Okay, hello everyone! I started this story a while ago and have written about four chapters so far so I'll try to update once a week for as long as possible :L Sherene is my OTP. I ship them so much it HURTS!
Just fyi, this story started off as roleplay on omegle and it got to the point where I begged them to let me use it as a fanfic starter and they obliged! It was going to b a one shot but pfft that didn't happen! Anyway, sorry for any mistakes! Enjoy :3
Come at once if convenient.
If inconvenient, come all the same.
-SH
Doesn't leave me much of a choice.
–JW
NOW.
-SH
Fine, fine.
-JW
Can I ask his highness where I might be needing to go?
-JW
No time to explain. 221b. Now.
-SH
Say please.
-JW
John...
-SH
Say it. We've been working on this.
-JW
P-Please
-SH
All right. I'll be there in five.
-JW
Thank you.
-JW
FYI The Woman is here
-SH
Irene? Please tell me she's wearing clothes.
-JW
…
-SH
Then I'm not coming over.
-JW
Make her put something on.
-JW
Fine... she's wearing my coat
-SH
Okay.
-JW
Be there in three.
-JW
You nearly here?
-SH
Walking up the stairs.
-JW
Well hurry up.
-SH
"I'm here, I'm here." John said as he entered the flat. "What's so bloody important that you needed me?"
A blonde haired Sherlock (for the purpose of disguise only) stood next to the couch where the Woman sat. She had also changed her hair colour: ginger… it suited her.
"Well the fact that she's not dead... I thought would be a surprise to you?"
"You're not dead, she's not dead, everybody's not dead." Frankly, yes, it had been a surprise to see that text message, but John wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's games that afternoon. It was his lunch hour and he needed to be back at the clinic eventually.
"I'm in a bit of a tight spot again John dear." Irene said, standing up quickly.
"What do you need me to do?" John looked at her with bemusement, even though she'd been who knows where for months, she still looked as perfect and put together as ever. "Thank you, for not being naked."
She smirked, making Sherlock feel uncomfortable with the mild flirting.
"You always assume such things John... but in this case you're right. There is a package I need you to pick up for me it, probably isn't dangerous."
"So I'm going to be you two's errand boy?" John threw up his hands. "Fine, fine. Where is this package?"
Sherlock smirked, he liked that John had said "you two's" though why? He couldn't fathom.
"It should be at the clinic that you work at." Irene sat back down as she said this, arranging Sherlock's coat to cover her more modestly.
"What is it? I'm not bringing you two home drugs. And why couldn't you just text me this?" Thoroughly annoyed, John gathered up his bag and coat and headed for the door.
"It's not drugs dear," -Sherlock's lip pursed as she called someone apart from him 'dear'- "it's information that could just clear Sherlock's name."
"What?" Sherlock turned to her, "You didn't tell me that."
"You didn't let me finish what I was trying to say. You just started 'deducting' again."
"Just finish fighting so I can be on my way," John interjected.
"We are finished." Irene looked at Sherlock strangely. "Now," she said brightly, turning back to John, "off you pop!"
Shaking his head, John left. "Fine. See you at five."
He closed the door behind him as he left, and Sherlock immediately turned to Irene, "Why did you give me that look?"
"What look?"
"The one you gave me after John said we were fighting."
"Just how he phrased it," she laughed, "made it sound like we were a squabbling couple."
"Yes well we're not." Sherlock choked, sitting in his favourite chair.
"Is that regret I hear in your voice Sherlock Holmes?" Irene teased.
"Course not." He replied, quickly… too quickly, and Irene picked up on this.
Before she could say anything, he changed the subject.
"How could this package help clear my name anyway?" He was genuinely intrigued.
"I knew one of Moriarty's henchmen." She said nonchalantly.
"Knew?"
"I knew what he liked." Her lips curved up at one side as she said this, but Sherlock didn't notice.
"No I mean knew, why knew? Why in the past tense."
"Well, after he'd seen me alive, I had to stop stories from spreading."
"You killed him?" Sherlock was shocked. He knew she would go to great lengths for what she wanted, but he'd never pictured her as someone who would kill.
"He had an accident." She replied casually.
"Accident, of course." Sherlock muttered. "How could it clear my name?" He repeated.
"Details of Moriarty's activity."
"Over the past year?"
"Ever."
"Impressive." He remarked.
"I know." Was the answer he got.
Without saying anything else, he got up and took hold of his violin.
He started playing a tune. Such a sad tune it was that it made a tear fall from the pale blue eyes of his companion as she realised that he wouldn't speak, listen or register anything that happened in the next few hours.
It was nearly five o'clock when Sherlock came out of his trance.
He put his violin down and sat down on his chair before he realised that Irene had moved from the sofa to sit in front of him.
"That was beautiful." She whispered. Sherlock nodded in gratitude, but she hadn't expected anything more. "What's it called?" She pushed, looking at the stand on which the self-composed piece sat.
"I haven't named it yet." He replied stiffly.
She nodded her understanding and shifted where she sat.
After a significant pause, Irene said, "You never answered my question."
"I just di-" Sherlock started, confused.
"No, not that question," Irene cut in, "the one I asked you lest time we were sitting here." She smiled as she said this, as though reliving past memories.
"I can't remember." Sherlock said, blushing a deep red.
"Allow me to be indelicate," Irene chuckled, "have you even had anyone?"
"Ummm," Irene looked at him expectantly, "No."
She half smiled, "Thought as much."
"You obviously have." He uttered it harshly and without thinking.
A tears filled her eyes and one rolled down her cheek. She stood up quickly.
"I think I remember where the bathroom is." She said, turning away.
"Irene, please." Sherlock stood, grabbing her wrist as she tried to walk away.
"Sherlock. Don't." She choked, trying to pull free of his grasp, but it merely tightened.
"I didn't mean it, honestly." He rushed, trying to reconcile his mistake.
"But you did!" She cried, "Everyone always does! Always…" Her voice faded off as she broke down in tears.
Sherlock didn't know what to do in these kinds of situations, but he had noticed that when Mrs Hudson was upset, John always seemed to hug her. So he thought this was only appropriate.
He wrapped his arms around her awkwardly and she immediately stepped into him, her tears soaking his shirt as he held her.
"I didn't mean to upset you." He said quietly.
"I know." Irene returned simply, turning her head up to look at him.
Her looked down at her and noticed that her face was extremely close to his. Too close. Her eyes too close. Her nose too close. Her lips too close. Nearly touching. Suddenly her lips were on his, her hands pulling his head down to her level, his arms wrapping around her waist. (When he told them to do this he had no idea.) When had his eyes closed too? He didn't know. Frankly he didn't care. He was lost in the kiss. A kiss. His first kiss.
Irene couldn't have been happier, she was kissing Sherlock Holmes. The man that had made her heart skip a beat ever since the first time she saw a photo of him in that very see-through sheet.
There was a scratching of keys in the front door lock, but neither of them noticed it. They only broke apart when they heard John's footsteps right outside.
Sherlock pushed Irene back and the two stood looking at each other with swollen lips.
"Ashamed to be caught with me?" Irene whispered as John came in. She had never found it so hard not to smile.
John looked at the two of them awkwardly. Sherlock thought 'he must know'. But John merely said
"Don't you want this?"
Before Sherlock could take the package in his hand, Irene snatched it with her own and tore open the paper with one of her piercing red nails. She searched around inside with her hand; her forehead burrowed when she realised there was nothing in there.
She let out an exasperated sigh and threw it to Sherlock.
"Nothing. Nothing!" She exclaimed, as Sherlock caught the parcel.
He looked at it for a moment before tearing down two of the sides to reveal the inside.
Did you really think my people would be that stupid?
"How did you know that wa-?" Irene started
"The corners of the envelope were slightly crinkled as though someone had turned it inside out before turning it back the right way."
"Of course," John said, "why didn't we think of that?"
"What now?" Irene asked.
"Well you are sure there are some forms of records out there?" Sherlock said, turning to her and noticing how his coat had loosened slightly during their kissing session. He smirked, hoping John wouldn't notice.
"Of course, I saw them myself." Irene replied, her brow crinkling in confusion as to why Sherlock was giving her such an unnatural look for him.
"Wait a minute," John interrupted, "if you saw them, then why didn't you take them?"
Irene gave him a look.
"I know, it annoys me when he's being stupid too." Sherlock said.
"What now?" John let out an exasperated sigh as he said this.
"I was being watched." Irene said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, and to her and Sherlock… it was.
"What?! Who by?" John cried out.
Irene gave him another look.
"You really should educate him better dear."
"Moriarty's henchman." Sherlock interjected before John could reply.
"Oh." Was John's answer, "What are we going to do now then?"
"Not we, me." Sherlock stated.
"Sherlock…"
"No John. Don't you see how dangerous it will be?"
"Don't be ridicul-"
Before John could say anything else his pager went off, filling the apartment with a shrill beeping.
"It's the clinic," he sighed, "there's an emergency. I'd better go." He said the last bit reluctantly before walking back out of the door and down the stairs.
Neither of the couple moved until they heard a taxi door slam shut.
"You can't honestly expect to do this without my help Sherlock." Irene said earnestly.
"I don't want to put you in a situation where you may get killed." Sherlock replied quietly.
"You're forgetting something love, I'm already dead." Irene joked, but the attempt at humour had no effect on Sherlock. "Besides," she continued, "you need my help to get those files."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
"Exactly." Irene added; satisfied. "In the meantime," she strolled into the kitchen, "I have nowhere to stay."
Sherlock followed her with blank eyes.
For a genius he could really be very ignorant.
"Can I stay here?" She concluded.
"We only have two bedrooms." Sherlock replied.
"You have a couch." She pointed out.
Sherlock could see no reason to object, so just nodded his head randomly.
Irene smiled before turning to his fridge. Opening the door she was greeted by the charming sight of a… well, a foot. Of all the people to had looked in the fridge of 221b and seen something horrific, Sherlock noted that Irene was the most unaffected of them all, merely tilting her head when she saw the charming sight.
Closing the door she proceeded to raid the cupboards.
"You haven't got any food." She stated, turning back to him. "Let's have dinner."
"Why?"
"Might be hungry."
"I'm not."
"Good."
There was a pause.
"Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?"
"Because I am." Irene said, turning and grabbing his hand.
"You aren't honestly going out wearing that?" He said, eyeing his coat.
"Why not?" She winked at him.
"Because people will say things." He answered, tugging at his collar.
"And when did the great Sherlock Holmes start caring what other people thought of him?" Irene asked, an eyebrow raised.
"When he became an internationally hated 'madman' who everyone now believes to be dead." He said it solemnly.
Irene turned and without saying anything, walked into his bedroom.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, entering after her, fearing the answer.
"Put this on." She said, handing him a denim jacket.
"I'd forgotten I had this." He replied, as he put it on. Why he was following her instructions he wasn't quite sure.
"Why do you have it anyway?" Irene laughed, pulling out a pair of thick jeans, "And these?"
"Disguises."
She nodded her approval before taking one of his kitchen knives out of her pocket and cutting the jeans into short shorts.
"I didn't see you take that…" Sherlock said, eyeing her suspiciously
"Good." She grinned, slipping the 'customised' jeans on under his coat. "Put these on." She added, holding a pair of 'Johnny Depp' sunglasses out to him. He begrudgingly put them on as well.
Irene continued to rummage around in his wardrobe for a considerable amount of time. Emerging a few minutes later wearing one of his shirts (tied around her waist to reveal her smooth stomach) and a pair of glasses (identical to all the ones that the kids in town had been wearing over the summer).
Taking off his coat she looked at him, expecting him to comment on her 'new look'.
Sensing this, Sherlock saw it fit to say, "You look… nice." albeit somewhat awkwardly.
"Thank you dear." The Woman replied, taking his hand once more and dragging him out of his bedroom and into the sitting room.
They were just about to exit when Irene stopped dead, "Wait a sec." She said; taking the pin that was holding her hair in place and tugging it out of her thick locks, allowing them to cascade down her back.
Sherlock thought she looked beautiful. What? Wait. No she didn't. It must be a mistake. He'd never thought of anyone that way before. He must be broken.
"You got the keys?" Irene asked.
"Keys? No, John always has keys."
Irene sighed before strolling back into Sherlock's bedroom. She returned a moment later.
"Never seen these before?" she asked, giving Sherlock a key with a label attached. The label read Sherlock's keys.
"Never." He replied innocently, and Irene nearly laughed out loud. She stopped herself though; she figured that he must be like a dog: he didn't like it when people laughed at him for reasons unknown to him.
She pocketed the keys before starting down the stairs. She had gone three steps before she realised that Sherlock wasn't following her.
"Oh come on!" She exclaimed, taking his shirt in her hand and pulling him forwards. Reluctantly, he stumbled after her.
When they reached the street, Irene hailed a cab, pushing Sherlock in before her, "Lutyens, Fleet Street." She told the cabbie, and Sherlock gave her a strange look. "What?"
"Don't you find it a bit dodgy going to a restaurant in Fleet Street?" He asked, smiling.
"A Sweeney Todd fan are you dear?" She asked, mirroring his smile.
"Well you are one too obviously. Otherwise you wouldn't have understood the joke." He replied, and her smile broke into a grin.
"Turns out we have more things in common than I thought."
They spent the rest of the journey to Fleet Street in silence. Sherlock stiffened slightly as they passed St Bart's, but relaxed again when Irene took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
When the cab stopped they stepped out into the humid air again. BBC was saying it was the second hottest summer in recorded history, something like that anyway.
Irene paid the driver and the two started down the street to Lutyens. They passed a group of boys in their late teens/early twenties and a few of them lowered their sunglasses and wolf whistled Irene as they walked. While Irene enjoyed the attention –batting her eyelashes at them and swaying her hips flirtatiously- Sherlock felt uncomfortable and slipped an arm around her bare waist, pulling her closer to him.
Irene looked up at him –shocked.
"Shame you got a boyfriend love, I'd like to take that position if you didn't!" One of the lads called out.
Before Irene could correct him by saying that she didn't have a boyfriend, Sherlock called back "Yes… shame." His voice dripping with sarcasm. Their gaze never breaking as Irene leaned up and gently brushed her lips against his, her eyes fluttering shut in the process.
"No need to rub our faces in it mister!" The boy called out once more.
Irene simply smiled up at Sherlock and lay her head on his shoulder.
They turned into the restaurant and Irene asked for the table tucked in a little corner, away from all the others. As they reached the table, Sherlock pulled out Irene's chair for her.
"Quite the gentleman you are." She smiled, sitting down.
Sherlock sat opposite her and picked up a menu.
"What can I get you both?" A young waiter asked, coming and standing behind Irene.
"Salad for me please." Irene replied, "Need to watch my figure." She chuckled.
"Trust me, you don't!" The waiter said, earning him a deathly glare from Sherlock – quickly shutting him up. "What would you like sir?"
Sherlock looked at the man.
Twenty five, 5ft 10", coffee drinker, had a ginger cat, from a wealthy family, died hair, electric razor, single.
Irene kicked him sharply under the table, well aware of what he was doing.
"Uh, yes, sorry," Sherlock stuttered and her foot travelled further up his leg until it cradled his crotch. "Could I have the same?" He felt the foot press against him, "Please." Irene smiled and removed her foot.
"Are you and John trying to train me?" He asked as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
"Yes." She replied – ever honest. "And if it doesn't work the nice way then I'll have to teach you the hard way." She smirked and he scowled. Both of them had the image of her riding crop in their minds eye.
The waiter came back a minute later with two salads and put them down quickly before rushing off again.
"He was right you know." Sherlock said quietly, pushing the food around his plate.
She looked at him questioningly.
"You don't need to 'watch your figure'." He added.
"You're sweet to say that." Irene replied fondly, "I'd tell you the same, but sadly I've never seen you in less than a thin sheet."
Sherlock choked on his food, "When did you see me in a sheet?"
"When you paid old Queenie a visit." She giggled at his expression, "Jim sent me some pictures."
"Jim… Moriarty?" He asked hesitantly.
"That's right." She said, sensing the delicacy of the subject and choosing to focus more on her meal.
Given the fact that they were one, only eating salad, and two, their portions were very small, the two had soon finished and were calling the waiter over.
"Could I have the bill please?" Sherlock said to him.
"I'll pay Sherlock, it's fine." Irene put in.
"It's my duty." Sherlock pushed, "On a date the man always pays."
"So this is a date?" Irene beamed when she heard him say it, but she didn't get a reply out of him as he left money on the table and offered her his hand. She took it graciously and together they walked back out into the –now setting- sun of Fleet Street.
Sherlock's watch made it out to be about seven o'clock and he wondered where the time had gone.
A scuffle broke out across the street from them and Sherlock moved his hand from hers to grip around her waist again, protectively.
They got another cab and Sherlock let Irene get in first –it was only polite.
"Bakers Street please." Irene told the driver as he pulled away from the curb.
"Did you two 'ear what 'appened then?" The cabbie asked them.
Sherlock instantaneously disliked the man. He didn't like holding conversations when conversations didn't need to be held. Obviously Irene however, did not share his quarrels.
"No?" She replied, her voice going up at the end to invite him to continue.
"Been a terrible explosion at a clinic south o' the Thames."
"Which clinic?" Sherlock asked immediately.
"Uhhh the one near Southbank I think."
Sherlock and Irene looked at each other, with horror stricken faces with only one thing on their minds.
John.
John worked at the clinic by Southbank.