Fortunately, and I say that not to indicate a stroke of luck, but a carefully planned strategy, the procurement of a disguise for my travelling companion was not at all difficult in the part of the world where we found ourselves; or rather, where I found her. The surprise of the reunion was not felt on my part, but rather on hers, as she was expecting quite a different man to be standing behind her brandishing a scimitar, and, no doubt, expecting quite a different sort of outcome. But, of course she heard the subtle ringtone, I knew she would understand it, which was why I left the device on my person, and meeting my eyes she listened to my commands knowing her life depended upon it. My skill with a blade, (for I make a point of ensuring a proficiency with multiple types of weapons – one never knows when an opportunity will present itself – well, I often know, but that is besides the point of this story) and a few well placed bribes, for, as my brother would say, the world does run on greed, ensured our rapid egress from the perilous situation and subsequent escape from the country, her dressed in a full burka, not at all uncommon for the airline, and me in my business suit, wedding rings on display, there were no questions asked, and I had expected none. Our return to London was quite uneventful, but for her death-like grip on my hand most of the flight. I understand from John that having suffered such a trauma, as to be a breath away from decapitation, such anxieties are to be expected. No matter. She kept her disguise in place until we were safely behind the doors of 221B, and only then did she rip if off, tossing it directly into the fireplace, proceeding to light a cheery blaze with it. Her hands shook the entire time until it had been quite consumed, and only then did she allow herself to wilt into an armchair and ask, quite quietly, if she might have a drink.
She retired to my room shortly afterwards, the alcohol having sedated her quite well in the absence of my doctor friend, who would have produced something pharmaceutical. John was away for a few days, quite conveniently so I did not have to explain her presence in our flat or my plans for her. The fewer that knew, the safer she would be. As she slept I organized passage for her out of the United Kingdom, to another country where she would not be recognized or scrutinized to the same degree as she would here. As long as she could suppress her urges for 'the game' as she called it, a new identity and a new life would be easily accomplished.
"Sherlock?" I heard her voice from down the hall, obviously woken up, disoriented, inebriated; given her body mass, and the lack of sustenance over the last week I estimated that the scotch would not have been metabolized quite so quickly as to leave her completely sober just yet.
"Yes." I answered, closing my laptop and rising. Apparently it was better manners to attend to someone who was calling for you, rather than to wait for them to seek you out; at least according to John, so I was making a go of it to test the human niceties. One might think that saving her life would have been enough, but it seemed not. I opened the bedroom door to find her sitting up in the bed, eyes darting about in panic, fixing on me, (backlit as I was), her heart pounding, but breath slowing as she understood her situation.
"So it wasn't a dream?"
"Unless this is what you might consider Heaven? Though theologically speaking my understanding leads me to believe that you might not have been such a welcome guest there, so perhaps this is Hell, and me there along with you. And that would make more sense."
She tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a sob, which prompted her to cover her mouth and blink away a few tears.
"Thank you." She said, rather weakly.
I nodded.
"I know better than to ask how you found me."
"Yes you do." And though I am not normally above detailing such things, because others can most certainly learn from my expertise, I refrained on that occasion.
"What is to become of me now? Is Mycroft going to lock me away somewhere? The woman in the iron mask perhaps?"
"Your true fate is none of Mycroft's concern. He believes that you have been executed in the Middle East. I see no reason to enlighten him that his assumptions are incorrect."
"Of course not." Her hand had returned to covers of the bed, and a small smile graced her face, albeit with somewhat swollen lips, remnants of the salt tears.
"In the morning you'll be on your way to Canada." I told her.
"Canada?"
"Yes, accent shouldn't be hard for you to manage, language is the same, mannerisms as well, lots of ex-pats, and a more relaxed nature to strangers. Not that I imagine you'll be a stranger for long, what with your propensity for making friends."
"Canada?" She repeated. I doubted it was because she hadn't heard me correctly, or was unfamiliar with the place. She seemed unhappy with my choice.
"Canada. Mycroft has been laying the groundwork for a cover story that you are in the witness protection program in the United States. Anyone looking for you would likely start there. You're too well known in Europe, unless you'd like to consider some plastic surgery?"
"And mess up this perfect face, I think not."
"Then Canada it is. Lots of space, you can settle wherever you want. Get a job teaching or in a shop. Just keep out of the sex industry if you can."
"In the morning?" Again she seemed to be repeating things, questioning my decisions.
"The longer you stay here the greater the chance someone will see you. Best to get you off to the colonies as quickly as possible."
She thought about that for a while, she couldn't disagree with my pragmatism; it was the most sensible course of action. Yet she still hesitated.
"Would you come here Sherlock? Sit by me for a moment. So we can talk?"
We were conversing just fine with me standing in the doorway, but John's admonishments continued to haunt me; 'try to be more human for God's sake.' I acquiesced and sat beside her on the edge of the bed, folding my hands into my lap.
"Before I go, would you do something for me Sherlock?" She asked.
"Depends what it is."
"Will you kiss me?"
"Pardon me?" I had expected her to request that I retrieve some sort of offshore bank account or safety deposit box filled with coins and gems, just to ensure her new life would be a comfortable one.
"Will you kiss me?" It was a night for repetitions it seemed.
"I fail to see," I began to say, only to have her cut me off.
"I'm never going to see you again. Will you at least give me that memory to take with me?"
Shrugging my shoulders, I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
"Not like that, I'm not your Mum or your Auntie. A real kiss."
She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me square to face her. Not knowing exactly what my part was, I leaned towards her; nearly squashing her nose with my own, then leaned to the left a little so that our lips matched properly, and brushed my mouth over hers. That little noise she turned into my text alert, well she made it again as she pressed her lips against mine, wrapping her arms around my back. Pulling me backwards with her towards the bed was another shock, and I lost my balance for a moment, ending up on top of her somewhat. All she did was smile at me.
"That was better." She cooed.
"I'll take your word for it." She wasn't letting me go however, so I had to stay put, hovering.
"Don't take my word for it Sherlock. Take my eyes."
I looked into them. Her pupils were dilated once again, I let my eyes trace down her throat to her chest, which was rising and falling with an accelerated rate, and when I brought my fingers to the point just under and lateral to her chin, this time to take her carotid pulse, I found it accelerated was well.
"Do you understand now?" She asked me, cocking her head, parting her lips in an attempt to look alluring. I didn't need the mask, as I have already pointed out, the physiology was glaring.
When I made no move, she did, taking the hand that had been measuring her pulse, and drawing it down her throat between her breasts, parting the robe she was wearing, reclaimed from my closet. Her body had made the silk quite warm, and it fell away from her skin quite easily. But the sight of her nudity had no effect on me, or little effect. I was seeing with my fingers just then, in fact I closed my eyes so that I could concentrate. Her heart rate had quickened again, in fact what had been a hundred beats a minute had turned to one hundred and ten, and was still climbing. It fluttered like a captive bird's would; her breaths were audible through those still parted lips.
"Sherlock." That one was hardly more than a whisper. "Do you want me to beg?"
"Not at all." I let my hand slide just over her breast, parting the robe completely, bracing myself on the mattress beside her. Leaning in once again I kissed her, sightless, giving myself the opportunity to gauge her reactions without the distraction of blurry vision. She was soft under me. Despite the time spent in the drier climate she had taken pains to ensure her skin remained moisturized, at least until about a week ago. The topical balms she had picked up in the airport had exfoliated some of the chapping, the copious amount of sparkling water in mid air had also helped, but there was still a damaged layer that would need another ten days to be completely healed. Despite that, it was not overly distracting, even with the pressure she was exerting against me. In fact she was grinding her lips against mine, keeping them parted so that she could slide her tongue into my mouth and deepen the kiss. She might have believed that she was distracting me by doing so, but I was completely aware of her fingers working to unbutton my shirt, and how much difficulty she was having. It wasn't only that her fingers were trembling, and that she didn't have the use of her sight, but the shirt was new, hand stitched, provided by Mycroft who for some reason had felt the need to set his tailor to seeing me properly dressed. A handmade shirt had handmade buttonholes as a matter of course, and the third one from the top had two extra stitches narrowing the passage for the button by just enough that it caught if not twisted just the right way. It took her a full forty five seconds to loosen it. I could feel the frustration wrinkling her brow, as it pulled on the skin over her nose and zygomatic bones.
Only once she had my shirt completely undone did I pull away from that kiss. Her chest was heaving, and her smile betrayed a self-satisfied smugness. She actually thought she was in control of me, but she wasn't. She played her games, I played mine, though mine weren't games really, just challenges for my mind, to keep me sharp, and rarely physical, except when a pursuit was required. She had always presented an enticing challenge; that had not dulled with her time away. I sat up and away from her.
"Sherlock?"
I took off my shirt slowly, knowing she would appreciate that, not because I have a glorious physique to behold, far from it. I'm pale, and thin, a little stringy and malnourished looking. But I have beautiful eyes, or so I've been told with some regularity. So I focused those on her body. Not that I didn't already know a great deal about her, but it never hurts to keep current. A fading bruise on her side, a result of the manhandling by her captors, likely the butt of a gun, they wouldn't have touched her with their hands. A vaccination scar on her upper arm, a faded shadow where her sixth right rib met the sternum, a remote break. She pulled open the rest of the robe for me, appreciating that I was examining her.
Arousal is all a matter of physiology, blood flow, and senses are heightened, visual, auditory, and olfactory, all combine to produce a physical response. The power of the mind can do great things when properly directed. I returned to her, laying my head against her abdomen, kissing the skin there, feeling her trembling against my lips. I let my hands drift to check a femoral pulse, just parting her legs; one hundred and twenty, easily now. And there were other signs, but I'll do the honorable thing and not describe them in great detail. I put my hands on my belt, she grinned. I grinned back.
Now you might imagine that I would stumble over such an act, or work it out methodically and precisely taking all the joy and spontaneity out of it, if I could even get myself to the required state at all. Let me assure you, attaining, and maintaining an erection is, in and of itself, not difficult with the correct motivation and stimulus. I was well able to achieve that. And, not having a particular propensity for unnecessary modesty it was simple enough to disrobe both her and myself; to the extent it was required for said act. Of course I said none of these observations out loud, having observed that the act of narration of such things tends to put one's partner in a different frame of mind than the required one. She continued to seem quite pleased with the attentions of my mouth and body, in fact she made a great deal of those little noises she initially sought to tease me with. I have to admit using them as a gauge of my performance. By that scale I seemed to be doing quite well. Also, judging by the way her hands clutched at my back, and her pelvis muscles tensed as I thrust into her, she was nearing her climax. That was good, as I had been feeling the knots in my own pelvis doing the same for several minutes. It seemed an opportune time to kiss her very roughly, and so I did. That action furthered her response to me and her hands shifted to my hips, stilling my movements at the very apex of my penetration. The reason became apparent only seconds later as her climax enveloped her. It was a most wondrous thing to watch, not only the tension of her muscles, (which I felt around me, by the way), but their rhythmic movement over me, her closed eyes, her parted lips, her long neck exposed to me, the sheen of perspiration over her skin as she collapsed, quite spent into the bedding, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes, fingers flaccid against my thighs, her chest quivering and her breathing quite audible. I will admit to some surprise when I noted the same reactions in myself, and felt the wash of pleasure that cascaded over my body. It seemed prudent to lie down, as I was feeling a little dizzy. She grabbed up my hand, twining our fingers together as we both panted into the semi-darkness.
"Wow." She curled her body into mine. I draped my arm over her, holding her there. It seemed the correct thing to do. Her breath was warm against my chest, her hand draped lazily at my hip, her skin, though dehydrated, was virtually flawless. I felt compelled to kiss the top of her head, her dark hair still smelling vaguely of sand and jasmine. It seemed prudent to draw a blanket over the two of us, so I did.
One of my network had her new passport and ID documents waiting at the hanger. The town car drove directly in and up to the plane. Irene had been quiet since we had woken up; the ride over had been likewise silent. I inspected the papers, the plane and its crew before she emerged from behind the tinted glass, hair worn down, not in her usual tight updo, smart pantsuit, and dark glasses. I could tell from the blush on her cheeks that she had been crying, though she'd tried to conceal it.
"The plane is ready." I told her.
"I'm never going to see you again am I?" Her voice was wavering.
"You know this is the only way."
She drew herself close to me, resting her head just adjacent to mine so she could whisper to me without anyone else hearing us.
"I'll miss you Sherlock."
The kiss she gave me was long, and deep, her arms holding onto me as if I was some kind of anchor, which I was, an anchor to her old life, the one that would get her killed sooner, rather than later. She used her thumbs to wipe away the tears then turned away from me and boarded the plane without looking backwards. I returned to the car, surprised to find moisture on my own face.