*THE WOMAN *
With scarlet lips, she smiled at him.
The bogus vicar sat before her,
She was initially fooled
But eventually saw through his disguise,
She had been warned to expect him
So she played along to humour him, knowing what he wanted.
Him, Sherlock, the great detective.
There was something about him
That intrigued her, though what, she knew not.
He was handsome but without charm
He had intelligence but no modesty
He always used his mind and never his heart.
As a human, he was a shell.
He was empty, void of emotion and feeling.
Yet she was drawn to him.
He looked at her, his mysterious and dangerous quarry.
Dangerous, purely because she was a woman.
And for the first time, his deductions failed him.
He could tell nothing from her.
Something stirred within him,
It was strange, something he'd never felt before.
She treated his self-inflicted wounds herself
With care and kindness,
All the while talking softly to him in her soft American accent.
He had failed in his task at that meeting,
She was still in possession of the photos
She would eventually beat him,
Though he cared little for that score,
He cared only for what she had done to him,
He could not get her off his mind,
Her name, Adler, was right,
She had certainly addled him
With her beauty and intelligence
For that he respected her greatly.
Perhaps he felt more for her,
But he never let on,
She flirted but received no response.
He had made an impression on her
One that she couldn't understand,
She used men for her own gain,
Never to satisfy her heart.
Irene Adler, the only woman to beat him.
She kept the photos and ran
With a promise to never use them.
He trusted her word.
His prize for the case: a photo of her,
Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory,
Forever referred to as
The Woman.