The text sent, the alert sounded. Shocked, I looked at my executioner. Ice blue eyes, unlike anyone else's, stared at me in mild amusement. The rest happened quickly. Of the five men in the secluded lot, he disposed of three while I handled the remaining two. He had not included his brother in the arrangements. I did not need to ask because there were no heavy handed actions. No helicopters or team of operatives. In fact, after we exited the lot I saw no co-conspirators. I had no idea how he had managed to infiltrate the cell. The extraction was neat, small, and uncomplicated. I would be dead to all governments, and—more importantly—to Moriarty. Blood sampled, finger prints matched, everything confirmed. Sherlock related all of this to me as we quietly passed through predawn streets. I did not ask for details; it wasn't necessary. The terrorist group would happily play along to avoid backlash from Moriarty. The government willingly believed what they had seen on film, even if the film was low grade camera phone stock. After all, the evidence presented was convincing. Sherlock's contacts did not know my identity and would not ask. The only person in the world that would know Irene Adler survived would be the one person I could believe would keep that secret at any cost, even if it was simply to spite Moriarty.
As we entered a house via a rear door facing a closed ally, a woman with foggy eyes and sharp features spoke a few words and pointed to the rear wall. Into the kitchen and around the corner we slipped, then down into a tiny basement apartment equipped with a small couch, rudimentary shower, and sleeping quarters. I did not speak; I had not spoken since I requested my phone for one last text before the execution. He sat me down. With the gentlest of touches he removed the hijab from my head and shoulders, inspecting the myriad of bruises left by the brutal treatment of my captors with obvious disapproval.
"Good morning, Miss Adler." He rumbled. "Are you alright?"
I couldn't help myself. I laughed. Relief and adrenaline vied in a heady mixture, and I was giddy. "I've had worse, Mr. Holmes, and I've certainly given better." He smirked. Then something odd happened to me. I couldn't stop laughing. I was shaking with it. I was crying with it. It hurt to breath. I began to panic, a cold sweat covered me.
I noticed his hands first, long strong fingers gripping my shoulders firmly, but not painfully. Fantastic hands I thought in some sane part of my brain. Musician's hands-callused but smooth and pliable. I could make those hands do such things. They forced my focus away from myself, from my panic.
"Look at me," that distinct baritone demanded, closer this time. I found his eyes. They were not the normal ice blue, but something deeper. "You are safe. Breathe with me, now. I don't have a paper bag; you've got to bring yourself out of it."
"Safe?" I wheezed hearing the hysteria in my own voice and hating it. I shook my head. Safety is the illusion that comforted the weak minded. There is no such thing as safety. That's what I would have said had I the faculty of speech. Instead I wheezed another laugh. I tried anger, my constant companion, to combat the panic attack. I found it lacked the strength to defeat this overwhelming foe. I shut my eyes breaking the contact that was suddenly too vulnerable.
"Outsmarting yourself again," he murmured. "Yes, you are right, there is no safety. I should not try pretty lies on a superior mind. Alright then, you are as safe as I can make you and if your mind is not convinced, we can try convincing your body."
The part of my brain not screaming for oxygen raised an eyebrow and purred "Indeed, Mr. Holmes," but it had no control. The great detective simply pulled me against his chest and locked his arms around me, occasionally running his hands up and down my arms. It was the most clinical hug I had ever received, but it worked. Slowly my breathing became even, the laughter subsided and I began to realize Sherlock had relaxed into the physical contact. I didn't move. I was fascinated. He was almost unguarded. He was even crooning something low and indistinct. I could hear his heart. I was certain that was not a mistake.
He must have noticed I was conscious of his actions; he stiffened and pulled away. He turned and offered me a bottle of water. I took it and drank three large swallows before forcing myself to slow down.
"A shower perhaps, Miss Adler? It's good for the delicate nerves. It does not do for a woman to reek of dungeon and sweat. Though you may be accustomed to that sort of thing, I assure you I am not." He turned away and strolled up the stairs, the picture of nonchalance.
"Mr. Holmes, you should mind yourself. Someone might accuse you of sentiment." This warranted a chuckle from him as he disappeared.