Dark hair that's almost too sleek with product, hooked nose, brown - bordering on hazel- eyes, a shadow of a moustache present that's rather hastily shaven, six foot two…
Sherlock kept on running all his observations inside his head, looking for a miscalculation. There were only a handful of times that he was misled by disguises, much to the genius that is Moriarty and his own sister Eurus. So who is this man? Why is he pretending to be Irene's ex-husband?
But beyond the agitation rising up the back of his neck was the trembling in his chest as to why Irene was suddenly at the core of the situation. She noted that the man has gone through quite some effort, as the features are almost similar to her former spouse, enough to fool an ordinary man's eye in a dark alley or in the form of a silhouette.
Sherlock's own mind was racing against him.
Taking him away from his own demise was the feeling of warm hands pressing against his bare shoulders, soft rubbing gestures easing the tension. The warmth spread across his chest when Irene leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, her signature smile touching the skin on his shoulder blade.
"Stop it. Whatever it is that you're worried about, just stop it, Mr. Holmes." she whispered against his ear, sending a wave of mixed emotions inside of him.
This… comfort… in her presence was somehow in danger, and he couldn't comprehend the amount of foolishness he had allowed himself to be in. But Irene remained to be Irene, calm at the threat of a storm, unwavered by the mystery that he himself found extremely eerie.
The same feeling was utterly familiar, mind bringing him back to Magnussen's implied threat against The Woman's safety as he laid helplessly in a hospital bed some time ago. With the idea of a malicious mind similar to the one he's blown with a bullet in protection of John, Mary, and - to a significant extent - Irene hovering over their lives once more was almost enough to make him breathless.
He was no longer the invincible persona he once believed himself to be, for his encounter with his sister in that merciless maze made him more human, and for this even he could admit a tinge of fear.
"I will burn the heart out of you." hissed Moriarty in his head, and Sherlock cussed under his breath. His mind crossed with the idea of his nemesis proving true to his promise. Has Moriarty done the best he could? Was driving him down Reichenbach the final call?
Despite his death, Moriarty's ghost haunts him still.
"Sherlock…" he heard Irene say, bringing him back to the dimly lit room they had spent the night in.
"Yes?" he replied, voice unable to hide exhaustion and despair.
"You didn't listen to me." she quipped.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow, confused. "About?"
"I said you shouldn't worry." Irene purred, holding him closer to her.
Her hands were meeting by his torso, and Sherlock felt compelled to reach for the softness of her skin against his own. Turning to face her, he could feel her breath brushing his lips due to the proximity, and she was eyeing him expectantly with her knowing expression.
"Sentiment's getting better of you." she whispered almost wickedly before closing their gap with a kiss, and amidst his distress he found himself smiling at her remark.
"I thought we've established that long enough," he simply replied, before melting into her like always.
"So, how's the trip? Did you say hello to Irene Adler for me?" John greeted upon his arrival, a ghost of a smile playing in his lips. Rosie, who was just behind her father, bore the same expectant expression, as if taunting Sherlock to tell-it-all.
Sherlock sighed, busying himself with a newspaper. "Hello to you, too, John. Rosamund."
"What did I do wrong this time? You only call me 'Rosamund' when I misbehave. Is something the matter?" the child asked, and John couldn't help but laugh at her daughter's choice of words.
"Hear that, Sherlock? What did Rosie do that was considered 'misbehaving'?" the doctor quipped, making the detective roll his eyes.
"Am I missing a joke, daddy? Or is this because of the person you told me about that is super important to Uncle Sherlock?" Rosie eyed her father curiously, who was significantly turning red in his own amusement. John made his best attempt to compose himself, probably bashful for being caught spilling secrets to his child. He cleared his throat before ordering his daughter to go and stay with Mrs. Hudson downstairs, the child demanding to be in-the-know, eyes going back and forth between her father and godfather as if on a plea. Sherlock gave her a soft smile and simply shook his head no, and somehow Rosie found it more reasonable, turning to where she was being instructed to go.
"Why does she like you more than me? Even that, she got from… Mary" John sighed, turning away slightly with a nervous chuckle. Sherlock remained silent, catching a glimpse of his friend fighting back some tears.
When the doctor turned back to him, he was to bearing the same expectant look as before, unspoken words asking what happened between his and Irene's most recent rendezvous.
"The person who came here was not her ex-husband… At least, not the real one." Sherlock stated, hands resting over his lips as he claims his 'signature' thinking position.
"And why am I not surprised?" John sighed in disbelief. "As if there could be enough twists and turns about this case."
"Though Irene did mention that this was definitely made in effort." Sherlock remarked, proceeding to explain the physical similarities between the imposter and the real Godfrey Norton.
"Did she have a photograph of the real Mr. Norton? Maybe we can look him up? Talk to him?" John offered.
Somehow, the suggestion made Sherlock feel uneasy, and even annoyed, logical as it is.
"Why would she keep a photograph?" he snapped, of course leading to John's amusement.
"You didn't ask her, did you? Did you even think of looking for the guy?" the doctor asked, grinning.
Sherlock cussed. "Why are you smiling? This isn't the time to... "
"You are intimidated by the idea of Irene Adler's ex-husband." John exclaimed, prodding Sherlock to admit to his claim.
"What does this have to do with the case?" Sherlock replied exasperatedly.
"Well, being the smarter one, I figured that you have already deduced that the best solution is to find out where the real Godfrey Norton is before confronting this imposter, who can be a significant threat. I mean, we can make him think he's got the upper hand, but the truth is we'll have the advantage knowing his motives." John argued. "Instead, you're off mulling over your ego, which, by the way, won't do any good in protecting the woman that you love!"
"I- I - yes. Erm… You… It makes sense." Sherlock murmured.
John rolled his eyes. "Do I have to make a bloody speech every single time when it comes to you and Irene?"
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, the doctor joining him.
But the plan was cut short when an unexpected parcel arrived at 221B's doorstep as if on cue, spilling with photographs of a man looking much like their faux client but with features much more aquiline and heavy, leading Sherlock to think that this was the real Godfrey Norton.
The man in the images, whose skin was bruised and seemingly lifeless, lay bare in what seemed like a coffin that was strangely familiar, and as Sherlock was about to pinpoint why it was so, his eyes landed on the back of the each photograph, all carrying the same words that was obviously meant to taunt him.
The game is not yet over.
