Chapter 3: End-of-the-world dinner plans (companions in flames)

12th December, 2015

It seems as if Sherlock is always in the extremes, even when it comes to his choice of meeting-venues. He either picks the underground tunnels or high rooftops. For this meeting, he chooses the latter, which just happens to be his preferred option. He climbs to the roof of a randomly selected building, blending in with the artistically-looking array of shapes that are turning to shadows in the silhouetted London skyline, as the day draws to a close. His figure joins the sombre outlines of buildings, old and new, intricately embellished Gothic edifices and clean-cut futuristic constructions. There is an unidentifiable quality of a very particular appeal, lingering in this place high above the line of glow being emitted by streetlights below. The oncoming night-time darkness is thicker here, richer, more concentrated, exempt from the dilution taking place on the ground, where orange and neon dispel any illusions that might be lurking in the dark.

'Dramatic, John would call it. Theatrics.' Sherlock thinks. Maybe it is warranted to add "histrionic" to the description of his chosen venue, but it isn't the main reason behind Sherlock's choice. Clear air (as clear as it gets in London) that lacks the horrid smells of various bodily fluids and filth of all sorts, and the change in altitude make for a welcome change after the grittiness of back alleys and squat houses. For all his other idiosyncratic quirks, Sherlock has never been particularly bothered by getting his hands (and often various other body parts) dirty. The nature of his work doesn't allow for squeamishness or any particular inclination towards constant cleanliness, but the nagging urge to escape, to find a place where a simple touch to a random surface doesn't entail risk of contracting several infectious diseases, makes Sherlock seek refuge (however temporary it may be) from the constant presence of slime and grime, which permeates his days, as of recent. He rummages through his mind in order to identify what underlies the said urge. Spaces in which he had lived have never been very tidy, nor very clean, since there was never a need for them to be, their only purpose being to serve as a make-shift lab and storage for books and case files. If his body was just transport, then those spaces were just storage. He never paid any heed to keeping them clean beyond the extent needed to insure conditions for his experiments. There was never a habit of spring-cleaning to be found in a single bone of his body, nor has he ever felt the need to decorate, arrange, or embellish – functionality was always imperative.

And then came Baker Street. Then came often-used mugs and well-worn throw-pillows that required washing. Then came regular dusting and body parts in air-tight containers, as opposed to their previous freedom of simply perching in the open. Then came John, and with him, a space which became more than just storage – with John, it became a home. And now, Sherlock is left bothered by the filth and grime of regular junky hang-outs, stuck with a worrisome attachment to a place (well, perhaps not just a place) rendered currently unavailable to him.

'Perhaps I have gotten used to a life with fewer sanitary hazards', Sherlock thinks, 'Rather impractical, given the current situation.'

London is a radiant web unfurling below him, where fairy lights, put up as messengers of the oncoming Yuletide, join the every-day street lamps in their shine. It seems idyllic. 'Meretricious.'

The door to the roof squeaks, and Sherlock can hear distinctive footfalls behind his back, which stays turned to the fast-approaching newcomer.

"Is this a dinner invitation, Mr. Holmes? And to think I almost gave up on the idea."

The Woman makes her way over to the edge, and turns her back to the impressive display below them, leaning the small of her back against the low brick wall that encompasses the flat roof. Sherlock doesn't avert his gaze to her, continuing to stare into mid-distance instead.

"Hardly, Ms. Adler. A simple business meeting."

They look imposing, the two of them, dark and somehow royal. In another life, perhaps they would have made quite a couple. In a life in which some other people were never met, in which some other souls haven't wiggled their way into the small spaces between logic and stunning intellect. It wouldn't be right, though, not even then, just as it isn't now. They would have played a marvellous game, out-bested each other time and time again. Admiration, respect, taunting and entertainment – yes – but love? They would have been two elegant swordsmen, witty and eloquent. It would have been a competition, but not a love affair. Too much brain, too little heart. Or perhaps, too much brain to allow the heart to show. It would have been endlessly simpler, that life.

"Oh, I can't say I am not a little disappointed."

"How is India treating you? Or is it already someplace else now?"

"Thailand, in fact, and it' been treating me rather well. Although, I must admit it is refreshing to feel the chill of London. I don't believe I will ever get fully used to the humidity. But look at us, Mr. Holmes. We are talking about weather. How pedestrian of us, wouldn't you agree? So tell me, what sort of business are you proposing?"

"Are you still in business of knowing what people like?" Sherlock asks. Irene smiles a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame.

"Always, Mr. Holmes. And in whose preferences are you interested, if I may ask?"

"You may. Whether I choose to answer, is another matter completely."

"Always so clever, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, it seems an incorrigible aspect of my character."

"You don't sound as if you would correct it, even if it were corrigible."

"No, I would not."

"So, what is this business you are talking about, then?"

Irene's flirtatious smile takes on an intrigued edge as Sherlock pulls his gloved hand out of his coat pocket and extends it towards her, palm-up, offering some seemingly invisible treasure or means of contract.

"And what am I to make of this?" she asks as her delicate fingers flex to pick up the microscope glass off Sherlock's palm. Encased between two thin slices of gleaming, heat-processed sand lies a small translucent leaf, with a 'W' scribbled on one side of it, and a '2' on the other.

"It is an invitation."

"For me?" Irene asks, her tone equal parts hopeful and dangerous.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, then why are you showing me?"

"Because, while the invitation is not for you, it is connected to the services I require of you."

"Oh?"

Sherlock can tell he's got her thoroughly intrigued, so he makes his move.

"Have you ever been to the Royal Botanic Gardens, Miss Adler?" he asks, with a sly grin, and, without waiting for an answer starts to explain. He talks at his fast, intercity-train speed, picking the pieces he considers are crucial, adding just a bit of those that aren't to keep the Woman interested, and leaving out those he knows she would love to know. Irene's face reveals little, a foxy smile plastered firmly upon her lips, but Sherlock ignores it, and all it seems to imply, as he waltzes words out of his mouth, painting maps and charts with only his voice for pen and paper. Fifteen minutes and one carefully constructed explanation later, Irene pushes off the wall and seductively moves into Sherlock's personal space.

"Will you do it?" he asks, seemingly unruffled by her advances.

"Oh, I don't think I am in a position to refuse...I do so hate to be in someone's debt, and the whole Saudi Arabia situation has certainly placed me in yours", she answers and then laughs a shrill laugh with her next words, "A microscope sample invitation... how very you. I suppose you always did prefer things to be unusual, did you not, Mr. Holmes?"

"You seem so well-informed of other people's preferences, I am surprised to see you so void of your own." Sherlock says.

"Oh, I am in no way void of preferences, Mr. Holmes. Nor of desires. I simply chose not reveal them lightly."

"You've revealed them once before, to me."

"And look where that's gotten me."

Sherlock smirks. "Touché."

"And speaking of preferences and desires – tell me, how is John?"

While Sherlock's smirk falters at this, face hardening in an almost imperceptible way, with lines around his eyes and mouth rearranging slightly, Irene's grin grows wider upon seeing the microburst of emotion in the Consulting Detective's face.

"Oh my, it seems I've hit a nerve there", she says in a voice far from apologetic, "It seems I am not the only one keeping my cards close to my chest, am I now? Don't keep them too close, though, that's my advice. Otherwise no one will be able to read them – not even those who should."

There is something below Irene's teasing and the ritual flirting, something strongly resembling sincerity, but Sherlock can't see it clearly. He takes her in, eyes rummaging for evidence, while his mind debates whether or not to engage in this particular game. He doesn't find much in terms of evidence, the Woman remaining a half-mystery as always (maybe he prefers her that way, respects her for it), so he decides against rising to take her bait.

"I believe our business here is concluded, Miss Adler", he says, voice flat and unmoved. To anyone else it might seem as if the conversation that has just taken place left no impression on him, but Irene Adler isn't just anyone, and Sherlock can feel, rather than see, her reading him, easily and effortlessly. Perhaps it is only fair – he does the same with everyone else. After a few beats, the Woman seems to find a confirmation of whatever her doubts may be, somewhere on Sherlock's person, and she nods.

"Yes, I do believe it is."

She doesn't wait for an acknowledgement of her accession, turning around and starting towards the door that leads to the roof. Sherlock's gaze lingers only for a second, before he turns around, as well, letting his eyes to go unfocused as he turns to his thoughts.

"You never did answer me, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock turns around and finds Irene stalling at the door, hand on handle, that teasing smile once again on her lips. "If it were the end of the world, would you have dinner with me?"

"Perhaps I would", he answers.

The Woman regards him for a moment, a perfect picture of contemplation, with her head slightly bowed to the side, her smile changing from teasing to pensive, and lastly, to wistful.

"No. No, you would not", she says with a tone both certain and final, and just a little bit sad. Sherlock's face crinkles with confusion.

"You sound awfully certain of yourself. Why is that?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I thought we were being honest with each other" she pouts, "I know what people like. I know what you like. I also know whom you like. More than like. So, I know with whom you'd choose to spend the end of the world, and it would not be me."

She flashes one more smile somewhere in his general direction before the door closes, and Sherlock is left standing against the luminous backdrop. He finds himself staling, stealing time as he postpones the imminent return underground (literal and metaphorical). One more breath of fresher air, piteously devoid of nicotine and tar, but intoxicating nonetheless, under given circumstances. He looks at London again, noting the faint outline of a smog-composed dome looming over the city, made visible by light pollution. He thinks about the end of the world.

'It would not be me.' Of course not.

Sherlock doesn't care much for theories of the apocalypse. Solar storms, ancient prophecies – drivel. The human race is doing a well-enough job destroying the planet on their own, so there really is no need for sensationalist fables. If the world were to end, it would undoubtedly be a result of immense human stupidity and selfish short-sightedness. People, for the most part, treat their world the way they do their bodies – like a transient shell one may abuse with no regard for consequences ('Oh, there's a pot calling a kettle black, John would say' Sherlock reflects, noting the irony of his thoughts). If the world were to end, it would do so with slow decay chipping at it, some major natural disasters occurring every now and then. It would end in fire and water. Fires and floods. Burn out, and then drown. Maybe a bit sensationalist, after all.

Sherlock wonders how John would depict it. Would he still romanticise the events, the way he does their cases? Would he type it up in his blog? Wouldn't that be pointless? Who would he want to spend it with? Harry, perhaps not frowning over her drinking, for once? Old army mates, laughing, going out with forced joviality coursing through his veins? Mrs. Hudson, making sure she is alright, up until the end?

No. 'It would not be me.' It wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be them, either. Sherlock wouldn't have dinner, and John wouldn't write his blog. Of course not. They'd be where they always are, where they should be. Right by each other's sides.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't care much for end-of-the-world scenarios, as long as they include the world ending with John, and not the end of his world with John.

He inhales once again, sharply and deeply, and then moves towards the door, coat billowing around his shins, and that (rather unsettling) thought burrowing itself somewhere deep in his spine, half-way between his brain and his chest.

Rather impractical, indeed.

No more time to waste. John is probably already coming up with a plan, worried over Sherlock's lack of communication, and Sherlock's got a package to send. He knows just whom to task with delivering it. Knowing his homeless network, all he has to do to find someone from it, is look for the dancing light of a make-shift bonfire. In cold nights like this, they flock to it like moths to a flame.

I finally got around to writing Irene :D It was lots of fun.

Anyway, new chapter tomorrow :) Thank you for reading!