The woman's eyes flickered open, growing wide with the familiarity of the sound. Her gaze flashed upwards, as she spun around in her chair. From beneath an old stone door frame appeared a silhouette with dark curls and a long coat. He placed his hands in his pockets as he stepped towards her. His heels softly clicked upon the cobbles as he moved.
"You can't always believe what you read in the media, Ms. Adler. They often tend to stretch the truth."
The woman's lips parted a smile of relief as the familiar stood before her.
"Even fugitives need to eat." He broke the silence again and with a smirk added "Let's have dinner."
The woman stood up moving towards the restaurant's entrance. She paused in front of him and grinned, "I thought you'd never ask."
They sat across from one another in the tiny restaurant. Its walls a robin egg blue. Its tables neatly arranged and adorned with white table cloths, round wine glasses and a vase with a single faux rose at center. The air was thick from the summer rain which had now began to fall. The pair's eyes were locked in a transfixed gaze. The silence broken only by the waiter who came to take their orders of red wine and duck a l'orange.
"How did you know I'd be here, in the middle of this small French village?" questioned the woman.
"How could I not?" replied Sherlock with the slightest pursing of his lips. She smirked in acceptance of his response.
Their dinners arrived fast, seeing as how they were the only ones seeking shelter within the restaurant. Sherlock and Irene ate, carrying out small conversations concerning the beauty of the French countryside, the charm of the little town, classical music and other minor interests. No conversation had strayed intimately until suddenly but sincerely, the woman asked "Why did you spare my life in Karachi? I used you and beat you and betrayed you after all."
"Ms. Adler, you are an intelligent woman and it would have been a shame to let such a remarkable brain go to waste."
"Is that your only reasoning, Sherlock?" she questioned raising an eyebrow suggestively. She refused to accept his words as a valid response.
He said nothing as he continued to stare at her from across the table. Her visage remained still, seemingly trying to extract and answer with its prolonged motionlessness.
Irene reached out her hand, gently caressing his in a similar manner as he had done with hers back in London. As her fingers glided beneath his wrist, she spoke: "Your pupils are dilating, Mr. Holmes."
He remained silent as he knew for a fact that they were. She was checking his pulse too, which he noted had underwent a sudden increase.
Eyes fixed upon hers, Sherlock leaned forward until he could speak into her ear. With his deep baritone just loud enough to register, he whispered: "Make. Me. Beg."
The words echoed inside Irene's head, whirling around as if it was just a dizzying dream. Her eyes locked onto his as he sat back, her red lips slightly agape. The crystalline blue stared back at her waiting for her to respond. There was only one thing she could do. She raised her arm by her side, "Cheque please!"
Still startled by his boldness, the woman kept silent. "I have only one condition," Sherlock paused leaning forward once more. His face stopped but inches before hers. His breath was hot as she watched his lips. Sherlock lifted a hand behind her head, and as he pulled out a single pin, he said "No disguises. No acts. Just you, Irene." And with that her dark hair fell to her shoulders releasing the smell of her cheap shampoo.
As Sherlock leaned back in his chair, Irene dipped her napkin into her glass of water and, in one expert motion, wiped the mascara from her eyes. As she gazed back up to him, his expression seemed to be one of approval.
He stood first, reassuring her that his request was sincere. Then, she stood too, a spark of life reigniting in her blue-green eyes. The woman laced her arm in his leading him towards the back of the restaurant. "Take it off of my cheque, Jacques." She winked with a smile as they passed their waiter shining wine glasses as the bar.
The old wooden stairs creaked under their footsteps as they climbed them. The woman removed a key from her cleavage and fit it to and old door and lock. Sherlock noted the how the paint that coated the walls of the restaurant downstairs was chipping from the doors and their frames upstairs. The lock clicked and Irene swung open the door to reveal a small, but habitable living space. "This is it," she said "this is where the infamous Dominatrix now calls home. Though not so infamous anymore." Embarrassed, she sat herself on the end of her bed, kicking off her Louboutins in frustration. Sherlock looked around. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed was delicately made, sheets crisp and fresh. Their recent washing masked the mustiness of the room and instead filled it with the smell of clean linen. The blue paint and dark panel wood flooring continued into this room as well. A few paintings of flowers and flower pots hung from the walls. Clearly not Irene's choice of art. A small closet with no door held her now significantly reduced wardrobe. Her suitcase still cowered in the farthest corner of the room. Another beaten door was in the opposite corner. The bathroom, Sherlock supposed. Two small windows drew in the last lingering shreds of light from the darkening evening outside. The rain tapped against them, begging for entrance as water collected in a neat little bulge on the sill. A wooden desk sat beside the widow closest to the door. It held a small lamp and several papers which he gathered to be rent and income. Underneath lay Irene's tossed stilettos.
"Jacques lets me stay in one of the guest rooms and just takes the rent off of my pay each month." Irene spoke breaking Sherlock's observations. "But I guess you have already deduced that, Mr. Holmes." Her voice sounded of the discouragement she felt of herself and what her life had been reduced to.
Sherlock shut the door behind him as he moved to take a seat next to Irene on the end of the bed.
"It's not that bad." She breathed. "Everyone has been so lovely to me and it is a perfectly peaceful lifestyle. But I do miss London. Not that I have a need to be the Dominatrix again but I would appreciate something a little more upbeat than; than this." She turned over her palms and squeezed her fingers into them. Closing her eyes she took a fatigued breath.
Sherlock reached out and grasped her hand with his. He ran his thumb gently over her palm, feeling the calluses she had acquired from what he understood to be the general upkeep of the guest rooms and restaurant. With his free hand, he carefully reached over and lifted her chin towards him. Irene's eyes fixated onto his. They were kinder than she had ever witnessed. And with some emotion rising from within him, Sherlock spoke softly. "You're always a woman to me."