A/N: Without further ado, I give you chapter 2!
Beta-ed by alpha mike foxtrot
Click.
As he suspected, at this height and wind velocity, the lighter in his hand wouldn't give a spark at first try. So he slipped back the stun gun in his other hand into his pocket to shield the lighter from the wind, bending slightly with a cigarette between his lips, he flicked his thumb again.
Click.
Damn this cheap American lighter.
Where are they? They should be here five minutes ago.
Click.
A spark died out.
Click.
The rooftop access door swung open.
He didn't bother looking. He couldn't care less. They wouldn't ask any question or regard him in any way. He knew they dislike him, even though he was the one doing all the work for them and all they have to do was clean his mess. It was not unlike his job before this.
Click.
For a moment he was taken aback by the sound of footsteps coming his way.
Light, swift, a woman's.
She was alone.
He frowned and straightened himself to finally look properly at the person coming his way. When he saw a glimpse of her face, he returned to his lighter and flicked it forcefully for the last time. It lit up and he inhaled his cigarette deeply, somehow needing a reason to explain the waver in his chest to himself other than the woman.
As she approached, Irene scrutinised the sight in front of her: Sherlock Holmes stood towering beside a body on the ground, smoking his cigarette with calm. He looked paler than the last time she saw him. His hair was much shorter without curls, although long enough that the wind could blow a strand covering his right eye.
Not wanting to give a wrong impression by staring at his face for longer than necessary, she diverted her attention to the unconscious man. She noted his uneven breathing and the slight tremor of his outstretched right hand. She also noticed traces of saliva on the edges of his mouth. A purposefully handled and fully loaded sniper rifle stood ten feet away from him, surrounded by its bullet casings. A worn golf bag was lying nearby. The rifle was directed to the building across the street, she couldn't see precisely where.
Meanwhile, Sherlock assessed her with his piercing eyes. A series of unsaid questions in his head, but knew better than to break the silence first. He said nothing, letting her deduce what he's been doing on her own.
"You electrocuted him." She said, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. "He's still alive."
"Why do you think I'm still here? I need to make sure he stays down until the cleaning party arrived." He grumbled in annoyance, strongly suggesting her presence as irritating and undesired.
She smiled, the corners of her lips barely reached her eyes. She looked at his face properly this time. Bloodshot eyes and the rough quality of his voice suggested he hasn't slept for days. "You don't look happy to see me."
"Should I look happy at all?" He mocked, not in the mood to withstand her teasing.
"At least you're not dead." She shrugged, avoiding his glance.
Sherlock squared his jaw, unable to form a reply for once. Was she the one who's happy to see him? Ridiculous, he dismissed the thought. Her statement could mean anything and he didn't have the means to read her like any ordinary person. She was anything but ordinary.
He couldn't see any change in her, same length of her hair (loose, therefore apparent to see because of the blowing wind), same features (long black coat, not thick enough to conceal her shape, nor thin enough to suggest any considerable change in her bodyweight), same eyes (he seemed as drawn into them as before, nothing new there). He observed her make-up (professionally done, by herself, obviously), feeling like he was missing something. She was hiding something. She always wear a mask, metaphorically, but this time Sherlock felt she was wearing one that is closer to the literal sense.
"Who is he?" She asked, gesturing at the unconscious sniper.
Sherlock hesitated to form an answer. Should he tell her straightforwardly or not? How much information should he give away? He considered the facts about her.
Her appearance here was almost definitely the work of Mycroft. Only he could disclose his exact location. He found her, how? Did she reveal herself? Did he look for her?
He sent her to him, why? But by doing so he revealed a part of his hidden agenda concerning him, a plan still unknown to Sherlock. This realisation triggered a strong reaction of distrust for his brother inside him.
"Mycroft sent you." He spat. "Why? What does he want?" Did you sell yourself to him? What have you done? I didn't save your life for you to rub it on his face.
She held his glare. Her expression gave away nothing. She didn't falter at his harsh tone. If anything, she became more resolute of her purpose here by steeling her determination that was apparent in her eyes. Sherlock could feel himself boiling with silent anger, or whatever the warm feeling in his stomach was.
"Your 'cleaning party' will be here shortly, I'd rather not to be seen by them. I just came by to say hello."
She turned away to leave. He reached out to pull her, and when he grabbed her right arm she winced in pain. He loosened his grip only slightly, wanting to maintain the upper hand in this situation. Irene glared at him with anger that could match his own in intensity, but he refused to back down until she gave an explanation.
"Answer me."
"You better be careful, Sherlock." She hissed, leaning closer to him. "In New York, you won't survive falling down any building."
"Is that a threat?" He growled, answering her challenge.
They locked their eyes for a moment longer before she yanked his hand from his grip. He let her.
"The next time I see you again, I hope we will be alone." She said calmly, regaining her composure. Instinctively, she raised her left hand to cover her right arm. Injured? He mentally noted his observation before processing her words further.
Ah, so she changed her mind to hold anything she wanted to say to him after she found out he didn't kill the man. She was careful to the point that he cursed himself for not thinking so.
"And when will that be?" He quietly asked, searching her face again for an answer.
She kept her expression firmly cold. "Dinner."
At that point, he knew it was the end of their conversation.
She smirked at him the last time and walked away to disappear behind the door.
The long cinder at the end of his forgotten cigarette dropped. He tossed it down and stepped on it.
Dinner was three days later.
Sherlock spent the whole three days after the rooftop conversation to track her to no avail. She disappeared like a smoke, and New York was not safe. His movement was limited. His last target was the closest link to a higher authority in Sebastian Moran's network. Taking him down was already a risky step coming from his part, he wouldn't want to reveal himself just yet.
On the evening of the third day he opened the door to his temporary safe house, a plain flat in a decent neighborhood, a rare find in this city. His mind was filled with the ongoing interrogation of his target that hasn't yielded any success, and he was contemplating on the idea of contacting Mycroft to confront him directly about Irene. But immediately realised that it would make him seem affected by her sudden appearance and thus give his brother a reason to undermine him.
In the wake of his deep thought, he picked up a peculiar scent on the doorway. It was a hint of perfume mixed with, oddly enough, Chinese takeaway, reminding his brain that he haven't digested any proper nutrition for almost a week and made it triggered an unwanted reaction from his stomach. Baffled and disturbed, he walked into his bedroom to find Irene Adler asleep soundly on his bed.
She was facing away from the door, nestled under his blanket. Her damp hair and the wide opened door to his bathroom suggested she had been here since at least two hours ago. He spotted her complete attire (implying that she wears absolutely nothing underneath the blanket, he gulped) folded neatly on his bedside table, as if she deliberately put it there for him to see.
The sight gave him an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu and something else entirely that was seeping into his chest to restrict the beating of his heart for just a brief second. Nonetheless, he had to admit, seeing the woman again in one piece was not unpleasant. That was as far as he can admit to himself concerning her presence and the various uneasy reaction she had (hopefully) unconsciously provoked from him.
He looked away some undeterminable time later from her, walking into his empty kitchen to find a plastic bag worth of two portions of food and a bottle of red wine. The notion of her 'dinner' seemed oddly literal this time. He wasn't sure how he should respond to that.
So he lay down on his couch, stapled his hands under his chin, and waited.
Irene came out ten minutes later with weary eyes. She had stolen his second-best dressing gown from his wardrobe. She folded her arms and asked him where he put his glasses.
Dinner was tolerable.
They drank wine in whiskey glasses that she found somewhere on the deepest corner of the kitchen drawer. He let her have the first bite before turning to his own food. He finally succumbed to his physiological needs and finished his portion in a less-than-delicate manner. He expected her to make a joke about 'the hungry detective', but she kept quiet during their meal.
He felt like he discovered a missing link in a formula that resulted in a wrong output.
He had to rewrite it in whole.
Delete.
Confirm theory first, ask questions later.
She disposed whatever left of their dinner and reached out to pour another glass of wine. He caught her wrist midway. She froze, catching his eyes with a daring look; a silent go ahead behind her half-hearted smile and quirked eyebrow.
Pulse, elevated. Still?
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He tightened his fingers gingerly around her wrist and trailed them along right her arm, pushing up the long sleeve of his dressing gown. Touching her fresh bandages gently, he looked at the late stages of discolouration and innumerable scratches on her exposed skin. He felt her shuddering ever so slightly from his touch.
"Recently broken." He quietly said.
"Obviously." She replied, somehow breathlessly.
"If I look at your back," He leaned closer to her ear. His eyes darted at the skin behind her neck. "Would I be able to find more scratches?" He noted the dilation of her pupils and saw a faint scar on the side of her face. It explained her unusual make up the other day.
"In addition to the souvenirs from Karachi, you mean? Or do you just want to undress me, Mister Holmes?" She stretched her last sentence with a seductive tone.
He didn't react to her words and pulled away. "You picked a fight with a man twice your size…and not only once since we last met, I presume."
"They came after me." She shrugged.
"Who?"
"Killers."
He scoffed and said angrily, "And I thought Islamabad was enough to keep you away from misbehaving - seems like I was wrong."
"Did you really think," She coldly asked. "That I could have a normal life after Pakistan?"
"Of course not." You are anything but normal. "But I'd rather see you alive, Miss Adler. With killers trailing you, everything I did in Pakistan seems wasted by now."
"Sherlock, I am alive. I already thanked you for saving my life in Pakistan. I am perfectly capable of handling killers now."
"Which brings us to my next question," He gritted his teeth. "What are you doing here?"
A/N: The upcoming chapters took place post-ASiB in Karachi/Islamabad. In the meantime, please do leave a review ;) I could use the harsh words to whip my muse
