You guys know that wasn't the end, right? The game is still very much afoot…
Enjoy!
VVVV
Chapter Three
I rage against the trials of love
I curse the fading of the light
Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach
She's never out of sight
Time stretched on, and he didn't note it. He stood in the center of the ruined flat, barely breathing, the stark street light glittering through the splintered facets.
A sound.
Below, in the stairwell.
Footsteps. Light, steady. Calm, but careful.
A woman.
Sherlock's head slowly came up and his eyes narrowed, but his vision unfocused.
Heels. No hesitation.
She only weighed perhaps a hundred pounds.
And darkness swelled into the room ahead of her.
Sherlock didn't turn his head—just shifted his eyes to stare at the door.
She stood upon the threshold dressed in drapes of flowing black. What Emily Bronte would describe as a "wicked slip" of a woman. The figure of a knife edge, with a face white as snow, lips red as blood, and vivid, mocking black eyes. Her dark hair was done up elegantly, every feature as striking as a winter morning. As if she had not aged a day.
"Hello, dear," she said with a small smile—startling the silence in the flat, and confirming for Sherlock that she was, in fact, flesh and blood, and not an escapee from his mind palace.
"May I come in?" she asked, stepping through the door. Sherlock said nothing.
Irene Adler glanced around the room, lifting her eyebrows.
"Love what you've done with the place," she remarked. "Quite avant-garde."
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock still did not move—for he sensed her exuding a reptilian calm that crept toward him across the floor like water.
"What, not even up for the exchange of a few pleasantries?" she asked, canting her head. "Well, I suppose you have had a rather trying day."
Sherlock's eyes flashed.
"What would you know…about my day?" he pressed, his voice low and precise.
She smiled at him, drawing nearer. Sherlock fought his impulses, and stayed where he was.
"Come now, it's my business to know when the men who enjoy my company might be in particular need of it," she answered. "Family trouble?"
"No more than usual," Sherlock replied. She smirked lightly and glanced down before turning around and assessing the flat again.
"That may be a slight understatement," she decided. Then, she faced him, searching his face with a saucy, sideways look. "And what about this, then?" she gestured to the magnifier. "Is it from her?"
Sherlock blinked.
"Who?"
"Oh, you know," Irene assured him. "That mousey little thing who likes rooting through the innards of corpses." Irene stood right in front of him, her head tilted back. Her perfume overpowered him. "The one who…isn't standing with you here, right now."
"I don't know who you're talking about," Sherlock replied, fixing his eyes on hers. A slight tremor ran through him.
"Oh, you've mentioned her to me before," Irene assured him. "Molly Hooper—you were going to have her go pick up something from a safety deposit box for me. Such an obliging girl. She'd have done anything for you then, I suppose?" Irene watched him. "What about now?"
Sherlock said nothing—just glanced at the magnifier.
Irene reached up…
And gently touched the skin of his throat.
An electrical thrill shot down through him. He swallowed, and another tremor possessed his frame. He jerked his head and his gaze locked with hers again. But then, she lowered her eyes to his mouth.
"Do you remember when you saved my life," she whispered. "And I asked you to run away with me to India?"
"Of course I remember," Sherlock muttered—his eyelids fluttered as Irene traced his jawline with her fingertips.
"You said no," Irene murmured. "You had to come home to England—You had unfinished business to attend to."
"I meant it," Sherlock told her, even as her eyes captured his again.
"What kind of business?" Irene whispered, leaning up against him. He could feel her breath on his cheek.
"Moriarty," Sherlock replied.
"Oh. Yes," Irene recalled, her nose touching his jaw. "He had promised to burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock's pulse bashed against his breastbone. He lifted his head, sucking in a breath—
Irene gazed up at him—right through him—just an inch away.
"He did tell you," she said. "But did you listen?"
Sherlock's brow knotted as his mind flew.
Then—
A sharp pain stabbed into his left shoulder. Irene closed her hand around his collar, jerked him toward her and kissed his mouth with a fierce venom.
She pulled back, lifting her chin.
"Perhaps you understand it now," she said. "I am the final problem."
Sherlock fell to his knees. The broken glass rained across the floor.
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