Everything around her is gray or white, steel or plastic, and everything looks equally impersonal and aseptic under the cold neon lights.
Unpleasant, almost forgotten memories suddenly come back to her, and she shivers quietly.
Thing is, Moriarty has obviously never been anywhere near a prison before, but this isn't Irene's first time in a cell, not at all ─ although no one would ever find otherwise in her criminal record (and actually if someone ─ Sherlock included ─ will ever be clever enough to find her true records, well, that would already go beyond her expectations).
Thing is, Irene has been sixteen like anyone else, of course ─ and although she had never been sloppy (not even as a child) sometimes, through those messy, difficult teenage years, it happened that pride and anger got the best of her.
Mistakes of youth, what can you do about it?, she thinks now, with a small grin on her face. Then she lies down on the folder bed and looks up at the ceiling of her cell, thinking that being fooled by love now was, nevertheless, something really unexpected.
The sixteen years old version of herself would be so mad about it. Pride and arrogance are one thing, the kind that brilliant minds can afford; but love? Love is a common thing, futile and useless. Losing for love is for people like Sherlock. Not for her. Never for her.
And yet Sherlock was right: she does love him. She didn't know until he pointed it out for her, but how can she deny it here and now, when the consequences of being in love are so tragically concrete?
So Irene closes her eyes and repeats it softly, barely moving her lips: I love him.
… And it's amazing.
So amazing, actually, that for a moment Irene allows herself to put aside all the plans about revenge and jail breaking, to focus only on this: she loves him.
Here's a game she never tried before.
A/N: English is not my native language, so please let me know if there are any mistakes :)