Hey! This is Chapter 2 and I hope you enjoy it. I had a little spot of trouble with this, so sorry for the delay and if you think it's not up to scratch. I can always rewrite it, if you like. Anyway, hopefully you like it; if you don't, please drop me a line! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters.
Where were you
When everything was falling apart
All my days
Were spent by the telephone
That never rang
And all I needed was a call
That never came
To the corner of First and Amistad
He is staring at her. Not that she cares. But he is being rather open about it; he's not even trying to hide the fact. Once, she would have been flattered. Once, she would have tried to seduce him. Once, she would have smiled with her red lips and stroked her whip with scarlet nails.
But that was then. And that was Irene Adler. Now, she is Sara Myers, ordinary.
She pointedly ignores him, focusing on the noodles that are about to slip off her disposable wooden chopsticks. Chinese takeaway, and poor quality, at that. She sighs internally. This isn't really turning into the best day for her. He hasn't even answered any of her questions.
Deciding to break the uncomfortable silence, she looks up to an invisible point just above his left eyebrow.
"Finally having dinner together, are we?" she smirks.
He barely even bothers to glance away from her.
"As it seems." His voice is toneless and she wonders just what goes on in his head. "Although, Miss Adler, you may have noticed that you are the only one ingesting food. That hardly counts as having dinner together."
She is about to make a retort, when he interrupts even before she has opened her mouth.
"And please don't repeat yourself. It makes for boring conversation and passes you off as stupid."
She raises an eyebrow, undaunted by the now scorching gaze that is trained on her face. "Stupid, now? And Myers is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle with it all the way to the end."
The creases between his eyebrows deepen, and a pleasurable flash of triumph courses through her skin and tingles at her fingertips.
"Yes, stupid." He says the word with childlike sulkiness.
Her lips are parting to make another stinging comment when he mutters something quietly.
"And anyway, you'll always be Irene Adler to me."
She stops short, not quite believing her ears.
"Sh- Sherlock...?"
His face and neck are flushed red. "Nothing," he mumbles. "Nothing at all. Forget it."
She carefully lays down her chopsticks in the flimsy foil tray and rises to walk round her kitchen table. Letting her arms hang loosely down by her sides (she's read somewhere that this communicates non-threat to animals), she moves to stand directly in front of his chair.
His head is hanging down. She reaches down gingerly to place an open palm on his clenched jaw. Surprisingly, he allows it.
"No, that was not 'nothing'. Sherlock Holmes, that was not nothing and you very well know it." Her tone is gentle though firm, and she forces him to look at her.
"What was it? Sherlock. What was it?"
He looks away again. "What was what?" He frowns obstinately.
She inches closer to him. "You know what."
He jerks away from her touch. "No, I don't. Please feel free to remove yourself from my personal space. I believe you're invading it."
She maintains her light tone, with an effort. "And you mind, do you?"
He looks up at her and the venom in his eyes is obvious. "Yes! Yes, I do. Although we both know that you wish I didn't."
His eyebrows are drawn together and he spits out the words with a malice she hasn't seen before in him.
She backs away slowly, taken aback by his anger. "Sherlock... Are you alright?"
He glowers, his mouth pursed in a single straight line that turns his lips white. "Yes. I am perfectly fine. Thank you, for your... concern."
Fury burns inside her but she forces herself to keep herself under control. How dare he turn up here after all these years with no word and expect her to simply forgive him and take his jabs lying down? Does he have any idea how long she has waited for a text from him, how long she has stared at her camera phone willing it to utter a text alert that never came, how long she has hoped with every fibre of her body that he will return?
She takes a shaky breath through her nose and lets it out slowly. Keep calm, Irene, she wills herself. Just one more day, perhaps. Then he'll be gone and you can live in peace again.
But she knows it is sparse comfort and that she will be hankering for a glimpse of ivory skin and raven curls the minute he disappears again to wherever he goes.
She smiles tightly at him, determinedly unruffled. Shrugging her shoulders, she moves round to her own chair and sits.
"Okay, whatever you want."
He looks bewildered for a split second.
Taking a deep breath, she leans forward on the table, pushing aside the half-eaten mess of clumped noodles and mushy dumplings.
"Why are you here?"
Seeing the look of uncertainty he throws her, she adds quickly,
"And actually tell me this time. Or I'll make sure you never can. That was a threat, Mr Holmes. A solid one that I am not afraid to act upon."
Clearing his throat, he stands up and begins to pace her linoleum kitchen floor.
"Moriarty, as you know, is dead. He is no longer a threat. But his right-hand man, by the name of Sebastian Moran, is still alive. He has taken over the Web and it is stronger than ever."
Her brows knit when he stops again.
"So? What has that got to do with me? Whether Sebastian lives or dies is nothing to me. I am a dead woman, Mr Holmes."
His eyes close for a brief second.
"Miss Adler... Irene. It's not- I... I need-"
Her gaze and voice are sharp.
"You need what? Your little soldier-boy to come and watch your back while you play Hero and save the day?" The words come out more angry and bitter than what she'd originally aimed for and she feels momentarily guilty at the flash in his eyes.
"No." Sherlock is looking straight at her, eyes meeting eyes in a battle of wills whose winner is never determined. "John Watson thinks me dead."
The needle of remorse turns into a knife and stabs at her side. She pushes the feelings away. She can't afford them.
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But I would have thought that you would've contacted him by now. His poor little heart is probably broken."
His face tightens and he turns away.
"It's to protect him. Moran has his snipers trained on him and they are watching his every move."
A flash of understanding. Anything for Doctor John Hamish Watson.
"And you're not resting until every single thread of the Web is eliminated." Her voice is quiet and, not for the first time, she marvels at Sherlock Holmes' love for John Watson.
He nods. "And that's why I- I need your-"
She furrows her eyebrows. "Say it. What do you need?"
He swallows, staring at the floor and she finally comprehends him.
"Oh. So this is it, is it? You're still playing the Game and you need my help- you need me- but you're too proud to ask. Well, I've stopped playing, Mr Holmes. The Game was over long ago for me."
He glances up at her, forehead wrinkled in bemusement.
"What do you mean, you've stopped playing? You and I- beings like you and I are made to play the Game. It's the only thing we can do."
She shakes her head, her mouth twisting into a morose smile.
"Kate died. Kate died because I played and I will never forgive myself. I decided to stop before any other people I care about die."
He meets her eyes and she sees a flicker of understanding in their fathomless depths.
"You- you loved her. You loved her and she died."
Steel seals her soul again.
"Yes." she says abruptly. "I loved her the same way you love John Watson. And now you see; I can't let that happen again."
She's not sure which she means. That she can't let herself care for anyone or that she can't let them die.
Because they are exactly the same yet completely different, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. He plays to save his loved one and she played to lose hers.
He speaks hesitantly. "Irene. I understand, but... but pl- I need..."
She lets out a huff of breath that was meant to be a laugh. "And still, the great Sherlock Holmes cannot bring himself to beg for help. Say you need me, Sherlock. Beg."
He clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils. "I don't see what the need for this is. You won't gain anything and I won't lose anything. Why?"
She sighs. "You know why. I promised, remember. Twice."
An eternity passes, filled only with the sounds of their breathing and his internal struggle.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, and it catches on her name.
"Please. I need your help, Irene. I need you."
It's a little OOC, but I swear I tried! I think Irene has changed during her time in Philadelphia without her usual lifestyle and, of course, Kate.
My brain has dissolved into a puddle of mush, so please be patient for the next chapter. Also, Johnlock undertones? I used the word 'love' as in not the feelings Irene and Sherlock share, as in Sherlock would do anything for John, the same way Irene would have done anything for Kate (in my belief, anyway; I think I've been reading a little too much Irene/Kate fanfic).
Many thanks to my absolute favourite fanfiction author Francesca Wayland for giving me enormous help when I rather desperately PMed her when I was hopelessly trapped and sinking in the fatal marshland named 'Writer's Block' or, in my case, 'Absolutely Stuck For Ideas And With No Clue How To Carry On'. I owe her a lot both for the help and also for her flawless Adlock fics which I cling onto with every new Moffat-and-Gatiss torture.
Sorry for my rambling! Thank you for reading!:)
~detectiveintheshadows