Chapter I

A dark figure trekked tacitly across the rough terrain. The balmy air clung to him as he made his way to the dimly lit warehouse. The figure paused a few meters away, his pale eyes scanning the perimeter. He determined the safest route, inhaled, and cautiously approached the building.

Voices from inside slowly became audible as the figure neared. He raised his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes, picturing the layout of the warehouse, where the guards would be positioned. With a combination of speed and stealth, the figure slipped into the building. He rushed down the empty hall until he came to a room containing, according to his calculations, two guards one of which was armed, most likely with a machine gun. He quickly planned his method of attack. He smirked, child's play. In a split second the figure rushed into the room, unarmed the guard, and had the two of them unconscious within seconds. Breathing heavily, he donned the black robes of one of the guards. Judging by the force of his blows, he estimated he had about 15 minutes before they regained consciousness. As he picked up the gun, he pulled the black turban over his dark curls and walked back into the dark corridor.

She kneeled in the middle of an empty room. The only source of light came from the headlights of a car behind her. She was silent. She just stared ahead, lost in the thoughts she believed would be her last. They had told her that when the time came she would be allowed a final message to someone. She had no family, none that she would contact anyway. It hardly mattered, for when they told her, a family member hadn't even crossed her mind. In fact, only one person had.

The dark figure approached a group of hooded men. One stepped forward and yelled something in Urdu along the lines of, "Where have you been? I want to get rid of this whore."

The figure gritted his teeth at the disrespectful term he'd used to describe her. They swapped his machine gun for a scimitar and led him to a larger room lit by the headlights of a car.

She heard the men enter the room and without looking up knew their purpose. Her phone was handed down to her and she was told in broken English to make it quick. She pulled up her messages. She stopped. What's the use? She thought. He'd only replied once, and that was before he knew what she was really doing, who she was working for. Before she destroyed the chances of him ever reciprocating her feelings. The guard motioned with his outstretched hand for her to hurry. Her eyes welled with tears as her shaking fingers typed, Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. She gazed at the screen, remembering for a moment. Send

He saw her kneeling on the floor in a full hijab, the irony of which was almost too much. How vastly different this was from when they first met. Among the emotions he expected to experience he had thought satisfaction would dominate them. Oddly enough though, he didn't quite know how or what he was feeling. He didn't like not knowing. He stepped towards her, lifting the scimitar above her, perpendicular to her neck. He contemplated how easy it would be to kill her. She probably deserved it. When they met she had the resources to potentially blackmail God knows how many people including a member of the Royal family. She had worked for Moriarty and nearly extracted millions from the British government. She had used him. Then his gaze fell over her shoulder onto her mobile phone. He watched as she typed the message. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.

Irene Adler closed her eyes and waited. Suddenly, she heard it. She opened her eyes as her lips curved into a slight smile. She looked up at her executioner with hope. There she met his pale eyes, shining with excitement.

"When I say run, RUN."
Sherlock turned as he swung the sword back. He was outnumbered, but he could have cared less. He felt like nothing could stop him. His mind was spinning and everything was a blur. The crack of gunfire finally shook him out of it.

"For Pete's sake, Mister Holmes," Irene Adler scolded breathlessly. "You didn't really think you could take all of them with a sword, did you?"

Sherlock turned and looked at her, dumbfounded.

She placed the gun down and removed her headdress. "I must thank you for changing your mind earlier. Though detective suits you better than executioner," she toyed.

Sherlock pulled the turban off, revealing his pale face and disheveled hair. "Consulting detective," he corrected.

"Well what now Mr. Consulting Detective?"

"We've got about two minutes and… forty-three seconds before two very unhappy guards wake up. I suggest we leave beforehand."

"Someone's been busy," she smiled. "Did you have fun storming the castle?"

Sherlock ignored her teasing and searched the car for the keys.

"Well I doubt they just left them out in the open," Irene added.

"No, but they did leave the spare in the glove compartment," Sherlock retorted, shaking the keys for her to see.

They had been driving for a while before Irene asked, "So what now?"

Sherlock glanced at her with eyebrows lowered in confusion.

"I can't go back to England," she continued.

"I know," he responded, staring down the road.

"You've worked something out for me then I presume."

"In a sense. You'll be taken into a protection program, but all the details will be disclosed. I won't know where you've been relocated to."

"Protection," she said. "You do know me."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the road. Part of him wished she could go back to London with him, although he knew she couldn't.

"What time will I be leaving tomorrow?" Irene asked nonchalantly.

"You won't."

Her eyes widened with hope and she turned to him for an explanation.

"You'll be leaving in seven hours," he finished.

She lowered her eyes, her heart stopped and sank. Seven hours? She had thought they would at least have the night together. What was she hoping for anyway? Sex? That wasn't going to happen, even if they were to spend the night together. But that wasn't it. She wanted him in a different way. She wanted him to want her. She watched him drive in silence and wished she could see anything.

Seven hours was an approximation of course. He knew exactly how long it would be before she left. Six hours and thirty-eight minutes. He focused on the dark road. He wondered what she was thinking. He still couldn't read her. He thought that would change when he discovered the password for her mobile phone. He knew she had some sort of feelings toward him, although he didn't know what the extent of those feelings was. He couldn't call it love that would be too risky. He called it sentiment, just feeling or emotion. He shifted his gaze to her for a moment. He took note of her body language, which was admittedly limited due to the fact that they were in a car. Crossed arms indicated discomfort. Downwardly tilted head translated sadness. Unfocused gaze down and to the right suggested the remembering of feelings. She looked up at him, and his eyes quickly darted back to the road.

"We have a few hours. There's time for dinner," Irene flirted.

"We're driving through Pakistani wilderness; I doubt there are many desirable choices when it comes to cuisine."

"That's not an objection," she pointed out with a smirk.

"It's not an acceptance," he added.

Irene smiled as she changed the subject. "How's Hamish?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"Just making small talk. Thought you might want to talk about him, seeing as how you two are a couple," she teased.

Sherlock ignored her, focusing instead on the dark road.

"Oh come on, if we're going to spend the next seven hours in this car together we might as well talk."

"What for?"

"For me."

Sherlock pursed his lips together before replying. "What do you want to talk about then?"

"Tell me about one of your cases."

Sherlock looked at her to make sure she was serious. He inhaled sharply and began. "All right. John calls this one The Mystery of Boscombe Valley."