Hello again! I'll keep this short with a MASSIVE apology. I was travelling between various different cities in multiple countries last week, so I missed an update! Argh! I know; I feel terrible! But here is the next chapter (regrettably about 300 words less than normal, but it was this or the chapter would have been double the size and you would have missed ANOTHER update.
Summary: Sherlock has found out his mother died and was extremely upset. He ran away, Irene found him and suggested they go to his mother's house. They go there, they have sex etc.
Enjoy :3
Irene woke lazily the next morning. She inhaled and smelt the clean, antiseptic smell she had come to associate with Sherlock. She could feel his pectoral muscles under her chin and felt his hand draped across her waist.
"Good morning." He murmured, kissing the top of her head as she opened her eyes.
"Good morning to you too." She purred in response, before reaching up and claiming his lips with hers in a sensual kiss. "If John could see you now..." She teased when she pulled away, and Sherlock's face twisted into a disgusted expression.
"I'm sure he would me moderately horrified." He concluded, looking at her with raised eyebrows. She merely smirked in response before sliding off the bed and putting her pants and Sherlock's black top back on.
"I take it your staff are still away and that I will have to make breakfast myself?" She joked as she pulled open the curtains with a flourish, filing the room with early morning sunlight.
"I'm afraid so." Sherlock dead panned. A smirk pulling at one side of his lips.
"Coming?" Irene asked. But instead of a verbal response, Sherlock stood as well and pulled on his boxers and black trousers.
When he had clothed himself, Irene led the way down the hall and through the little green door at the end of it before starting down the stairs.
"How do you know your way around my house?" Sherlock frowned.
"It's on television for two months every year and is one of the nation's favourite programmes. Anyone in England would be able to navigate around it without a second thought." She replied laughing as they came to the bottom of the stairs and turned right into the kitchen.
She saw Sherlock squirm at her words in her peripheral vision and smirked, busying herself with pulling various cereal boxes off the shelves before pouring two bowls of cornflakes and milk.
Se held one out to Sherlock but he simply looked at her as though she was stupid.
"I don't eat breakfast." He stated in his 'bored' tone.
"But you must be hungry after last night." She purred deliciously just as his stomach growled. "Point made." She took far too much delight I outwitting Sherlock and she knew this, but she still couldn't bring herself to reign her remarks in.
Scowling, Sherlock took the bowl he was still holding out to him and made his way into the servants hall.
They sat opposite each other through breakfast but said nothing. Instead making intense eye contact that to anyone else would be considered awkward, to them it was borderline normal.
"The servants will be back in the evening so don't bother washing up." Sherlock said, taking their bowls and putting then next to the sink when they had both finished.
When he came back in, Irene had moved around the table to stand right in front of him.
"You used to be so sweet and innocent." She mused, pouting, as she ran her slim fingers through his hair. "Then you met me." She finished in a whisper, brushing her lips against his softy.
"Indeed." Sherlock replied, his voice surprisingly low and she felt his pulse quicken under her touch.
Irene felt alive. Ever since she was fourteen she had had her mask of indifference firmly in place. It had never wavered for anyone, anyone but Sherlock Holmes. She found that she could be herself around him, and the thought made her feel dizzy. Struck by a sudden childish impulse, she pulled away from him and produced his phone (which se ha retrieved from him pocket in their intimate moment).
He frowned as she dangled his phone in front of her face, her eyes dancing mischievously.
"Catch me if you can!" She laughed, before taking off up the stairs.
The stone was cold and rough on her feet but this only made her run faster; up the first flight of stairs and put into the large reception room.
While Irene was fast, Sherlock was faster, and as she exited the staircase, he managed to grab her wrist, spinning her round and pinning her to one of the stone pillars with his body.
Irene giggled as he snatched his phone out of her hand with a "Thank you very much!"
Their faces were very close together and her breathing momentarily hitched as she studied his Cupid-bow lips. She could feel Sherlock's hands sitting possessively on her waist and realised her own were resting on the top of his chest, her nails tickling his neck. Their gazes were locked, neither moving closer or further away, the tension building until...
"Ahem." The impatient tap of an umbrella on the hard wood floor accompanied the declaration and the couple both turned their heads to see Mycroft standing by the door.
Sherlock moved away immediately and Irene missed the warmth his body provided.
Mycroft looked uneasy, and Irene realised this was due to the lack of attire concerning her and Sherlock.
"I see you found him Miss Adler." He said through tight lips.
"It would appear. What do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock answered for her.
"I came to look at the house, and run through mother's financials. Anything you want you may have, just be sure to tell me so I can take it off the insurance." The corner of Mycroft's lip quirked.
"Why would I want anything?" Sherlock asked immediately.
"Sentimental value?" Mycroft gazed at him with a crooked eyebrow.
"I thought the three of us had already established the dangers of sentiment." He replied stonily.
He was, of course, referring to their meeting in Mycroft's office after flight 007 failed to leave the ground. Irene shifted slightly onto her left foot, feeling uncomfortable. For one, she didn't like it when he brought these kinds of things up; secondly, did Sherlock really still think sentiment was so dangerous? If he did, then what did they have?
"I will be in the study." Mycroft's voice interrupted her train of thoughts as the man walked into said adjoining room.
"Is that still how you honestly feel?" Irene asked, turning to Sherlock who looked at her, confused. "Do you really think that sentiment is stupid?" She elucidated when he didn't catch on and cursed herself when she heard her voice crack on the last word.
"Irene…" Sherlock started, but he found that he didn't really know what to say and instead trailed off awkwardly.
"No Sherlock. Tell me, is that how you feel? Do you think sentiment is stupid? Do you think that whatever we have is stupid?" Irene could hear the strain in her voice but refused to acknowledge it.
"Why would you even think that?" Sherlock asked, lowering his voice so that his brother would not overhear.
"Think about what you just said Sherlock. Come and find me when you've worked out them problem!" Irene huffed before stalking out of the front door. She could feel the tears stinging in her eyes and she didn't know why she felt so hurt. It's Sherlock Holmes, she thought, how could I ever have even hoped that I would have some kind of place in his heart? He can't feel those kinds of things apparently.
Back in the hall, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he watched Irene's retreating figure walk across the grounds. He thought back over the conversation they had just shared, mentally replaying it. Sentiment. That was it. She was annoyed because she thought he didn't care for her. But he did. God help him he did.
He sighed before taking off at a run after her. When he found her, she was seated on the ground at the foot of an old oak tree. Brushing tears off her cheeks hastily. He sat down next to her, his posture rigid.
"I'm sorry." He said slowly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye to gage her reaction. However, when she didn't react, he sensed the need to continue. "I don't think sentiment is stupid in that way. The theory of it seems so, but it's not that simple." He grimaced, carefully selecting his next words. "I used to think it was ridiculous. I thought it was absurd to let someone or something effect you in such a way… but then I met you." He turned to face her fully. "And I realised it was not so, simple."
Irene turned to look at him and focused her penetrating stare on his eyes. It was as though she could see into him soul and tell whether he was telling the truth or not. He was of course, and in response she raised a shaking hand and placed it on the side of his face, drawing him closer and kissing him softly. Sherlock wanted to deepen the kiss, but realised she didn't want sex now. She wanted love, comfort, and he would give her that.
When she pulled back, Irene was smiling at him, her cheeks flushed.
"Are you sure there is nothing you want from the house?" She asked, looking over at the building.
"Well I suppose…" Sherlock frowned in thought.
"Yes?" Irene prompted.
"There is jigsaw in the dining room. It is one thousand pieces, mother and I did it together during the summer holidays when I was nine and father had it framed. I suppose, I would like that." He pondered.
"Let's go get it." Irene smiled, stood and stretched out her hand for Sherlock to take. He did so and the couple walked hand in hand across the glass.
"Ouch, shit!" Irene exclaimed as her still bare foot caught on a tree root leaving a deep cut.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked immediately, bending down to examine her foot.
"Yes, I think I'll go for a jog." She said sarcastically, lifting her foot off the ground like an injured animal.
Without saying anything else, Sherlock promptly picked her up bridal style, and carried her into the house just as Mycroft was coming out of the study.
"Are you married now?" He asked icily. He was intent on making it perfectly clear to his brother that he didn't approve of the match.
"Very funny Mycroft." Sherlock spat, "Where's the first aid kit?"
"In father's old desk." Mycroft commented as he noticed Irene's foot. "I've arranged mother's funeral for tomorrow. Most of the family should be able to make it and I hate to allow such things to lament." He called after his brother who had proceeded into the study. "I'm going back to London for the night. The family will be here at ten tomorrow so please could you both be… appropriately dressed." He finished.
"Yes Mycroft!" Sherlock replied mechanically as he dabbed at Irene's foot with an antiseptic wipe.
She hissed in through her teeth at the stinging sensation.
"Sorry." Sherlock apologised, putting a plaster over the cut and wrapping a bandage around her foot. "Can you walk on it?" He asked and Irene obediently hopped down from the desk she had been seated on and walked a few paces.
"Yes." She replied, turning to him with a radiant smile.
It hurt really, but she didn't want to concern Sherlock.
"Sherlock, come on. We need to get ready." The next morning, Irene sat daintily on the edge of their shared bed and gently shook Sherlock awake.
"How long do we have?" He asked, refusing to face her.
"It's half nine." She replied with the sufficient information.
He grunted in response and swung his legs over the other side of the bed. He looked vulnerable again; scared. She reached out a hand slowly and trailed it over the tense muscles of his right shoulder.
"I'll be right next to you the whole time." She said, and she meant it.
She was shocked that Sherlock was attending the funeral if she was honest. She had assumed his family thought him dead as well, but as he had told her the day before, "A family of their standing relies on discretion." and his twenty or so close relatives (in short, those attending the funeral) had apparently all been great assets in covering up his death.
The previous day, they had also driven to the nearest village and purchased Irene some suitable clothes for the funeral. Now she stood in front of a floor-length mirror in a tight but modest black dress, cut just above the knee. Her hair was up and a black fascinator sat atop her head. She slipped on a pair of black heels before shrugging on a black jacket and turning to Sherlock. He stood stiffly by the door, in a black suit, shirt, shoes and tie. His face was blank. Void of all the emotions that were presently searing through him.
"Our guests are arriving Elizabeth." He purposefully used her alias as a reminder that she would be answering to it all day.
Irene walked over, her mask also in place as the two exited their room and walked down the sweeping staircase to the reception room where the first two guests stood waiting. As promised, the staff had returned that night and now a butler stood by the door, waiting to open it.
"Sherlock dear!" A woman who must have been in her mid-sixties came and hugged Sherlock the second his foot hit the ground floor. The woman was snivelling as she hugged Sherlock before releasing him and blowing her nose on a handkerchief. A man who appeared to be her husband stepped forwards after and shook Sherlock's hand firmly, a sombre expression on his face.
"Elizabeth, this is my aunt Anastasia and her husband Fredrick." He turned to Irene and took hold of her hand in his. "This is my… girlfriend, Elizabeth." He said after a pause.
"Well, at least one good thing has come out of today." Anastasia laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood with a joke. The attempt miscarried and an awkward silence hung over the party.
"So, tell me Miss…?" Anastasia started.
"Poteen." Irene injected with a small smile.
"Miss Poteen, what line of work are you involved in?" She finished as Sherlock wandered off to meet more guests who had arrived.
"I'm a sex counsellor." She replied. She and Sherlock had not discussed the details of her alias so she was thinking on her feet. As far as she could see, the job would suit her… maybe she would consider a career in it. She pondered over the idea for a moment. She had no intention of re-joining her previous line of work, and this way, her skills would not go to waste.
Sherlock's aunt looked as though she was about to pass out from shock, "Very outspoken people are today!" She said breathlessly. The couple made their excuses quickly and moved away to see various other family members who had now arrived.
Irene scouted the room –now containing eleven of the suspected guests- and spotted Sherlock in conversation with a man of approximately his age. She walked over and took Sherlock's arm.
"And who's this?" The man Sherlock had been talking to asked Sherlock upon seeing Irene.
"My girlfriend." Sherlock said bluntly, slipping a possessive arm around Irene's waist.
"Elizabeth Poteen." She smiled slightly as the man took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. She pulled her hand back, perhaps a little too abruptly as she felt Sherlock's nails dig into her side angrily.
"This is my cousin, Edward." Sherlock said to her.
"Pleasure, I'm sure." She smiled politely again.
"Edward!" They heard another man call from across the room.
"I'd better see to father." He smiled before walking away, noticeably surveying Irene posterior as he left.
"Are you okay?" Irene turned to him.
"Could be better." He answered honestly, "We're only waiting for Mycroft now." He added as the aforementioned man strolled through the wide front doors.
"If we are all present, may we proceed?" Mycroft raised his voice, attracting the attention of his family who all followed him out of the front door and into the assortment of old-fashioned cars that were to take them to the church in the nearest village.