"You know, you really are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen..."
"Tell me that when you're not drugged and delirious"
He did as she suggested, submitting his form into the bed with great relief before clawing at the bed sheets. He was suddenly very cold. "Stay with me..." He half asked half ordered. "Please."
She pulled back the only half-made covers for him, and nodded slowly in assent, unable to refuse. "Just to make sure you don't keel over on us yet, Mr. Holmes," she assured encouragingly, her reluctance mostly feigned.
"Would you care?" He asked her somewhat absentmindedly, tucking his feet under the covers before scooting over to allow her access.
She hiked up her skirt to a manageable height and settled beside him. "I think you're far more impactful, shall we say, than you realise," she remarked vaguely.
"I'm well aware of that fact, Miss Adler." He began drowsily, tugging the sheet up to his chin as he closed his eyes, the opium more than certainly taking over now and putting him a state of near lucid dreaming. He would certainly be out cold soon. And probably for the best. But for now, he would chase the Red Dragon, and indulge himself. "It's not the imbecilic commonwealth I was referring to. It was you." He rebutted, the countermeasure finally beginning to take it's hold on his opioid receptors.
Her brow raised, with a challenging smile. "Who's to say I wasn't referring to myself?" She responded lightly, nudging the blanket over him more smoothly, but not before feeling his forehead to check for fever.
"Because you said we," he countered, regressing a bit as sleep began to seep in through the cracks of his consciousness. "And unless you are Her Majesty in a very convincing fancy-dress, as I know you are partial to donning other habits, what else could you have meant... Unless you were doing that thing women love to do... Being coy..." He shivered in mock disgust, and managed even to chuckle.
"You could say I've based my whole life on that thing , Mr. Holmes, so perhaps you should get used to it," she suggested lightly, perhaps with a bit too strong of an insinuation of their future association. Though given she did just hire him, so it was arguably inevitable.
He grunted in amusement, curling his legs up into the fetal position as he made himself more comfortable, titling his head more towards her. "I think I can manage that..." He trailed off, his mind wandering back to that night at the theatre when and where he had last seen her since their initial interaction.
"Been to the Opera lately?" He dared chance, his tone suddenly thicker and darker.
She eyed him in playful suspicion at his change of tone. "Not recently enough," she replied bluntly, settling herself more cozily into 'her' side of his bed as opposed to the perhaps, expected response of distance.
"... Husband forbid you to go or something?" He asked lightly, more in jest than anything else, but there was a sense of bitter irony in his tone, not to mention the fact that he could still recall the sense memory of her lips against his as they were pressed against the corner of her box.
She laughed. "Please. He wouldn't dare," she replied though was somewhat amused at the thought of him trying. "Just nothing's caught my attention lately," she remarked, less than subtle insinuation though it may be, also quite true. Ever since the bored detective had interrupted her earlier showing with his company, she'd gone a handful of times, of course, but it nearly seemed incomplete without him 'ruining' it for her.
He grunted, lifting his head to lay on her lap as his eyes began to feel even heavier, "Mind stroking my hair? Mother used to do it whenever I was ill... And I must say, you should probably be performing more than attending... Would he let you?"
"Haven't asked," she replied in a simple response, if a tad wistful as she let her fingers fall into his locks, now failing at being slicked back. "Apparently I should look into nursing," she taunted him mildly, feeling his head again for heat, as her fingers trailed back from his scalp briefly. Warmer perhaps than was normative, but nothing dangerous, thankfully. Whatever he used had done it's work.
"I was just about to say the same thing..." He murmured, a small purr-like noise issuing from the back of his throat. "I never told Dr Watson, just so you know..." He offered suddenly.
Perhaps unwisely encouraged by his response, she chuckled mildly, nearly feeling like she was entertaining a rather ill-mannered jungle cat. Perhaps for the best. "Good to know I won't show up in The Strand anytime soon," she remarked, casually enough. "God forbid I ruin your antisocial reputation."
"God forbid I ruin your marriage..." He word-vomited suddenly. "Apologies. That came out rather clumsily." He quickly tried to render his forward mistake. "Sentience is not my forte..."
"So I can tell," she replied, wryly, eyeing him with barely repressed amusement. "Just get some rest, detective. I venture you'll need it," she encouraged quietly, lightening her contact with his scalp. "I'll linger."
"How can you possibly linger...? You have a husband..." He reminded her, yawning softly as he did so. "Won't he be expecting you?"
"He's out of the city on business, or I wouldn't have been able to get those documents from him in the first place," she replied with a mild chuckle, ironic yet somewhat flat. "So I have some time. Sleep," she pestered him, a tad more firmly. "I'll send for your doctor before I leave."
"But does he know you're here?" Sherlock couldn't help but question, a soft moan of sorts escaping from the back of his throat as her fingers deftly made their way through his hair.
She rolled her eyes half-heartedly at his insistence to continue talking. "Given I'd rather him not nose in on the investigating, as it involves his professional reputation...no, he doesn't," she replied in earnest.
"Of course, of course. Obviously... Blame it on the overdose..." He murmured back, hand coming up to grip her waist lightly.
"Why... Why did you do that?"
"Do what?" She inquired absently before realising the very limited number of events he could be referring to and hummed in amusement, deciding a broad logic was needed. "Hm. The same reason I do everything, I suspect. Because I wanted to at the time," she answered directly, pulling his head up to face her gently but firmly. "Now stop interrogating me and go to sleep, Mr. Holmes."
Ever the stubborn mule, Sherlock insisted on opening his eyes yet again, briefly making contact with her own, to inquire further, "But why did you want to then?"
"Maybe because I thought it amusing to make you wonder for the rest of your life " she suggested playfully, though with outward strain.
If Sherlock heard her comment he made no verbal or physical sign for the selectively inexpedient detective's habits had come to a zenith, propelling him over the ledge of consciousness and into the sub counterpart. Yes he was finally, safely, in the realms of sleep. Or one could hope. His dreams always proved far more dangerous and illicit when he was 'under the influence', especially given that he usually was able to steer them, at least at the start.
And given their immediate conversation, Sherlock Holmes, found himself reliving that very night. He could recall it exceptionally well sober, so being high seemed to add a somewhat surreal aspect to it - the details, however, were still stunningly and ever present...
"Dr Watson if you put any more wax on that mustache of yours I swear to God I'll light it as a candle. Would you please do me the arduous favour of hurrying up? We're going to to be late - probably your intention, no doubt." Sherlock chided the doctor aggressively. He was dressed to the tails in his favourite tuxedo, his white dress gloves firmly gripped by his left hand as his right brandished a shiny new top hat, as the pair were going to Opera. Don Giovanni, one of his personal favourites. He adjusted his golden-yellow cravat before shifting his weight in an obvious declaration of even further impatience with his flatmate, friend, and partner in crime. "It looks fine !" He hissed as he watched John continue to ignore him as he twisted the ends of his facial trophy between his forefingers.
The doctor stubbornly finished his motions and took his time surveying the end result in the mirror, before finally turning around. "I'm finished. Now let's get to your bloody singalong," he brandished, finally able to delay no longer lest his companion go into a tantrum. A worse fate than an opera surely.
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead shutting them as he inhaled sharply before reopening them to reply quickly, "Can't you have a bit more class than that? It's the National Italian Opera. You should be humbled to even be before them. Besides, we both know you more than enjoy being able to watch the women's heaving bosoms from above. I really should confiscate those binoculars of yours…" Sherlock muttered the last bit to himself, and though still irritated and somewhat dismayed by his doctor's mildly pervish ways, he did, nevertheless, manage a chuckle at the thought.
"And take away my entertainment? Never," he imposed, tugging on his overcoat, and patting the pockets to ensure all of his effects - opera glasses included, were in their proper location. "And if you're planning to continue solving actor's menial cases in exchange for box seats, I'll need them anyway. Now let's go."
This time Sherlock did roll his eyes. "Finally." He retorted at the man, placing his hat on his head before slipping his long, pale digits in his gloves, and leading the pair downstairs and to the street.
They were able to get a hansom cab relatively quickly, which, given that it was a Friday night and on the precipice of curtain time for theatres all across London, proved quite impressive. As the cab rattled along Sherlock gazed out the window, though his mind was firmly planted inside the vehicle. He stole a glance at his companion, then returned his watch to the passing streets of London.
"You've met someone." It wasn't a question. It was a deduction. And one his doctor would surely be unkind to.
"Oh, did I?" John retorted. He was a tad annoyed that the 'observer' had chosen to pick him apart today, but was more than anything just toying with him. "I thought you wholly ignorant of emotional response." The sarcasm did not bother to hide itself.
"I am." Sherlock defended curtly, "However, the ink markings on the base of your right hand of what looks to be the smeared name of a Lady's, paired with your visit to the post office earlier today, and your recent purchase of that horrid cologne, collectively inform me that you have met someone. And it seems as if you plan to see her again. Correct?" He asked him for confirmation, though it was hardly needed.
"Yes, actually," Watson confirmed, somewhat reluctantly. "And I think I might have found one you won't scare off for me," he added, rather happily for defiance's sake.
Sherlock quirked a skeptical, or perhaps, worried brow, "Oh? And pray tell how do you know that? Come now. Relay your observations and subsequent deductions of her for me. You have been getting better as of late; somewhat…" he gave his friend a polite smile.
Watson rolled his eyes briefly. "Don't need to. She's neither meek nor religious - thereby won't try to exorcise you like that one unfortunate experience - she thinks solving crimes sounds like a fascinating pastime. And she's worked as a nurse so isn't going to faint every time she walks into the flat, when you have dismembered squires sitting about. In short - conveniently immune to your unusual brand of terror."
"Hmph. And how is she with sarcasm?" He couldn't help but press, trying, in vain probably to locate some sort of problem with her.
"Excellent," Watson recalled pointedly. "So long as you don't go out of your way to be an arse, it should be perfect." The mustachioed doctor gave him a pointed look. "Which you won't."
The detective merely grunted as he settled into his seat and tilted his head against the pane, John's eager and no doubt affectionate words towards his new love interest surely a clear indication of impending changes. Changes that would probably lead to the 'abandoning' of 221b, as well as to the sleuth himself. That would not do. Not at all. He had settled into a shared life and profession with the man. He was his one true and only friend. To lose him, after having tasted just a fraction of what John was full-in now with her, would be detrimental to his mental health. Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in 'Depression' or other absurd afflictions of the mind, but that didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to them.
Sensing the innate disapproval emanating from the taller man, John Watson decided to counteract it in a way that would no doubt end his sullen silence, whether willingly or no. "What about you, hm?" he pushed vaguely if none too subtly.
"What about me?" Sherlock echoed in evident annoyance at the absurdity of the question, and implication, itself.
"Perhaps you should try to find a woman who isn't terrified of you," he suggested wryly, though with clear intent. "Specifically if you're going to spend this much time at the opera," he added, the statement having the more obvious inclination, yet also a hint of something specific in relation.
Sherlock about growled but managed to restrain himself, instead he looked over at Dr Watson pointedly and asked crassly, "What on earth would I do with do with a female companion, Dr Watson, if I can barely stand that of a man's? I told you once already, I'm married to my work. And despite those disgusting whispers of our bloody Strand readers' I don't… I'm not…. Let's just say I would never be tried for gross indecency like the national treasure that is Wilde; bless his heart. Humanity is so very base when it comes to love."
"Oh, I know that. But that leaves you with the fairer sex, like it or not, 'married' to your cases or no. But, on the subject, that last point, if humanity is so base I can presume you have a more romantic view," he pointed out with dry emphasis.
The detective tensed his jaw, silently reproaching himself for being so foolish enough to walk into a trap laid by none other than himself, and one that so readily served Dr Watson's initial point.
"You know what I meant!" He hissed back, adjusting his top hat errantly before adding hastily, "What you constantly seem to forget, doctor, is that I am not like you. I do not give in to any biological urges. I am above them. Therefore, that leads the want of a wife for...companionship. Let's say. But I doubt I could ever find a woman that could successfully fulfill that requirement for me." He lied.
Watson chuckled. "I wouldn't challenge the universe, Holmes. You're not a god, you're a man. And even if you were, they're no more immune according to the Greeks. And you, like any other God or man or beast, can be - and have been - charmed by a woman. Get off your high horse and admit it, for once."
"I have not!" He bit back somewhat acidly, immediately fidgeting with the very pocket watch whose secret contents clearly proved otherwise. Not that John knew about the portrait kept in its locket. Dear god, he hoped not. "I have never suffered to arrow of Cupid or Cherub's bow, thank you very much!"
The doctor followed the detective's long fiddling fingers with a direct and knowing look at the watch in question. "Right," he agreed in the most sarcastic manner possible. "If you say so."
"What? It's a watch, doctor. It tells the time. And right now it's telling me that this conversation is over." He huffed in haphazard denial of John's look, which could only indicate that he knew of the watch's secret penetration.
"Irene Adler, hm?" Watson decided to prod simply after moment to verify that the detective would continue to avoid the topic. "Would take a woman to outsmart you."
Sherlock shot him a deadly glare. "She was a formidable opponent, to be assured. In a league of her own. And the quintessential example of what her sex could be. Hell, what humanity could be. If they were anything like either of us. But that is all Doctor Watson. Besides, she's married, remember." He added flashing hai brows at the man as his sardonic tone lingered in the air.
Watson seemed thoroughly unconvinced. "We've had many formidable opponents, Holmes," the doctor countered subtly. "I don't see you carting a photo of Moriarty around on your person." He made a gesture of surrender. "Just a suggestion. You might just like looking at it."
He rolled his eyes at the man defiantly, "And even if I do, then what? What does that prove? Hm? Anyone with a symmetrical face and high cheek bones such as she has been awarded by nature is going to of course be appealing to the biology of any man. Throw in her mind, and well, maybe even I enjoy her portrait. So what? It doesn't mean I…." He suddenly stopped short and shut his mouth, feeling the colour drain from his face.
John Watson gave him a pointed clap on the shoulder as the carriage began to slow to a stop, an amused yet somewhat pitying expression crossing his features at exactly how shocked he seemed to be at his own words. "Congratulations. You're attracted to a woman. Welcome to humanity. Awful isn't it?"
Sherlock was a bit too stunned at his own backwards admittance to answer. Instead, he merely gave an ambiguous nod to his partner before following after him out of the cab and into the theatre. He didn't even recall paying the fair, though surely he did.
Once inside an safely in their box seats he was most grateful for the dimming of the lights and for the first half of the show to begin. He adored this opera; he adored this composer. And young man of brilliance and talent, and yes, even severe immaturity that died far too young and much before his time. How he related to W.A. Mozart. The man literally had 'God 'in his name. Perhaps his own parents should have taken note. Oh well. He was egotistical enough as it was, he supposed. But still, even he, the brilliant detective couldn't get /her/ out of his mind. Every God had their Achilles heel. Shame his took the form of a Woman.
Upon their initial, perhaps unwise but ultimately logical decision to return to London, Irene had been of a particular mind (which she had expressed quite persistently to her husband) to return in time to make a showing of this performance. Not only was it a brilliant opera, naturally, but she was familiar with the company of actors. However, being heaped in his more 'practical' occupation, she ended up attending alone and unhindered. At least times had progressed to allow her the luxury. She kept a keen eye on her surroundings, but most everyone was unfamiliar - and those who weren't didn't seem to pay her any mind. All the better, she supposed, to not be bothered.
There were in fact very few people she could think of wanting to see, save perhaps one. Though the likelihood of the infamous consulting detective showing up to the opera seemed limited. He was probably doing something far more scientific, and presumably there was no mystery to solve at this theater, tonight. Unfortunately. And if one cropped up, she mused as she sat herself in her box, it should at least wait for the second act.
Meanwhile Sherlock was busy eagerly examining the patrons of the theatre that night, employing John's beloved opera glasses to do so. He went down each row of the stalls below him and made his silent observations and deductions of whose wife was cheating on who and which what fellow husband in the crowd, or vice versa. The gossip itself was amusing enough, he only wondered why more people did bother to learn the extremely useful art of lip-reading. He was about to turn to Dr Watson to inform him of a particular scandalous and absurd affair that was going on between the Duchess of Norfolk and one of her son's friends, as it were, when magnified eyes caught sight of A Woman in the far box to their left. A woman whose same face was both before him as well as underneath the secret cop martlet of his pocket watch, of which existence had caused such a headache for him the entire eve.
He stared at her eagerly, almost obsessively one could say, through the binoculars, and would have carried on doing so until per gamble began, had it not been for the tugging fingers and voice of his increasingly insufferable companion.
"Holmes…" Watson repeated,trying to get the man's attention once again. When he felt him shift, in acknowledgement he specified. "It's nearly started. What are you even staring at?"
"What?! Nothing! …. Nothing. Sorry, thought I saw Mycroft." He chuckled quickly at his inventive lie. "Though to be fair, he'd likely be one of the ones onstage, no?" He gave John a cheeky grin before handing the binoculars over. The last thing he needed was to be tempted to watch her in the stead of the stage for the first half. Even the doctor would surely notice that.
Giving his friend a briefly suspicious glance, Dr Watson eventually let the topic go with a scoff. "Now that would be a laugh," he replied, taking back the opera glasses and settling into his seat for what would end up being an absurdly long, if hopefully good performance.
Try as he might, Sherlock Holmes could not fully concentrate on the story before him. Thankfully he knew it well. However, given the calibre of such a company it really was a shame that he found himself so very distracted by his constant checking of her person with his eyes. He did his best not to fidget, though he would have given anything for a smoke in his pipe at that moment. Luckily, the gods did smile down on him somewhat that night, as Dr John Watson's indifference to the arts soon took over and he was safely snoozing by about forty minutes in, and therefore, was unable to comment on the detective's anxious agitations.
Finally, however, the curtain went up to mark the beginning of the interval. Before John could properly awake, Sherlock brushed past his chair and out the back curtain of their box, mumbling hastily under his breath some excuse about needing to use the loo and that he'd be right back, before he gingerly made his way round the grab circle towards her box. He hesitated once he was outside, not wanting to accost her lest she too was planning on getting up. Once he had waited a few moments, and had concluded that she had decided to stay put for the recess, he quietly slipped in and sat in the empty hair behind her figure.
He waited. "Save the sexual promiscuity, I can't help but see myself in Mr Giovanni….. How about you, Miss Adler?" He finally murmured, softly.
Momentarily startled by someone interrupting her solitude, it only took a couple of seconds to recognise the tone and timbre of the detective she had not long ago mused upon. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. "Can certainly see the theatricality," she countered, before turning to face the man in question with a smile. "No criminals to chase this evening?" She raised a brow in inquiry.
"None save you..." He jested lightly, staying out behind her and in the shadows of the curtain lest someone be watching them. "And whoever choose this dreadful pattern of curtains." He added slyly, keeping his gaze fixated on the curve of her neck.
"You caught me," she replied lightly, with a hint of a smirk at his looming presence, and his offshoot of a comment. "Usually a good place to find me, when the right opera presents itself."
"I couldn't agree more. Believe or not, Miss Adler, I do share our love of the theatre... Does your husband not? Or do you just like to laugh in the face of Victorian conventionality?" He dared, leaning forward in his seat as he made reference to her solo appearance that evening.
"Never miss an opportunity," she replied to his latter inquiry with rather shameless sincerity. "Though in this event it is entirely both," she amended, not entirely sure what the addition would accomplish other than add that it was not all for her rebellion's sake that she came 'unattended'. "Had a few more…practical responsibilities."
He gave a short nod, though she couldn't exactly be witness to it. "I see. Well, I hope you two are...very happy. Especially after the lengths you made me go to... Brava, again, Miss Adler. And thank you... For the letter... And portrait..." He stammered out, a bit more nervous-sounding than he had ever been in his life, not to mention had ever planned to have been.
"You're very good at what you do, Mr. Holmes," she averted, somewhat, noting his more cautionary tone. "I was almost sorry to avert you. But, I've always preferred to keep my fate – and my reputation, in my own hands. I can hope 'his highness' didn't give you any trouble." His title was spoken in a wry tone bordering on the edge of sarcasm, but it was subtle enough that if overheard wouldn't be quite such abrupt disrespect.
Sherlock tongued his back left molar for a moment, fighting a wry smile at her response before he adjusted his seat and patted down his already refined slicked back hair.
"And that is why I so respect you. But not to worry, the Prussian king was easily dealt with. I believe he wishes you and your betrothed the best and nothing less. As do we all, I'm sure. Now then, I suppose it's time I take my leave..." He rambled beginning to stand up slightly.
"You're welcome to stay…" She found herself replying before consciously deciding to, but her thoughts didn't particularly alter once she considered the words. "Unless you'll be missed elsewhere…"
"And for what point?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, pausing his journey to double back to where she was sat. He looked down at her longingly.
"Intelligent company. Don't tell me you're terrified of societal gossip, too?" she challenged, knowingly, heaving a mockery of a baleful sigh. "How very dull of you, detective."
He gave her a small smile. "I should go." And then turned in his heel slowly. He feared what he might say - or desire to say - if he stayed any further.
"You'll miss the beginning of the next act if you walk all the way back now…" Irene suggested logically, standing briefly to get a better look over the balcony, as the rest of the patrons began to sidle back into their seats. She faced him with a challenging look, clearly making a point for whatever reason to intrude on his awkwardness. Whether for want of his company or just to prove she could, she wasn't entirely certain – more than likely both. "And I haven't actually seen an opera with someone I hadn't needed to drag in quite some time."
He hesitated, his weight falling on his back leg as his eyes continued to hold her gaze evenly. He opened his mouth. The shut it. And opened it once more. "...Dr Watson is likely to wonder where I am…. And he says I'm the dependent one… Besides, you shouldn't be seen with a bachelor, Miss Adler. People could talk." The irony of him using her maiden name did not entirely go beyond his notice.
"Fairly certain in my case they've said all they could say," she responded pointedly, with a small chuckle of indifference, pacing towards him a few paces. "But if you fear being called a Don Giovanni I suppose I'll have to understand."
"I believe I've already called myself that, Miss Adler." He replied coolly, though his pulse was surely being to pulse rapidly. He stood his ground, however. "...What do you want?"
"World peace, votes for women, find out where Jack the Ripper ran off to, and for you to keep me company," she quickly replied mostly as a distraction, as her hand clasped his while he was focused on her words, and beginning to step back to her seat and the one beside it under the hope, or educated assumption he would concede. He had gone out of his way to be proper, poor man, but it clearly wasn't his natural tendency. Not in full.
He smirked, "I don't hold out much hope for the first one, the second will be coming sooner rather than later, thank god, and believe it or not I think I'm pretty certain of his identity...need to check a couple of facts there…. However, as for your last proposition…." He swallowed as his eyes diverted down to her gloved hand in his, "I would be… Honoured. I will have to concoct a story for Watson later, but I'm sure that should be elementary." He gave her a secretive smile as he performed his chivalrous duty of helping her back in her seat. He then sat down next to her where she had prompted him to before. He noted, with keen interest, that she left her petite hand on top of his, which was perched on his right thigh.
"I'll expect a full a report on that later," she jokingly demanded with an amused and rather intrigued glance at his response, obviously not actually expecting a response to such a request. "But good man. Not un-feasibly stubborn after all."
He let out an audible 'Ha!' Throwing his head back somewhat as he did so. "Right. Well, perhaps. If you're still in town. And to be honest, Miss Adler, I really don't think there is anyone else on this earth that would agree with that statement. But thank you, never the less."
"Oh? Does that make me special?" she prodded, playfully, in response, just before the curtain began to rise once again, and the scene slowly became visible.
He looked at her and was about to try and finagle a response to such an inquiry when he, was quite literally, saved by the curtain. He, instead, gave her hand a small squeeze before fixating his eyes on the performance below him, lest he look at the one to his right.
After the initial beginning, there was a shockingly comfortable silence during a good portion of the performance, save when one of them decided to make a comment on the current proceedings, which was perhaps just common enough to be expected, by the time the plot was beginning to reach its ultimate conclusion. "Do you think he deserves his fate, Mr. Holmes?" she inquired randomly, curiously, as she eyed him and his mostly rapt attention.
He tore his eyes, and ears away from the crescendo of action to meet her intent look. "Don't we all, Miss Adler? We reap what we sow, I believe. More or less. But yes, I do. In my observations, I've never come across any Womaniser that didn't deserve such a hellish fate. But pray tell, what do you think?" He asked her curiously; head tilting towards her own as he waited to hear her own answer. He could smell the pheromones of her skin and the light honeysuckle of her scent. It was intoxicating. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in the smooth, alabaster skin of her Swan-like neck.
She hummed, eyes narrowed in thought as she half-watched the events of the opera while the rest of her attention was drawn carefully inward. "I suppose it depends on your definition, doesn't it? While he was only out for his own gain and cared not for whom he injured in the process, yes, I suppose he does deserve retribution for that. But I've never liked the idea that desire brings nothing but hellfire and brimstone, really. A bit old fashioned and prudish, if I do say so myself…" she glanced at him, curiously, to chance his initial reaction to her words.
Sherlock suddenly felt his inner workings come to a screeching halt at her words, and specifically, at desire , itself. For, that was exactly the foreign feeling that he had been privy to experiencing ever since he met The Woman. And most certainly even more so now in such proximity and amid such theatrics. This was getting quite dangerous. For many reasons, least of all the obvious.
He needed to vacate her presence. Now . As his brother always said, Caring is never an advantage. Mix that in with lust, or desire, or whatever base and vexing biological urge he was also experiencing, and one surely was in for even a worse disadvantage.
He cleared his throat softly and began to quickly stand, ducking so as not to draw attention to himself from the other members of the audience below or across.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Adler, but I must leave you now. Dr Watson will be worried." He muttered at her as he past her chair, stopping briefly to draw her hand up to kiss before vanishing behind the box's curtain.
She rose while he was in mid-motion in surprise at his sudden dismissal, though watching his antsy response with a softly amused, calculating gaze, her feet stepped after him through some perhaps illogical will of their own, something in her unwilling to let him depart her presence so quickly, or at the least without leaving a more lasting impression.
"Mr. Holmes?" she pressed, quietly, coming up on his heels, awaiting him to turn about to address her. She wasted no time as he did so, surprising him with her nearness and leaning on her toes before he could speak up on his confusion, pressed her lips lightly against the plushness of his.
To say Sherlock had suffered from shock during that moment would have been a grave understatement, indeed. He did, however, manage to right himself, in his subconscious, and found his dream self doing the opposing thing he would have done in any other instance if this event were reoccurring: he indulged. His hands somehow found her waist and he hugged her to him, his lips returning the pressure of hers as his tongue eagerly sought refuge in her mouth. He felt on fire, from deep down in his core, a place he had for so long ignored.
The woman hummed in pleased surprise at his eagerness, her lips parting in welcome for his unexpected intrusion. Pressing into his chest, and stepping to her tiptoes to grip his shoulders, she stepped back one step and then another, pulling him with her until her back hit the wall just short of re-entering her box, the final act nothing but a distant crescendo.
The detective dared to continue his actions for lack of any better idea - leaving seemingly eclipsed by this new discovery of carnal desires - lifting up the folds of her crimson taffeta gown and subsequent petticoat to grip her by the hips, his hands running along her bloomers to find them. He frowned somewhat as his digits hit her corset, denying him the warmth of her skin that her thighs had previously provided. Nevertheless, he lifted her suddenly and thrust his hips forward, inviting her to wrap her legs round his waist before attacking her lips once more. A soft moan escaped the back of his throat as he tasted her tongue against his.
His mind had come to a complete standstill, the gears halted as if a wrench had been thrown in and a smoky fogginess thicker than any London had ever beheld was crawling in. Meanwhile, the crescendo of the climax of Don Giovanni reverberated around them, the terrifying arrival of a stone visitor from beyond the grave, the Commendatore. But wait a moment, that wasn't the actor's voice he heard condemning Giovanni. No, it was a far more familiar voice. But it couldn't be…. he was dead, after all….wasn't he? Flashes of that night at the waterfall in Reichenbach suddenly ran through his mind. He pulled back in horror and fear, eyes searching hers desperately.
"Do you hear him?" He asked her in a agonized whisper.
