Hello :) As I promised, this Chapter came quickly after the last one. Those of you who saw 'The Last Enemy' with Benedict Cumberbatch will notice that I borrowed some of the details from that series. Those of you who haven't- I highly recommend it :) I had so much fun writing this chapter, I hope you'll have as much fun reading it :)
Sherlock Holmes, or Stephen Ezard, as he was now called found his hiding place in China, on the mountain Hua Shan, not far from the city of Xian, where the famous terra cotta warriors were. His house was on the highest of the five mountain peaks, linked to civilization only by stone paths and stairs, carved in the very mountain. The view from it was breathtaking which didn't interest Mr. Ezard very much; he was a mathematician who chose this particular spot which provided him with the necessary peace and isolation to work on his new theory, or so the few people he came into contact with thought. The view didn't interest Mr. Holmes either, since he chose it as a hideout, and he wasn't known as a man who admires nature a lot. In fact, the only thing that interested Mr. Holmes at the moment was what in the devil's name was Irene Adler doing at his front door.
"What are you doing here?" he repeated the question, still unable to think of anything else to say.
She had an ecstatic smile on her face: "I knew you were alive! I knew it before I came here, but it's good to see the confirmation of your theories in person. May I come in...?Stephen. "She smiled flirtatiously.
Sherlock got himself back together, remembering he actually doesn't want to see her, or so he thought.
"No. Why are you here?" he said, with a mild tone of irritation in his repeated question this time.
Her smile vanished, and she firmly crossed her arms on her chest, assuming a displeased posture.
"Hello Irene. It's so nice of you to travel across half of the world just to come and see me." She said in a sarcastic manner.
"Hello Irene. You shouldn't have done that in the first place. Could you leave now, I'm busy." Said Sherlock, in an even worse tone.
"Busy with what?" she laughed at him. "I'm pretty sure you're driving yourself insane her, isolated from everything and everyone. The best part of you day must be when an animal passes by or when it rains!" she said, now visibly irritated.
"Even if it were so, it is certainly not your job to entertain me, so off you go!" Sherlock answered, accenting each of the last three words.
They stood there, looking at each other in silent anger.
Sherlock couldn't stand the silence anymore, so with the face of an offended child he asked her:
"So, how did you find me?"
A huge smile appeared on Irene's up to that moment frowned face. She raised her eyebrow:
"If you make me a cup of tea, I'll tell you."
"It's beautiful here." She said, admiring the view from one of the windows.
Sherlock came in, carrying a tray with two cups of tea. "I don't know, I never really thought about it."
He observed her while she calmly drank her tea. It was the first time he saw her in clothes that were more practical then nice or provocative; she even had a backpack. The only things that didn't change from her usual style were her red nails and the lipstick in the matching color she clearly put on just before knocking on his door. He couldn't deduce what interest she had in finding him here; how did she manage, and why didn't she believe the story of his death like everyone else? The only good thing about the situation was the surprise effect; he was still in too much of a shock to think about Amsterdam and what happened between them.
"You look different." She stated. "Bright colors on you. It looks funny."
"I am an eccentric mathematician who always wears the same clothes. In that way, people think 'Oh, there's the dork in the same clothes he always wears' and don't pay much attention to his curious resemblance to the very dead English detective."
"Nice touch." She smiled.
"Thank you." He didn't smile back.
"I've disappointed you." She stated.
"Not really. For someone to disappoint you you must have an unreal image of what he or she is like; you merely reminded me why you're not to be trusted."
At that point she decided not to tell him about Moriarty yet. It would be much more fun to win him back over on her own and then tell him, especially since he had nowhere to hide from her in here, so success was imminent.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the best of him again.
"Ah, that." She smiled. "I must admit you, you had me...fooled for a moment, I was horrified upon reading an article about your suicide. But then something didn't seem right. I knew you worshiped yourself too much to do such a thing."
"I had to. Moriarty threatened to kill all of my friends if I didn't take a leap of shame after the whole affair."
"All of us?" she teased.
"You're not my friend."
"What am I then?"
"The person explaining how she found me, you can continue with that."
She smiled. "After realizing you were alive, I tried to walk in your shoes, get in your mind. What would I do if I was believed to be dead and if I wanted to keep it that way? I knew you had two choices, to hide in plain sight or go somewhere far away, and I voted for option number two since you are such a hot topic in England, it would be a risk for you to stay there. So somewhere far away it was. Then I decided that it would probably be a non-English speaking country because of the smaller probability that they read English newspapers, so they probably wouldn't have heard anything about you. I had a sense that you'd choose an intellectual occupation, since you're obviously in this for the long run, so for a couple of weeks I studied the files of our young scientist, philosophers and others of your age relocating somewhere abroad within a few days from your alleged death. It was a long list, but faith served me when a discovered a file without a photograph on a man named Stephen Ezard, a brilliant young mind relocating to China to do his experiments in some private estate. It was not entirely deduction; I had a hunch about this, so I pulled some strings in Asia to discover that Mr. Ezard has dark hair, blue eyes, a strange habit to always wear the same clothes; and nasty social habits too. After that, finding out what some people who could give me your new address like was very easy."
"Impressive." Said Sherlock honestly.
"Meretricious." Said Irene with fake modesty.
"Well, if you leave now, you will reach the city just before dark. I'll walk you out." Said Sherlock, jumping to his feet.
"Slow down, Mr. Holmes. I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't stay here; I hope that's clear to you."
"I am staying, that is obviously not clear to you."
"Somebody could have followed you when you came. The longer you stay, the greater is the danger you're pulling us both into. You are dead to, remember?"
"I was very careful. The only danger is that someone could see me on the way down when I would leave, so I'm sure you realize it's best if I just stay."
Sherlock frowned. He would rather argue with ten people at once then with her.
"And how long do you plan on disturbing me exactly?"
"For a while. Maybe you'll be the one asking me to stay in the end."
"I highly doubt that."
"I know. That's what makes it interesting."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. And then he started feeling hurt, drawing the parallels between this and the last time he saw her. She was playing him, again. He will not fall for it again. She obviously wouldn't leave unless he threatened her with a gun, and he feared she'll return with an even bigger gun afterwards in that case. Perhaps she'll be bored if he completely ignores her, and then she will leave. That could be it. 'Do you really want her to leave?' said John's voice, appearing again in an awkward situation. Yes, of course, he thought. She really is shameless. How does she even dare to come here after what she did?
They spent the rest of the afternoon silent, Irene reading a book, Sherlock staring at the wall. He couldn't ignore her presence for a second; he tried to think of anything else but it didn't work, she popped back into his mind only seconds after she left. Damn that woman.
"Let's have dinner." She said, snapping him out of his chain of thoughts.
"What?"
"Dinner. I mean real dinner this time." She said pointing to the kitchen table where the dinner she was referring to was. He didn't even notice that it was dark now.
"Oh."
"Don't be so disappointed, nobody says we can't have two dinners in one evening...at least." She winked.
Sherlock planned a silent boycott of her food, but he gave in after the first bite. He was definitely eating to live, not the other way around, but she knew her cooking. He frowned again. He fell for her food once before, he is not going to do that again. But he could finish off what was in his plate; it would be a shame to waste such nice food. This was not good, he realized.
"To whom may we thank for this nice food in the fridge? Not to you, that's for sure. I sometimes think you perform photosynthesis; where are your leaves hidden in that case?"She asked mischievously.
"Mycroft. He will be my sponsor as long as I'm dead; that's his way of apologizing for ruining and ending my life. It works fine for me."
"I never liked him." Said Irene, amused with the story.
"Neither did I." Sherlock agreed.
She poured herself a glass of vine. "Interested?" she asked, pointing to the other glass she took out of the cupboard.
"Not even the slightest." He said, getting up.
He walked out of the kitchen to the terrace. It was probably because he needed a moment alone, she thought with a smile, and then followed him.
She found him leaning on the fence of the terrace, above him the most beautiful sky she ever saw. It reminded her of that night when she kissed him. Now that's an idea, she thought. Sneaking up on him, like a cat on her mouse, she put one of her arms on his shoulder. He twitched when he sensed her touch.
She looked deep into his eyes, as if she tried to see his soul through them. He was petrified by the hunger in her eyes; her half opened mouth and the slightly increasing pressure her hand made on his shoulder. He could foresee her actions so clearly, and he snapped out of the temptation in the last moment.
"Oh no, you're not. Not this time." Said Sherlock, moving a step back and out of her reach.
"You're so selfish Mr. Holmes. Can't a girl have her moment of romance?"
"A girl, yes. A man-eater, no."
"Was that a compliment?" she said, approaching him as a hunter again.
"I'm going to bed. And no, don't say it's a good idea, or whatever it is that you would say."
"I wasn't going to say anything, what gives you that idea?" she said, laughing.
He rolled his eyes. "The guest bedroom, your bedroom", emphasizing the 'your', "is the one next to the kitchen."
Irene smiled. She couldn't remember if she ever enjoyed the game so much; he was just so wonderful to flirt at. After finishing another glass of vine on the terrace, she judged that he had enough time to lie down, and not fall asleep of course. She could bet he was lying, staring in the darkness and thinking about the woman that was taking parts of her clothes off on her way to his room, leaving them on the floor as breadcrumbs. Before opening the door, she loosened her long, curly hair.
She opened the door as quietly as possible, although she knew he heard her already when she was in the hallway. She slipped under the cover next to him, visibly amused by his fake sleeping.
"I know you're awake." She said in a chanting voice.
"I have a theory that you will disappear if I don't see you. It was working just fine until a moment ago, don't spoil it."
Irene laughed, gently scratching his neck. "But I don't feel like sleeping." She said, provoking him.
She was giving his self control such a hard time. Surprisingly, the moment she came, the same old sentiment causing happiness flooded him, replacing the bitterness and anger he felt for her in the many months that passed since their last meeting. He knew somewhere deep down that he was very happy to see her, despite everything. That didn't make sense, after all that happened between them. It scared him to lose control to her again; and it scared him even more that he wanted to trust her again. The fact that her head was now on his shoulder, her hand playing with his hair and neck and the warm sensation her naked body pressed gently against his was not helpful in any way. He just lay there, half enjoying the moment, half waiting for her to grow bored of it and fall asleep. And she did, but not before gently kissing his lips before assuming her final sleeping position on his shoulder.
"Goodnight Mr. Holmes."
"Goodnight."
Thank you for reading & please review!
