A niquab is the middle eastern headdress, usually black, that coveres everything but the eyes.

A burqua is the long, usually black dress/robe that goes with a niquab to cover every bit of a woman's body except her hands and feet.

The sights and smells I describe are partially derived from when I lived in Saudi Arabia, and traveled to India. It's hard to put it into adequate words.

Once again thanks to my beta Hoosiergirl81. She is making these chapters SO much better.

Xxxxx

Irene Adler desperately ripped the niquab off of her face and rubbed at the red marks that the ropes had made as they lashed against her skin. One look over to the driver's side of the truck brought this whole terrible nightmare into focus.

Hot orange sand lashed out at their truck, threatening to choke the engine and end the rescue before it even began. This had been meticulously planned, but it was the desert itself, something that they hadn't planned for, that had the best chance of making this mission a failure

"Turn over!" Sherlock, still in his disguise, attempted to start the truck several times, before the engine finally roared to life, spewing a cloud of fine sand in the air as it rumbled into readiness. The detective slammed his foot down, pressing the pedal to the floor. The wheels spun, momentarily stuck in the sand. His stomach dropped. They were going to die here and now.

Finally, the truck lurched forward, sending them careening back into their seats for a moment. He found the road leading to the front of the compound and sped towards it, keeping the pedal down as hard as he could. He knew that there was a large, thick wooden gate at the front of the compound, and if they had any chance of getting through, they needed the maximum force that the truck could exert. If not, then this would be about the shortest chase in history.

His heart raced, the blood pumped faster and faster. The gate rushed up to meet them. The quicker they could get through, the less chance that the guards would have time to realize what was going on, get their guns, and shoot at them.

Luck was on their side. The solitary guard continued napping until the roaring of the engine and the crashing of the gate woke him, only long enough to be impaled by a large fragment of the splintered wooden bar. The impact shook the entire truck, and for half a heartbeat, he was afraid that they would lose their momentum. The truck rumbled over the shards of the bar and continued on into the evening, leaving a destroyed guard shack in his rear view mirror, Slowly it shrunk and then finally faded away into nothingness.

Sherlock kept the pedal down until they reached the outskirts of the city, where they could blend in with the rest of the traffic. It was evening now, the sun loomed large in the sky and bathed everything in a rich tangerine hue. The lights of the city were just starting to spring to life, signaling the end of one cycle and the beginning of the next.

He didn't stop driving until they had made it through the entire city to the western outskirts of town. By then the sun was down, and the twinkling of the lights of town had dissipated to a soft glow in the rear view mirror.

He knew they were close when he heard a whirring noise- so terribly faint at first, but growing louder and louder, until the source of the dull roar appeared from behind a dune. A makeshift helicopter launch pad lay in front of them, and on it sat a chopper, whirled up and ready to go.

"When I stop the truck, run to the helicopter, I will be right beside you. We need to get out, NOW." His deathly serious tone surprised her. She nodded, and he readied herself, unbuckling his seat belt as he approached the makeshift tarmac.

Sherlock drove as close to the helicopter as he dared, slamming it to a stop, not even bothering to take out the keys. He threw it into park and yelled "RUN." Almost as one, they jumped from their seats, threw open the doors, and ran the short distance to the black chopper. "GO! NOW!" He commanded the pilot, and they were up in a matter of seconds.

As they lifted off from the ground, Sherlock dared to look back.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

He had no idea how, but several trucks full of men pulled up only moments behind them. A few were out of the vehicles quickly enough to take a couple of pot shots, but by then the helicopter was already far enough away that they needn't worry about any damage.

Sherlock handed her a pair of headphones, and put one on himself. "We can talk to each other, as well as the pilot with these." He explained, situating the microphone to his face. She took the headphones from his hand, and their fingers brushed against each other for just a moment. It was enough to send goosebumps down her arm. He could feel them through the thin veil of her burqua.

"Where are we going?"

"Bhuj, India, It's about 350 kilometers as the crow flies. I already have a hotel there. We will stay through tomorrow and leave the next morning. I have already arranged for a flight for you to the United States, and I will be flying back to London. I will talk to you about that later." She knew that because the pilot was listening, he didn't want to say more, but she was curious. If she was nothing else though, Irene Adler was a patient woman. Now that she had been saved, and once again had her whole life in front of her. She would wait.

After a moment of silence, Irene turned to the detective. "How did you procure a helicopter? The Iceman?"

"God, no. I don't want my brother meddling in my affairs. I had to call in a few favors."

She nodded her head. There was no need to respond.

It was the bumpiest and most boring two hours of Irene's life. There was really nothing to talk about, and even with headphones the roar of the helicopter made speaking pretty much impossible. The adrenaline of the chase had long since worn off. Her eyelids felt like they had weights tied to them. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed, she didn't even care what or where the hell it was right now, and sleep like the dead for a day or two. She would do anything to get this whole nightmare behind her.

Somehow, despite the thundering of the engine and the excitement of the day, Irene managed to slip off into some semblance of rest along the way. As the lights of Bhuj appeared under them, Sherlock softly woke her with a touch to the arm. She jolted awake, the fuzzy edges of sleep quickly forgotten as she realized where she was.

"We are landing at a helipad on the airport tarmac. It'll be easy to get a cab to the hotel."

"Even at this time of night? What time is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I would guess about 1 AM. And yes, we can find a cab."

When the helicopter landed, Sherlock thanked the pilot, jumped out, and offered a hand to assist Irene, which she gladly took. She wasn't sure how steady she would be on her feet right now, after everything that had happened today. The second time his hand touched hers was just as electric as the first. Her mind wandered back to Baker Street, months ago. She couldn't forget that evening when he had taken her pulse. Even the lightest touch from Sherlock was... intoxicating.

Her hand was soft and smooth, and even the odors of sand and oil and petrol weren't enough to mask the feminine scent that was hers, and hers alone. As she slowly pulled her hand away, his fingers trailed down her wrist for one brief moment, one last touch before they broke apart.

It was a thankfully short walk from the tarmac to the terminal proper. To her surprise, She saw taxis waiting at the front of the terminal, waiting for the red eye passengers that would start arriving soon. They flagged down a cabbie, and Sherlock spoke to him in a language that Irene knew sounded vaguely Indian, but she couldn't quite place it. A moment later, they were off.

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him the name of the hotel."

"In what language?"

"Kutchi."

"You didn't even ask if he spoke English?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't get much chance to practice my Kutchi in London. He understood me well enough, so I'm not that rusty, it seems."

Irene shook her head and smiled. "I guess brainy really is the new sexy."

The cab ride ended up being about as bumpy as the helicopter ride, Between the noise of the streets and the honking of the cars as they went every which way, it was almost as loud. Thankfully, it was much shorter- they arrived less than 15 minutes later. Sherlock handed the driver more rupees than the trip would have cost, and got out, holding the door open for Irene once again.

The hotel wasn't much. If it had been up to Irene, she wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like this. It looked like it had been old several centuries ago. Intricate carvings and delicate silks covered the drab brown walls. It was a strange mix of beautiful and boring. She had never seen anything quite like it.

So many sensations assaulted them- incense and old wood, perfumed silk and rose water. Speakers hanging from the wall with raw wiring trailing down from them lured customers in with the soft sounds of the sitar and tabla. The hotel may not have looked like much on the outside, but it was a feast for the eyes and the ears, the nose and the soul.

"Good evening, sir, ma'am." The man at the front desk greeted them in very heavily accented but near perfect English. "Late check in?"

Before Irene could say anything, Sherlock grabbed her hand and interlaced their fingers. He brought their hands up to his lips and gave the back of her hand a quick kiss. Behind his seemingly adoring gaze, his sharp blue eyes telegraphed his intentions.

Play along.

Had her eyes dilated when he kissed her hand? He was sure that they had. He certainly hadn't had to take her hand and kiss it, but he simply couldn't resist. It would have only taken a little movement of his hand to take her pulse, and oh how badly he wanted to. To his relief, she played along and kept her fingers intertwined in his. He marveled at how long and delicate her fingers were. She had perfect violinist's fingers, which made him wonder if she ever had ever played the instrument.

"Yes, Our flight was delayed. We are Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Pennyworth."

"Ah, yes. The honeymoon suite." He smiled at them. "I hope you will enjoy it." He looked down at their feet."You... don't have any luggage?"

"It was lost at the airport. They are looking for it. Hopefully they will find it soon." Irene answered, giving Sherlock a quick, sly look.

"We are jet lagged and sleepy and would love nothing more than to get some rest." Sherlock added with a finality that the both hoped would put this conversation to bed.

Thankfully, it did. "Of course. I apologize for the inconvenience. Let me show you to your room personally."

The hotel was only two floors, so it was a quick walk to the end of the hall and up the stairs, where the honeymoon suite lay. The hotel manager opened the door and turned on the lights. The room was on the corner of the building, so it provided wonderful views in two directions of the city. It wasn't huge, but there was a decently sized living room where you could see the city through the windows that stretched almost floor to roof. To the left was a bathroom that had a tub and a separate shower, and to the right was the bedroom.

With one bed.

She hadn't even thought about that.

Well, they were 'newlyweds' so it only made sense. She noticed a few chairs but no couch to speak of, which meant that were going to share a bed, no matter what. She could make him sleep on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time someone had slept at the foot of her bed. But he had just saved her life, she could at least afford him one evening in the same bed.

"You two have a wonderful evening. Breakfast is from 7 until 9 AM in the main lobby. Goodnight!" He smiled at them, put the ancient looking key on the table, and closed the door.

They had no clothes other than what they were wearing under their disguises. They had no luggage and she still had no idea what Sherlock had arranged or how she was going to get anywhere with no luggage, no money, and no passport. She had so many more questions than answers, but right now she was so tired that the only thing her sleep addled mind could think of was how comfortable those pillows looked.

"We might as well get some rest, Sherlock."

"You go ahead."

"I know you are tired."

Sherlock tried to wave away her statement like it was ludicrous, but he was sure that his face told another story. His vessel had gone without sleep for close to 3 days now- between planning, travel, and the actual escape. He needed sleep, he craved it like a drowning man craved air.

"I'll be alright."

She shrugged. She was not his keeper. If he didn't want to sleep, that was on him. Irene didn't have much of a choice of bedclothes, since she was wearing a rather tight fitting black dress under the burqua that had already been disposed of between the helicopter and the airport terminal. There was no way she could sleep in it. She kicked off her heels, slipped under the soft covers, and removed the dress, leaving only her bra, panties and a slip. If he wasn't going to sleep, then there shouldn't be a problem, she figured. She was tired enough that even Sherlock's presence couldn't make the bed seem inviting for anything other than sleep.

The sheets felt like satin and the pillows like clouds to her weary body. No sooner had she removed her dress and curled up on her side than she was asleep, so deep that not even the nightmare of the past 24 hours could find her.

The Woman was deep enough asleep that she didn't even stir when, a few hours later, Sherlock slipped into the sheets on the other side. He attempted to keep as much distance as possible between them on the rather small bed. Even curled up, his feet stuck off the end, but he did the best he could, and soon enough joined her in a peaceful slumber.