Summary: Written out of boredom on a Saturday night. Sorry if Holmes and Irene are out of character. Enjoy.
Wishful Thinking
His back sat against the hard wall, Holmes swirled the small needle around on his fingers. It was filled with his simple release. His beloved cocaine was the only thing to accompany him in the dead of night. Watson had been married just a week prior with no means to return to Baker Street. Holmes was not surprised. The needle found the crease of his arm, but he did not fully inject. His eyes glanced down to the sleeping Gladstone. Dead of night with no case, perfect time to experiment, his mind reasoned. But he would not being doing that either. His fingers went to find the tip of the needle, ready to feel the rush of the cocaine fill his mind. But now, he could not find himself to push down on the tip. Still full, Holmes pulled the needle out of his arm, placing it back inside of the palm of his hand. The silence was unwelcoming, he decided, as well as unwanted. A new case would solve his want to be lifted onto a momentary high, but it would not solve the real problem. His problem was one he was only slowly allowing himself to come to grips with.
He was lonely. He was longing. For a companionship. His partner had decided to move on with his life. Of course, the doctor was only a letter away. If there was a case, Holmes knew Watson would not ignore the address to an adventure. They would always be able to reunite on the simple terms of a case. But there was day to day living gone from his presence. There was no one to make a simple kind of talk with. No one to share the large rooms. The apartment on Baker Street had always been made for two, not one, Holmes concluded. Should he leave what had been his home for almost five years to something more suitable for one person? Or better yet, would he?
Memories were nothing but the minds way of refusing to forget, which Holmes only treasured when it proved to be useful in a case. He, however, was wrapped up in the moments the house shared. The concealed laughs between brothers. Now, the house had been filled with nothing but silence, and the occasional simple, unimportant case. Sherlock Holmes had no friends, which had never bothered him in the past. The only people he had ever truly consulted with where the nanny, his dog, Watson, and Mycroft. While the dog and Mrs. Hudson were still in Baker Street, things would never seem truly completed without Doctor John Watson. Something he would just have to get used to.
Leaning his head against the wall, his eyes fluttered shut, but his mind remained aware of his surroundings. Sleep would be a wise thing to attempt, he reckoned, but he could not bring himself to do as such. There was something, or someone, headed his way, and he would not be the man to miss it. He remained listening and waiting. The tick of a clock began to be a distraction for the sleuth, as his body grew even more tired with each passing moment.
Once more, the silver needle began attractive to his eye. However, he still allowed himself a sort of self control, refusing to allow the powder into his system. His finger played with the sharp point, continuing to wait for the night to pass. His black eyes remained shut, his only form of rest. His ears began to pick up on a sound, just outside of the house. Who would be traveling at this time of night, he wondered. A door swung open. But not just any door. His door. The sound of heels hitting the stairs stopped just outside of his study, his mind blow away at who he saw once the door had been opened.
"Holmes?" asked a soft, almost angelic voice. A small lantern in her hand, Irene Adler could see the man in front of her rather well. A smile came across her face, her pearly white teeth exposed. Holmes continued to look up and down at the woman in front of him. What was she doing here this time? Had she brought him work? Or was this a social visit. He allowed her to walk to his side before he chose to speak back.
His initial reaction was not one of speech. His eyes flicked down to gaze at the small needle once more. Still full to the stop. She was really here. "Who have you lost now?" were the only words to escape his tongue. He watched as she met his words with a smirk.
"Why must there always be a case with you?" she asked, her eyes locking with his. If there was one thing her heart jumped at, it was looking into the pitch eyes of Sherlock Holmes. His eyes changed, and she could see clearly that he did not believe her. It was true; she had not come to see him on her own accord. But so long as the great detective could not figure out why, she would not state it. Work had brought her to London and her heart had brought her to his study.
"With you, it always is," he replied, enjoying having her in his company, but not wanting to settle for her riddled answers. There was something that she needed or wanted, there always was. He had known Irene long enough to deduct that simple fact. But why had she shown in the dead of night? The possibilities ran through his mind, but none of them seemed to fall together.
"Sherlock," she stated, taking a firm grasp of his hand. Irene enjoyed the feeling of his skin against her own. Her hand fit perfectly in his, as if the Lord had fashioned her for him. Her free hand found his face, drawing him in for a short kiss. "I know Watson is married. You are alone, but not for any longer," she stated, pulling him in for yet another kiss. Holmes stood, kissing her back with equal passion as they found their way up to his bed.
Holmes awoke the next morning, sleep still in his eyes. His dream had been perfect. If only he could see Irene Adler in a reality, not in a fantasy. He would never admit it to anyone, nor had he completely admitted it to himself. But if he could love, no matter how much of a waste of time "love" was, then his heart would always and forever belong to Irene Adler.