It's late at night when he receives the call. He almost doesn't know how to react. He feels worry, concern, apprehension. With a clouded expression, he goes sprinting for the door. Once he's slipped into a pair of dress shoes, his regular coat and scarf, he goes trotting down the staircase and ignoring John's curious, troubled shouting. Nothing matters right now, save for making sure she's okay.
She's his only thought.
She.
The Woman.
It's not twenty minutes later (and twenty of the longest minutes of his life) that he's arriving at her flat. The door's wide open and he finds her in the living room. She's sat in the middle of the floor, hands clutched to her chest.
"Irene," he calls out for her, rushing over to bend down on a knee and examine her. Physically, she's fine. Mentally, he's not sure. He's giving her a once-over. Her heart and lung action are accelerated. Her cheeks are painted a pretty flushed rosy-pink color, suddenly paling as their gazes meet. Dilation of pupils. Glossy forehead and temples. On top of everything, she's having auditory exclusion issues. She can barely hear anything he's saying to her. All signs of a fight-or-flight response to fear, he thinks to himself.
She's afraid.
"Tell me what happened," he says suddenly, a hand cupping the back of her head, fingers running through tendrils and tendrils of her hair as he pulls her closer, allowing her cheek to rest against a strong bicep.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she lies and so lies so horribly. "Someone broke into my flat," she explains. "This building and the building across the way have been having break-ins lately. I was so afraid. I thought — I thought it was him."
It dawns on Sherlock then. She thought Moriarty had come for her.
"You're all right," he tells her, voice calm and collected and warm like honey. It's exactly what she needs right now. But that's as "sweet" as he gets. Soon, he rises to his feet in order to examine the deadbolt on her front door. After, he begins to inspect each window and scrutinize every known place of entry (and that even includes the air ducts for the heat and air-conditioning).
She's still sat there, right where he'd left her in the center of her living room. Unable to help himself, he says, "You'll be perfectly fine. I do believe you suffer from a higher level of emotional reactivity, however, which is all too ironic considering your previous line of work, Miss Adler. No wonder you love to "be on top." Best be careful, that could lead to pent-up aggression. Lie down for a while. Relax. Breathe. You'll be fine."
She's rolling her eyes. Twat, she thinks to herself but never says aloud. "I just had my flat broken into," she says, voice stronger now. Infinitely more even as well. Unwavering. "I think I'm allowed to be upset, Sherlock."
"As you are," Sherlock fires back, waving a hand in her direction. "Your flat is safe. I do suggest changing the deadbolt, though. Your burglar ripped through it with something iron, it would seem." He's gazing over at her, oblivious to the horror she's feeling. To the way her chest feels as if it's about to collapse. Beneath all the usual courage and bravado, she's only a woman. A frightened woman. One who lives alone.
"Go home, Sherlock," she suddenly tells him. He stops for a moment, startled, eyes glued to her. "What for?" he asks, eyes wide and doe-like.
"Are you always this clueless or do you just 'delete' your how-to's for emotions from that Mind Palace of yours?" she says all too calmly. Her tone frightens him a bit, his hands moving to the coat he plans on shrugging into. "Sometimes," she says, "I just need someone to comfort me. You're bloody human. I'm human. And maybe, just maybe I need you to tell me that it's going to be okay and to hold me for awhile. You could have let me die six months ago. But you didn't. At least it shows that you have a shred of humanity left in you, Sherlock."
All goes silent after she blurts out what she does. He's blown away, really. Flabbergasted. Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock goes slipping into his overcoat and donning his scarf once more. "If you're looking for someone to tell you those things, to hold you close, I have to say… you're looking in the wrong place, Irene. You won't find it in me."
He leaves then, turning his back to her and heading briskly down the hall. Almost as a way of escaping. Because he needs to. However, he stops briefly, turning over his shoulder to say, "And you know full well why I saved you. I've never needed to say the words." And just like that, as if he were a wisp of smoke, he's gone.