sighed; frustrated that he couldn't understand what he felt. He had rejected her, failed her. And then saved her. He looked at the phone, remembering her, her scent, her eyes. He groaned, and for the first time, he regretted that he had met Irene Adler. He knew there was something wrong. He didn't admit it to himself, but he had felt something for Irene Adler. Love?
No, he decided and shuddered unintentionally at the very thought of love. Admiration? Closer. But not quite there yet. Something stronger than admiration. But what? Sherlock felt disgusted with himself. He could read and work out every person he met, but still, still he couldn't figure out his own thoughts? But that's not what's important, he pointed out. Was he really willing to risk his own life for Irene Adler? Yes, he suddenly realized and groaned quietly. That was not good. Not good at all. The game was on, and she had an advantage. And he was fully aware that she, in the exact moment, planned her next move. Perhaps, Sherlock Holmes didn't know that Irene Adler, professionally known as the Woman, sat in a dark hotel room in New Delhi in India and thought of a certain detective. Perhaps he knew, perhaps not, that she now smiled in the darkness and looked out of the window. She glanced up at the exact same moon that he was looking at. But I think, that none of them knew that they thought of each other. Most ardently.
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