Damascus is burning.
Damascus is burning. Consumed by the flames of revolution. Yet neither Sherlock Holmes nor Irene Adler take notice of the fire below, for they are only concerned with themselves and the other.
Just something I wrote in the early hours of the morning. It might be part of a collection of ficlets of moments between the duo during the Hiatus, but don't hold me to that. I always thought they were so self-absorbed that a whole city could be burning around them and they'd still only be concerned with themselves.
Damascus is burning. Consumed by the flames of revolution. You can see it from the window of the shanty apartment that he's renting. You can hear the gunfire, the roar of fire and the screams of the dying from the streets below. It's a brutal revolution but that's not why he's here. Sherlock Holmes is dead and now his ghost is the one dismantling Moriaty's web. The political upheaval still ongoing in Syria made it an easy start to dismantling the network. It was collapsing alongside the buildings in central Damascus and Sherlock Holmes was about to give it the final push.
His plans get put on hold however when he sees her, the woman. It's fitting that he should find her here, in the middle of the flaming city. She always did have impeccable timing and a tendency for playing with fire. He grabs her hand when he notices her in a busy street where some part of normality is still persisting in this city that's being torn apart. She's covered her hair but she's still too european to fit in properly and he'd recognise the woman's eyes anywhere, especially in a place full of brown eyed citizens. She doesn't object when his fingers tighten around her wrist from behind and he drags her into a narrow but seemingly empty, alleyway. Irene recognises him immediately from the softness of the skin and the eyes boring into hers in confusion.
He grips her hand. "I thought I told you to stay out of trouble." Sherlock hissed in her ear.
The woman looked up at him and smirked. "It's not like I started this Mr Holmes. But a war zone is the perfect place to have a little fun."
"By betting on your life?" His voice is low and aggressive and rather arousing to her ears.
"And what does that say about you Mr Holmes? For you're forgetting I'm not the only ghost here."
"Moriaty's web." He says simply.
"So you really are on the side of the angels then; I'm presuming of course your attacking it and not trying to replace our dear friend Jim. Because now that would be thrilling." She adds with a smirk.
"It's for John." He whispers the name of his flatmate, confident and friend from his past life.
"And he says he's not gay." Irene remarks with a laugh.
"I'm not gay." Sherlock growls.
"Oh I think we established that back in Karachi don't you think?" She's referencing their night together in the heat of the Pakistani darkness, in the little corner hotel in the middle of the city. It would be too sentimental to refer to their actions that night as 'making love' but too callous to refer to it as sex. It was much more loving than just casual sex but it wasn't something riddled with unnecessary sentiment either. She could have gone on but suddenly his lips are on hers, his hands still at her wrists pinning her against the stone of the wall behind them. Death has made him more confident and rather unlike himself as he allows physical lust, desire and sentiment to lead his actions.
Plans for visiting a contact and dismantling the supply routes escape from his mind as they stumble to the old and decrepit one room apartment he's renting. This is the first time they'd seen one another since Karachi; he hadn't contacted her and she hadn't attempted to either. Karachi had been their turning point and something, a sense of desire, had awakened in that hotel room on the last night of her life. He had suppressed it and hadn't realised what he'd been craving in all those months since they'd said goodbye, until now. Now that his lips were on his, now that he could taste her and feel her. He realised that he'd missed this. She too had tried to suppress the desire she felt for this man. Irene had known as he'd bid her goodbye at the airport that it was very likely that she would never see him again. The feeling she felt for him had tried to return when she stood stock still in shock in the middle of the market in Marrakech where she'd been when she'd first the news of his demise. It had threatened to return when relief overcame her when she heard a whisper of a ghost in Istanbul. She'd successfully squashed it as she'd followed the tiniest of traces all the way to Damascus, right up until he'd pinned her against the alleyway and she finally allowed herself to admit that she had missed him. They were brutal and desperate in reminding themselves of one another, to document scars and bruises on the body of the other that had not been there before.
Sherlock awakes to an eerie quietness that has blanketed this area of the city, there was a seize fire of sorts, but there was no doubt it would be broken soon, envouering the city in the fierce rage of fire once more. The woman is still sleeping, taking advantage of the rare silence. She's on her front, an arm draped across his chest in an uncharacteristic closeness that would never have occurred if she was conscious. The sheets are tangled at the small of her back leaving her vast amounts of her voluptuous milk white skin on show; juxtaposing against the darkness of her skin that's fanned out around her. She is beautiful. Sherlock understands that despite the subjective nature of such a word, that aesthetically speaking she is the pinocle of society's definition of beauty. He tares his eyes away from the woman and slowly manoeuvres his arm that has found itself wrapped around her and moves from the bed. He can hear voices in the street below and if he doesn't hurry he won't be able to reach his contact in time. He's not leaving her, he'll back, but as he pulls on his clothes he wonders whether she'll still be there when he returns.
He comes back mid morning with something to eat from a source he won't disclose to her, but anyway she wouldn't expect him too either. They don't play fair. She's sitting up on the rickety metal framed bed, completely naked and reading Machiavelli in it's native Italian and Sherlock finds it sadistically arousing. There's a revolution burning outside the window, gunfire and tanks firing intermittently and yet here she is, the woman, naked and in his bed, as alluring as ever.
Sherlock places the brown bag of fresh food on the dusty bookshelf in the corner and purposely walks over to her. Yet Irene makes no signal of recognition, instead decidedly turning the page of the book with her red coated manicured fingers. He places a knee on the edge of the bed, leaning over her and casting a shadow on the words on the page. He grips the top of the page and prevents her from continuing; he doesn't like to be ignored. He's just as much as a narcissist as she is. In response, she cocks an eyebrow at him at his unconscious demand for attention but she doesn't complain as the book is torn but from her hands and she's pinned to the rickety bed that squeaks as Sherlock's full weight pressed Irene against the sheets.
Damascus is burning, but the occupants of the apartment on the third floor of a decrepit building take no notice of the gunfire, the screams and the fire that rages below, for they are only concerned with themselves and the other.
Fin.