Irene absolutely hates being helpless. Currently, she is nothing if not "completely unable to take care of herself." She is also, incidentally, bored out of her extraordinary mind.
"Sunlight, vitamin D… you wouldn't mind taking me for a little promenade around the park, would you?" Combined with a mild diuretic slipped into Gladstone's water bowl (she figures the dog can take it, in perspective with what The Detective puts the poor pug through on an almost daily basis,) dipping the thermometer in a glass of ice water to disguise her fever's afternoon spike, and smiling her most winning smile to convince the refreshingly gullible Watson that, no, really, she's perfectly all right, it's enough to get her out of the house.
It's a bright, sunny day; they walk along one of the park's many paths, Watson following at a respectable distance. "I'll let you two have your privacy." On the face of a less scrupulous man, she'd call his expression a leer. Sherlock's tight-lipped look possesses an air of what are you insinuating; Watson seems to smirk.
She totters against his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder, and memorizes the scent of his cologne. He doesn't look at her; doubtlessly, he's indexing her perfume's slightly spicy floral fragrance for future use, analyzing the way her breathing grows harsh, her steps turning to a stagger, when the cobblestone path develops a slight upward slope.
A portly businessman ambles past, a golden watchchain dangling from his trouser pocket; as she reaches for it, Sherlock catches her gloved hand in the most natural way possible, bringing it to his lips.
Five minutes later, she points out the documents of corporate secrets hidden in a flower-seller's bouquet of paper roses. (Later, they find out that she's just saved one of England's largest companies.)
He notices the first thug on their trail, but she spots the next five several minutes before he does. When they allow themselves to be cornered in an alcove of ornamental topiaries, he takes out four of them with quick, unceremonious punches; however, owing to a mild dizzy spell, she eliminates a mere two with stabs to the groin. On the way home, her head pounds, and she pauses at Piccadilly Street to lean against a lamppost, coughing ineffectually into an extra handkerchief; Watson looks concerned.
They stop for tea.
While the waiter presents the menu, Irene amuses herself by surreptitiously swapping the sugar and salt. Sherlock's expression after a large sip of tea with two "sugars" nearly makes up for the past three days of near-total bed rest. Annoyingly, however, she stumbles while rising from her chair. When she clutches at he tablecloth to support herself, the teapot overturns, spilling bloodred herbal infusion across the white linen, like a handkerchief on a larger scale. The room seems to wobble. She tries to take deep, steadying breaths. I am safe. Moriarty is dead. I'm safe, he's dead, I'm safe, he's dead…
The detective's eyes meet Watson's. "Perhaps we should call a cab."
Once inside the carriage, Irene yawns and coughs alternately, her small body shivering, not even bothering to maintain her façade of strength. She curls up on the seat, resting her head in Sherlock's lap, closing her eyes. Two blocks later (she notes the change in texture of the cobblestones,) a softly hummed melody permeates her consciousness.
La Traviata; "Ah! Gran Dio! Morir se giovine."
"Not funny," Irene murmurs, barely opening her eyes.
With surprising tenderness (or perhaps she's only imagining it?), he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then why are you smiling?"
Irene doesn't argue. She tells herself that she remains silent out of a need to conserve her strength. Nevertheless, she does feel more comfortable sleeping when someone she almost trusts is there to watch over her. The carriage's warm rattling lulls her into peaceful unconsciousness.