So this is just a little Adlock fic I whipped up in less than an hour. Then I decided to draw something to go with it. This is my first dive into this fandom so please let me know if anything seems too OOC.
It was his first Christmas back in London, and Sherlock had reluctantly spent the day making small talk at John and Mary's. Now, he was finally back in the comfort of Baker Street, and was determined to spend the rest of the night doing something a bit more productive.
It was just as he was setting up an experiment that the itch started. He scolded himself, told his body it didn't need a cigarette, and got back to work. He was fine. He wasn't worried.
So why was he constantly checking his phone?
Realising he wasn't about to get much work done, he instead decided to catch-up on some of the crap telly he'd missed while away, so he'd be well informed the next time he watched it with Mrs. Hudson. He changed into the new dressing gown Lestrade got him for Christmas and slouched in his chair. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't looking at his phone.
And if anyone ever asked about his reaction to that all too familiar text alert he'd blatantly deny it to the grave.
The moan echoed throughout the room and his mind, and he couldn't stop the sly grin at the noise. It wasn't the original one that had been hacked onto his phone, but one he'd recorded himself during his 'holiday', as Mycroft put it.
Jumping out of his seat, Sherlock scrambled for the device, relief washing over him when he read the message:
'I'm not dead.
Let's have dinner'
It wasn't midnight in Britain yet, Irene firmly reminded herself. It may be where she was, but not where he was. It was foolish and hopeless to expect his reply.
Over the past few years, the dead woman learned how to keep track of time zones, as one should when hopping around them every few months. It was another half an hour until midnight in GMT.
Thirty whole minutes of picking at her manicure. She had an appointment booked in a few days anyway.
Waiting for the alert was pure agony. When he'd not-so-subtly recorded her she'd decided it was only fair if she got to record him. Ignoring his protests, she managed to catch it (and she knew how to be subtle).
When the moan finally appeared (god it sounded better than she remembered), she grabbed her phone, grinning at the message:
'Happy New Year
SH'
Sherlock was finally beginning to understand the stress of Christmas time.
Except, he wasn't stressed about a meal, or presents or decorations- no. He was stressed about his suspicious brother, accidentally overdosing his best friend's pregnant wife, being found for treason and, well...her.
Magnussen knew. Somehow, someway, he knew about her. He guessed the rose and card in the hospital were a clue, but somehow he knew she was alive and that she was a weakness for him.
He loathed to admit it, but it was tiresome to deny: The Woman was a weakness of his. She bested him once, twice, three times. Once at Belgravia, twice at his flat when he cracked the 'code' for her, thrice when he gave in to that pesky sentiment and rescued her in Karachi. The fact that he cared for her made her an additional weakness. Irene Adler: 3; Sherlock Holmes; 1.
He knew it would be tremendously ambitious of Magnussen to try and harm her...or even find her. All of Mycroft's men couldn't find her - even he didn't know where she was, and wouldn't be able to unless she wanted him to find her.
He sincerely hated that about her.
That's why it was a relief to him when Mycroft went inside, he heard the moan he hadn't heard in a year. If only he wasn't incapacitated last time she was in the country, he might have heard it again, in person.
Pulling out his phone, he read the words with a smile, hoping that it wouldn't be the last time he saw them:
'I'm not dead.
Let's have dinner'
Tucking it away and turning inside, he geared his brain away from The Woman, sending one last prayer that he'd be able to text his reply on New Years.
Irene didn't need time zones to tell her that Sherlock wouldn't be texting her this year. She'd heard the news through some of her people.
The idiot shot Charles Magnussen - in front of his brother, no less. Now he was locked up and going on 'mission' of sorts. Her source said somewhere in Europe, that should prove fatal to him in less than a year.
Now, here Irene had two options: One, try and find Sherlock with only Eastern Europe to go on; two, well- to get on the next flight to London and misbehave.
But what would keep Sherlock in England?
Slouching into his seat, Sherlock studied the Watson's as the plane began to take off. He felt the heavy regret at leaving them, despite it being for the best.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock let his high takeover his mind, already finalising his plan. Despite even his intelligence, Mycroft was never wrong.
Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the sentimental goodbye with John and Mary, but Sherlock picked up his phone and opened a frankly quite unused chat. He was a day late, but she likely already knew why.
It wouldn't matter, he wasn't sending his expected reply.
'Goodbye Miss Adler'
Ready to slip deep into his mind palace, Sherlock let his thoughts linger one last time on The Woman.
He probably just imagined that moan.