Liesl is unhappy when Sherlock arrives back at their suite. This particular suite is pale pink, with heavy net curtains across the full length windows, and does not overlook the beach. Rudi booked it and there is no balcony.
Liesl starts the moment the door is shut. There are demands, insistences on details of where Sherlock has been and who he has seen. Sherlock explains that he worked, lost track of time, needed to sleep and just walked into a hotel. "I slept in my clothes," he says, showing her his crumpled suit. "I solved the case," he adds.
She inspects him with her challenging eyes, as if she could tell whether he has undressed between now and when she last saw him. She is proud and jealous and possessive of him, this man she has captured. He supposes he admires her strength. If she were weak he could not persuade himself even for a moment. She is interesting and difficult, and he needs her urgently to tell him the plan, or give it away, but thus far that part of his mission is not working. He is running out of time. The wedding is in a few weeks, and after that he suspects that Mycroft will remove him from the project. It may even not last that long. Mycroft is concerned about the engagement, although Sherlock has explained his reasoning. Mycroft remains suspicious and increasingly demands that Sherlock prove he is all right, that he can cope, that he is not becoming emotionally involved.
Sherlock is fine. Mentally things are clear. Physically he is drained.
Liesl will tell him, will trust him. She has already demonstrated the ultimate human trust in him and it is a measure of her fanaticism that she considers her work, her secret work, above even this.
He thinks she is the coldest person he has ever met. Cold yet passionate, an extremely dangerous combination. Someone who can keep their mind and body separated for long periods, what would such a person not be capable of?
He smiles, in her direction, because she is so like him, in certain ways. But he is not cold.
She purses her lips at his smile and continues her assessment of his likely guilt in staying out overnight.
He stands impassive, accepting her wrath until she relents and says, "Now," and he says "All right," and manages a more genuine seeming smile and they go to bed.
He looks at his hand on the pillow above her head, at the agate ring John gave him, and thinks of John, calm and loving, caring for him, scolding him for not looking after himself, desperate to know what is going on with the mysterious case which Sherlock is not even supposed to have mentioned, worried, clearly, about Sherlock and Liesl (and puzzled by it, of course he is, he is utterly lost trying to think about how Sherlock can go from desiring John to becoming engaged to this woman, and Sherlock can see the answer in John's own misery with Mary, the answer being, of course, that it is impossible, that you cannot love and desire someone one minute, and then commit to their opposite the next, and for both to be real.) John will understand, soon. And meanwhile, he made Sherlock sleep, and did not so much as touch him except to put him on the bed, although he did remove his shoes, though not socks, and undo his shirt, just one button, two buttons...
Liesl makes an appreciative noise, briefly putting Sherlock off.
John woke Sherlock by touching him, his hand on Sherlock's wrist, checking his pulse. Those firm fingers, steadiness and love against the beat of Sherlock's heart. And then as Sherlock lay there with his eyes closed, counting with John, he heard John sigh and whisper, You, just you, and what was his expression then, was it frustration, annoyance (no, definitely not) or sadness, or longing? Perhaps it was longing, and John was wishing that he could bend and kiss Sherlock like he used to, on the lips, Sherlock feeling the whisper touch of John's soft sweet mouth, or perhaps John longed to kiss Sherlock's neck, maybe with teeth, maybe with roaming hands, and his body pressed against Sherlock's, and how could Sherlock have resisted that, obviously he couldn't, he and John and a hotel room and nobody knowing where they were or who with, intoxicating, and not just the passion but the warmth and love and rightness of being there together, but then again the passion and John's hands on him, slipping off his ruined suit, stroking and caressing and enticing him over the edge.
John's dark blue eyes and square hands, John fiercely protective when it comes to Sherlock, John helpless against a lip on the rim of a teacup.
Beautiful, dangerous, mine. Still mine.
And there is the precipice, and Sherlock goes over it gladly, blotting out Liesl calling his name and keeping his mouth tight shut as the moment judders and pulses through him. Fragments of John,of the past and future, of himself,of everything which made him, fly about and reshape themselves into new and magical forms in the secret places where no eye can travel and no heart can influence the outcome.
As Liesl recovers with gasps and whimpers and her fingernails in Sherlock's back, Sherlock hears music. It has been a long time.
"Where are you going?" asks Liesl.
"Composing," says Sherlock, sliding out of bed and putting his bare feet into the thick pink carpet. "Stay there, rest."
He has done his bit for the mission this morning already.
A week later, the breakthrough comes. Sherlock is scanning the Barcelona papers at four a.m.; Liesl is in the en suite preparing to be on set and in Make-up for five o'clock. When she is working, time and rest mean nothing to her.
Sherlock has received a message from Mycroft, in the form of a coded request for help on a case. The message tells Sherlock, in essence, to have a result very soon or consider this avenue of investigation dead. Mycroft's contacts will pursue other methods. Sherlock crumples the message and puts it into his pocket for destruction once he has left the hotel.
As he stands, impatient energy refusing stillness, Liesl emerges from the bathroom with her hair wet and an expression of stunned happiness on her face. She comes over to him and kisses him, making his shirt damp. She is holding her phone.
"I have news," she says. "At last."
She looks up at him and sees his eager face. She sighs tenderly and presses her hand over his heart. "It is work," she explains. "We have been given permission, have been given full access, total discretion over what to film, for the pan-European rail project."
Sherlock manages to look blank.
"The rail project," she says. "You know how Rudi has been trying to get my production company some serious work, a serious documentary project. Our crew's credentials are superb. The doubt was about me. But I have convinced them to employ us. We will film and interview and record everything about the completion of the sub Alpine tunnel, we will be there on the spot for the inauguration, we will prove that I am not just a pretty face and that it has never been about clothes or underwear or kissing a man to titillate the audience."
Her voice has dropped, and she speaks breathlessly. She burns with energy and with despite for the work she has done to bring her team to this triumph.
"I am happy for you," Sherlock says. He kisses her forehead. "When does the project start?" Time, he needs time, now that the target has been identified. The European rail project! Its success will unite a fragile and bickering set of nations. Its failure would break Europe apart, financially and politically. The project has been on the edge for months, and only heavy intervention by the British and German governments has prevented its collapse. And now Liesl has it in her sights.
It is big, it is prestigious, its demise will be captured on film and the Europe will disintegrate.
He admires her boldness. A tunnel. He assumes a bomb. Dignitaries killed: political, structural and therefore also financial damage. She is going for every front at once.
"It begins in October," Liesl says, eyes glowing. "Late October. Which means, my love-"
"That we need to bring the wedding forward. I agree completely."
She kisses his face all over. "You are perfect," she says. "I will contact the wedding planners today. We will find a nearer date."
"This project," Sherlock says, allowing his voice to take on a slight quaver. "You will access everywhere in this, whatever it is. Tunnel. Will it be dangerous?"
She laughs at him. "You know how I love danger. Remember me in that harness for the Eiffel Tower shoot?"
He does. Liesl in skin-tight clothing dangling above a fascinated crowd for the promotion of mascara. It was daring and aesthetically perfect, and it was before their engagement "Yes. It was terrifying." She must not be near the bomb. He does not suspect her of kamikaze tendencies, but cannot take the risk.
She laughs again. "This will be dangerous, yes, at times, but for your sake, I promise I will stay well back from anything too ... harmful."
"Thank you," he says, holding her tightly. "I could not bear it if anything happened to you."
He means it, and she must sense something, because she kisses him again and again, and then shrieks and points to the clock and rushes back to the bathroom to get ready for work.
Sherlock stands vibrating with pent up tension. He will alert Mycroft to this new development. He will point out the foolishness of any attempt to remove Sherlock from Liesl's side until immediately before the terror attack. He will remind them that to break up this group of which she is the figurehead and financier, they need to catch them and humiliate them in one deft move, and that his absence would arouse suspicion.
He must not be removed until the last moment. He needs all the time possible before she is taken away forever.