5: One for the Road
(4/6)

When Irene awakened, she blinked slowly in confusion. It was still night, and by all rights she shouldn't be up yet. After all, she'd fallen asleep pleasantly exhausted. But it only took her a few minutes of wakefulness to realise what had pulled her out of her peaceful sleep.

The light in the bizarrely glass-walled bathroom was on, making her feel like she was watching a fishtank. Inside the little room, Sherlock was partially obscured behind the tub, crouched on the tile floor and retching into the toilet. As Irene's eyes focused better, she could see his bony arms grasping the top of the tank, his knuckles white with tension. She was aware that cocaine withdrawal was more devastatingly psychological than physical, but her research also showed that some people were made physically ill by it as well. Evidently Sherlock was one of those lucky few. And he'd only been off the stuff for perhaps 12 hours.

Her instinct was to go comfort him, and that worried her. She was no nurse, and really as far from gentle and supportive as one could be. But just the fact that she wanted to ease Sherlock's physical and psychological pain gave her pause. From the dark of the bed, Irene watched achingly as Sherlock slowly flushed the toilet and pulled himself to his feet. He'd slipped his boxers back on but was still shivering a little against the cool night air and the sweat covering his body. Slowly, as if it took all of his strength, he stood before the sink and ran some water over his face. He spat, then grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste absently brushed his teeth for several minutes. Finally, Sherlock set the toothbrush aside, leaned on the edge of the sink, and looked up at himself in the mirror.

Irene could see a whole host of anxieties, pains, and shameful regrets pass over Sherlock's face. The now livid bruises on his chest and the dressings covering gashes here and there reminded her that, in addition to everything that had happened between them and tossing out the last of his cocaine, Sherlock had killed a man yesterday. A very dangerous man. And now the great detective stood there looking wretched, thin, battered, sickly, and lost. This was a far cry from Irene's long nurtured fantasies of Sherlock Holmes.

And she'd never wanted him more.

Not just for sex, though that was certainly part of it. But she wanted him: his mind, his body, and his heart all at once. This was dangerously close to the notion of 'making love' to someone. Irene's heart sped up at the realisation, though whether in panic or excitement she didn't know. She could only do her best to keep her breathing deep and shallow so as not to give herself away.

Sherlock looked just barely capable of making the journey back to bed right now. He flicked off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Even so, Irene closed her eyes, worried that he'd see she was awake and knowing how mortified he'd be at her seeing him like this now. She didn't know what she would say to him anyway. So instead she lay there, anticipating him flopping down heavily beside her. She could hear his feet plodding back heavily in her direction.

So she was surprised when she felt a soft blanket, one of the extras from the room's closet, being draped over her body. They'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, quite warm enough at the time not to need a blanket. But now the cool night air of the Mediterranean had made things a bit chilly. And the blanket was comforting for more than just protection against the weather.

The bed dipped as Sherlock lay back down beside Irene, inches away in the direction she was facing but couldn't open her eyes to look at. But she could hear his uneven breathing, could feel him laying the other half of the blanket on top of himself. And when she let out a contented sigh like someone might when they were asleep, shifted closer to him, and threw her hand onto his sweat-slicked chest as if absently grasping at something in her dreams, Irene could feel his pulse pounding in time with hers.

The next time Irene awoke was much more pleasant. Her right arm and leg were still draped over Sherlock, but in the night he'd rolled a little in her direction. His left arm was snaked lazily around her back. Though his body was slick with cold sweat, he at least seemed to have been able to fall asleep soundly at some point. The west-facing room meant it was late morning, half past ten, when she finally stirred. Irene blinked at the clock to make sure that was right. Blimey, she'd slept nearly 11 hours. Normally she wasn't much for sleeping the day away. But as she gazed at Sherlock's resting features, Irene decided it would be all right to make an exception this once. She let her eyes fall shut and scooted a bit closer to him.

It was twenty more minutes before Sherlock began to stir. Irene opened her eyes and, to the horror of a certain part of her, watched Sherlock quietly as he sighed, swallowed, and blinked his eyes open. For a few moments, he looked downright shocked to see Irene staring back at him. The arm he had draped around her drew back, as if he were uncertain it belonged where it was. Fearing a full on morning after panic, Irene tightened her grip on his side, pulled herself closer to him, and gave him a firm kiss. After a moment, he kissed her back for a second, seeming to get the message. His body relaxed, and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock looked less like a deer in the headlights. Still, he seemed weary, his skin slightly sallow. Irene hadn't forgotten what she's seen in the middle of the night, but part of her had hoped it had only been a bad dream. She was sure Sherlock wished many things that had happened when he visited her were only dreams. Sherlock gazed at her a moment with a passive expression on his face but an increasingly uneasy look in his grey-green eyes.

Letting out a long sigh, Sherlock rolled onto his back and ran a hand across his forehead. He grimaced, no doubt at the grimy sweat there, and wiped his hand on the sheets. Irene realised the sheets around Sherlock weren't going to be much use in drying his hand since they were wet with his cold perspiration. He seemed to realise this at the same moment she did, and rapidly sat up, scooting a foot away from her. Irene frowned as she too sat. "Dammit," he muttered, drawing a few long breaths. Then, glancing over at Irene, he said apologetically, "I've made this a rather unsuitable place for sleeping."

"Really? Because I slept the best I have in months. Perhaps years," Irene said, keeping her tone light but very much meaning what she said.

Sherlock still seemed focused on the damp sheets. "I didn't realise I was sweating so much." There was a beat, as if he were searching for the right thing to say. Finally he settled for a flat, "I'm sorry."

"I think we were both sweating quite a bit, actually," Irene said with a sly smile.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not from that," he replied, screwing his eyes shut in frustration.

No, Irene knew precisely what it was from. She'd simply hoped they might be able to have a normal, peaceful lie-in. But she might have known that was impossible. Especially after the way she'd seen him in the middle of the night. Irene's expression and tone shifted to hesitant sobriety. "Withdrawal?" His eyes darted to hers for a second, worried. As if she hadn't already seen him in every possible horrible state the cocaine could put him in. Sherlock looked away and nodded. Knowing him, if he were willing to admit any symptoms at all, the reality must be far worse. She thought back to what she'd both read and seen of the mental withdrawal he must be going through. Anxiety and deep depression were common, not to mention irritability. She'd certainly seen enough glimpses of that when he'd been between hits to approach him with caution now. Irene shifted on the bed so that she was leaning on the headboard and facing Sherlock. "I'm sorry," she said delicately.

"I'll get over it eventually," Sherlock said, determination edging into his voice.

She desperately hoped he would. After all, he'd got clean before. And that was without John's support, which he was sure to have this time. Still, the sight of him now drove the point home that Sherlock had a very long way to go. Still, she was determined to focus on the present. "I know you will. But 'eventually' doesn't help much now, does it?" Irene lightly raised an eyebrow at him and laid her right hand lightly on his knee. "I can think of quite a few ways to distract you and make you feel much better," she said, giving him a mischievous look that would have brought many men to their knees.

"What, substitute one drug for another?" he replied quietly.

Irene's hand slid off his leg, almost of its own volition. She felt a bit like she'd been slapped. She might have been angry at someone else saying that, might have found a way to lash out in a painfully targeted manner. But she knew Sherlock, and knew he didn't mean it as an insult to her. It said more about his own state of mind. So instead, after she collected herself, she mostly just felt sympathy tinged with uncertainty. "Is that what sleeping with me was to you? A drug?" she asked.

"If you mean was I 'using' you, then no," Sherlock replied, then looked away. "But physically, it certainly felt similar," he said. He sounded downright miserable as he added, "Though I'm not sure it was quite as intense as the cocaine."

Irene looked down a moment. "I can see how it might seem that way, from a purely biological point of view. They do both trigger a lot of the same chemicals in the brain," she reasoned, looking back at him. He kept his gaze on the blanket still draped partway over them. "It's an awful association for you to deal with. Still, you seemed to very much enjoy yourself last night. And without relying on something that you know could kill you. Doesn't that count for something?" What was more, there had been moments of genuine vulnerability and sentiment even. But she didn't want to bring that up just now, for fear of spooking him.

"I did and it does," Sherlock acknowledged. "But it doesn't change the fact that it feels a bit like trading one intoxicating lure for another." Now he finally turned and faced her. "I've spent nearly all of my adult life with one continuous, steady relationship. And that's with the cocaine. I don't know anything else."

Irene swallowed, taking that in. "So this is a dalliance then. I'm your mistress, but at the end of the day you'll go back to your wife. That's what you're worried about?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "I wouldn't have put it that way, but along those lines, yes."

"But you're wrong, Sherlock. I know it's the absolute worst thing someone could say to you about anything, but in this case I happen to be the expert, not you," Irene said firmly. Sherlock didn't even bother trying to argue that, which made Irene much more worried for his current state than night sweats did. Still, she pressed on. "Your brain reacts the same way to any number of pleasures. Hormones can be misleading. But this," she motioned between them, "this thing with us, that's not a drug. Nor is it an illusion. It would never have sustained itself for so long and through so many awful things if it were." Irene put her hand back on Sherlock's knee and drew a little closer to him, looking him in the eye as she said softly, "And one other difference: if cocaine is your lover, it's an abusive, controlling, utterly selfish one. It will never love you back."

Silence fell over the room as Sherlock froze and Irene's own eyes widened for a split-second, realising what she'd said. She hadn't meant to say that last part. The whole slew of implications from that statement ran through Irene's head as Sherlock's intense eyes flicked back and forth across Irene's face, trying desperately to read the panicked expression there. He was suddenly tense and anxious and very much alert, pulled out of his cocaine crash lethargy for a moment. And why shouldn't he be? She'd practically just told him that she loved him. God, just thinking that word was terrifying enough. Irene definitely hadn't been planning on using it out loud. Fortunately Sherlock was starting to look as panicked about it as she was. Warning bells were going off in her carefully walled off and secured mind.

Some still functioning part of her brain caused her to pull away from him, getting out of bed. It also kept her tone remarkably casual as she strode across the room and into the restroom. "In any case, I think the best thing for you mentally, physically, and hygienically at the moment would be to set all of this aside and have a nice bath," she said over her shoulder.

As Irene put on a dressing gown hanging on the towel rack, she watched Sherlock's reaction through the glass walls. It took him a moment to process what she'd said. When he had, he scowled deeply. "A bath? Why?" he asked, as if she'd suggested doing something truly awful like filing tax forms or having children.

Irene walked casually back into the bedroom, moving immediately over to the large soaker tub. It gave her something to do and a convenient excuse to avoid looking at Sherlock. She was fairly certain now that she was more anxious about what she'd said than he was. She was trying to keep herself occupied, while still venturing quick glances over at Sherlock. Irene plugged the tub and turned on the warm water before replying, "For one thing, you may have cleaned up a bit between the Dead Sea and Tel Aviv, but I'll wager it's been a while since you've had a really proper, long soak." She opened the Dead Sea bath salts left out with the other hotel toiletries and began emptying them into the rising water.

Sherlock fidgeted slightly on the bed. "Oh… If you'd said something I'd have showered again last night before, well…" he looked sheepish, which was something Irene didn't think she'd ever seen from him before. It made her want to jump him. But then, everything he did now seemed to have that affect on her. Dammit.

Irene shot him a quick smile to allay his concern as she finished emptying the bath salts into the tub. She had settled down a bit, though she still felt uncomfortable. "It's fine. I'd hardly have wanted to stop for that last night. And you couldn't have known in advance that you'd be hounded by some woman wanting to have sex with you when you got in."

"Not exactly high on my contingency planning list, no," Sherlock conceded. "But I could just take a shower…"

"Why are you in such a rush? Your flight's not until evening. No one's trying to kill you anymore. And you'll be heading back to London and your old life soon," Irene said confidently, even though she had many reservations about that. It still didn't diminish the amazing accomplishment of coming out of this thing alive at all. "If anything deserves a nice, relaxing bath, I'd say this is it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that. "I don't like relaxing," he grumbled.

"There's a first time for everything, as I think we've proved," Irene said, turning off the water on the now full tub, then heading back to the bed and offering him her hand. "Here, I realise you're probably feeling weak and lethargic. Let me help you up," she offered. Although she'd begun down this path merely as a diversion, looking down at Sherlock's sickly and battered body, Irene softened considerably, realising his muscles actually could use some help. Sherlock looked at her for a long moment before swinging his legs off the bed, taking her hand, and pulling himself up to his feet.

Now they were standing face to face, with Sherlock gazing down at her quietly. It was ridiculous and nearly unprecedented for Irene to feel awkward around someone. And it seemed to make no sense when she'd just had sex with that person the night before. Really, how much closer than that could one get? And yet she remembered what she'd accidentally said earlier, and felt her face growing uncharacteristically warm. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the stare. "I can make it over there on my own, you know," he said.

"Yes," Irene said, stepping out of his way. Sherlock trudged across the room to the tub. He started to methodically remove the plasters and other medical dressings he'd applied the day before, tossing them in the bin. Irene silently approached, but stayed a bit at a distance as he finished removing the coverings. He hesitated momentarily, glancing over instinctively before seeming to realise he had nothing to hide from her and removing his boxers. She remained a few feet away as he stepped into the hot water, hissing.

"Is this supposed to soothe my skin or melt it?" he asked, giving her an annoyed look.

Only you, Sherlock, she thought with a mental shake of her head. But her mood was sobered again as she watched how his muscles shivered even as he lowered himself into steaming water. Between whatever obviously vicious up close fight he'd just had with Moran, a year and a half of being on the run, and the beginning of his cocaine withdrawal, his muscles must be taxed beyond reason. And that wasn't even considering the previous night's activities. Irene had an idea, then dismissed it as too sentimental, then resigned herself to it anyway. Looking down at Sherlock, she remarked, "Is it as awful as you feared?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "It's tolerable," he said.

"It'll be better if you relax," she pointed out.

"Which is incredibly easy to do whilst someone's standing over you telling you how relaxed you should be," he countered dryly.

Irene couldn't help smiling again. "I was going to pop out anyway. Just for a moment. I have to go get something from downstairs," she half explained.

Sherlock was giving her a wary look. "Should I be worried?" behind his usual standoffishness, Irene thought she detected a touch of genuine nervousness. Most likely, he was concerned she wouldn't come back.

Irene approached the free-standing tub and perched herself on one side of it, looking down intently at Sherlock. "I'm not leaving. I promise." There was a beat, then she leaned down instinctively and gave him a gentle kiss. She realised partway through, about the time that Sherlock entangled his wet hands in her hair and parted her lips with his tongue, that she'd been quite right about thinking this was a better way for them to communicate their feelings than talking. Certainly it was less complicated than dancing around certain words or phrases or metaphors. When Irene finally pulled back, coming up for air and to relieve the awkward crook in her back, she saw that a great deal of worry seemed to have melted from Sherlock's features. He even sank down a little further in the water, resting his head against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes for just a second.

"Enjoy your bath. I'll be back in a moment," Irene said. She exchanged one last indefinable look with Sherlock before standing, tightening the tie on her dressing gown, taking a room key off the desk, and heading out the door. She had the presence of mind to hang a 'do not disturb' sign on the door knob before making her way downstairs.