An Audience With The Pope
But if she says she needs me, she says she needs me-everybody's gonna have to wait.
[ Adlock, post-S3 ]
There is no warning or subtle preamble like a prophesying dream or (god forbid) a 'funny feeling' stirring deep within his chest when her text alert rings for the first time in a long while-a year, he silently corrects, thirty-six days and four hours-and, in her usual inconvenient fashion, it comes at a time that Sherlock Holmes can hardly appreciate.
He has reached that part of the case in which absolute focus is key, and the detective cannot afford to be distracted by neither the weight of his mobile phone growing exponentially heavier in his pocket nor the surprised expression on the French security officer's face as the rather risqué sound echoes painfully loudly throughout the large, practically empty warehouse he's working in. Yet, even as his inner-world tilts upside down and his pulse quickens, the only outward sign of Sherlock's surprise is the slight pause of his hand and the brief rigidness of his form that lasts for little more than two heartbeats after the breathy, erotic moan first sounds itself from the confines of his coat pocket.
"What was that?" Our inexperienced young security officer (twenty-three, born in Senegal, struggling to come to terms with his sexuality) asks confusedly.
"Nothing," the sharp answer arrives a little too quickly for Sherlock's liking, but he covers up his discomfort with a flamboyant swish of his coat as he stands to leave, "the mud on the floor here matches the mud found on the victim's shoes. I recommend you arrest the head butler before he gets the craving to kill again. Good day."
He doesn't stay long enough to absorb the look of surprise and puzzlement crossing the Frenchman's face and he barely manages to stop himself from banging his head on the low light fixtures hanging down in the corridor between the room he'd just been in and the snowy docks of the River Seine outside. Sherlock has never much liked Paris, just as he has never much liked Berlin or Rome or Madrid or anywhere else in the world that isn't London. He craves to return to it almost as much as he craves a cigarette, and one cheap, nasty fag (or ten) with as high a level of tar as possible is exactly what he knows he wants as soon as the bitterly cold Paris breeze hits him with full-force.
Puffs of mist billow from his lips like steam as he crosses the silent street, hand wrapping around the mobile inside his warm pocket as he walks aimlessly down the road. He has to call a cab, but calling a cab would mean unlocking his phone, and if the Woman is watching (which Sherlock is ninety nine percent sure she is) then she would surely see it as some kind of lack of control on his behalf; a lapse in jurisdiction over his emotions, a surge of the dreaded disease she has cruelly inflicted upon him over these few years in which they have known each other-
Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Having the distraction of the game, I sympathise entirely. But sentiment…
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
"For God's sake," Sherlock mutters, getting out his phone and pointedly ignoring the new text notification pronouncing itself on the screen as he dials for a cab.
He decides with a certain degree of stubbornness that he will only check his messages once he is in the taxi merely for practical reasons-he has read that the cold does not suit mobiles, and thus keeping it tucked away safely in his coat pocket is simply a precaution. He has only just got this iPhone, and while money is certainly no object, he'd prefer not to have to replace it quite yet.
It's plain logical.
However, distracting himself from his phone is proving more difficult than Sherlock would like to admit, and even his default method of reciting the periodic table in his head to divert his attention isn't working. He knows that he's being irrational-this stomping around and half-hearted grumbling of annoyance isn't boding well for his pride. It is in fact yet another example of his misfortune and weaknesses sparked by the illustrious she, and Sherlock curses himself for what must be at least the millionth time since he met her for allowing himself to become to so involved, so invested in this (he will not say relationship) twisted alliance they share.
But his reasoning disappears when a drop of anxiousness causes something indefinable in his chest to plummet down to his stomach like a stone in water: what if the identity he had constructed for her has become compromised? Is she texting her final goodbyes again?
The thought of the Woman dead was absolutely repelling to the detective. To think that all his efforts to create a new life for her after Karachi could be going to waste while he simply stands around in the snow thinking too hard and ignoring this dreaded feeling in his gut, yet simultaneously spiting her name for making the great Sherlock Holmes act in such a ludicrous way, because at the end of the day, this is all her fault and he should've just let her die in Pakistan and not bothered in the first place-
The reminder alert sighs from his pocket.
Instantaneously, Sherlock's face glows against the pale blue light emitting from the screen as he unlocks his phone, previous apprehensions rendered irrelevant as he reads the message with a rapt expression on his face:
You, me, Paris. Dinner?
He scowls.
hey, thank you for taking the time to read my wee fic! first off i'd like to thank xtaint and itseyeglasses on tumblr for reading this through for me, you're both absolute stars.
i don't know exactly what's happening with this-i was thinking of doing about ten chapters, and then maybe doing a series of semi-chronological related oneshots afterwards? idk, tell me what you think in a review, they help me carry on!