Graduating was easy. It wasn't so much a graduation as much as it was Rachel signing a piece of paper and handing it to the in-house doctors. Rachel signed off Irene as well. Sherlock begrudgingly asked her to accompany him to England. She was ecstatic and bit pretentious but accepted.
Rachel stood in the main entrance, her hands clasped behind her.
"It has been a pleasure and an honor, Sherlock Holmes." Rachel said, holding out a hand to shake. Sherlock took it gratefully and hesitated before pulling her into a quick hug. It was strange how he had reacted under this roof. He wouldn't be like this when he left. She smiled brilliantly and a handed him a small slip of paper.
"If you ever make it stateside again." She said. "I would love to chat."
"Certainly." Sherlock said, stowing the number away in his coat pocket. "Thank you, Rachel." He murmured. "Thank you."
"No problem." She brushed off. "You're the most interesting patient that I've ever had." She dropped his hand and stepped away.
"Goodbye." Sherlock said.
"Goodbye!" Irene said happily. They stepped out into the front courtyard and walked to the cab waiting for them. Sliding inside, the cabbie said,
"I can take you anywhere in New Jersey, New York or Eastern Pennsylvania for free."
"They must pay you well."
"Yeah, they do." He chuckled.
"Where's the nearest airport?"
"That'd be…. Philadelphia." The taxi driver said. "It's about an hour from here.
"Could you take us there?" Sherlock said.
"No problem." He turned around and started the car.
"Did you buy tickets?" Irene asked.
"No, but I'm certain that Mycroft did." Sherlock said, picking at his fingernails.
"Stop doing that." Irene slapped at his hand.
"Okay, let me just do cocaine instead." He said sarcastically. "I'm not doing anything bad, it's just nervous habit."
"Two weeks." She said gently. "How do you feel about it?"
"Oh, I'm just calm as ever." He snapped. "Look at me, Sherlock 'not a care in the world' Holmes. It's not like I haven't seen him in five years or anything."
"Jeez, Sherlock." She said. "I get that you're nervous or whatever."
"I really don't want to talk about it." He said.
"You never want to talk about anything."
"And yet you still try to get me to talk about my life—and your attempts are pathetic." He was staring out of the window. Irene was used to the abuse and just shrugged as She pulled out her iPod from her bag. Sherlock had packed his luggage in the back with the exception of a notebook, a regular book, some pens and his music box. Irene refused to put anything in the back. Sherlock understood. All of her worldy possessions were packed in that bag and she didn't want to loose them. Which reminded him.
"How updated is your passport?"
"I went out a couple weeks ago to get it renewed." She said, raising it from her pocket. "Just after you asked me to come with you." Sherlock nodded.
"Good." Sherlock murmured and turned back to the window.
Arriving at the airport, Sherlock had a few memories come back to him. Mycroft had landed in this airport when they had come here a year ago. He hadn't taken a commercial flight, but he remembered walking through these dreary halls.
"What a depressing place." Sherlock muttered in the entrance of one of the turning glass doors. A man in a suit approached him.
"Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. He had a fantastic British accent that almost made Sherlock smile. He was sick of the way these Americans spoke. "Your jet is ready."
"Jet?" Irene said, her eyes wide. Sherlock shrugged.
"I thought that Mycroft would make me sit in a commercial plane, but I suppose he's feeling sympathetic. No matter, at least I profit."
"We'll need to check your passports and your luggage." he said, leading them away. Sherlock shrugged. Irene followed.
"Private jet? Are you rich?" She asked quietly.
"My brother is."
The beauty of a private jet was that there was no waiting. There were no crying children, no over enthusiastic tourists, no people who played their mp3s too loud. Once the plane made it to cruising altitude, Sherlock really appreciated all of these things. Irene was lounging in her chair, her shoes off and her feet curled underneath her, staring at Sherlock intensely.
"What, what is it?" He snapped.
"I'm trying to figure out what kind of lover you are." She said. "Everyone falls into a certain category."
"I'm not a sexual person, Irene." He sighed. "I'm not going to fall into place—"
"I'm not talking about sex."
"First time in weeks then." He smiled bitterly.
"I'm talking about the kind of lover you are." She said. Her eyes were boring holes into Sherlock. "How you love." She stood up, her long skirt swishing, and sat on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair.
"Are you a gentle lover? A clingy one? Are you spontaneous, needy, or quiet?" Sherlock wouldn't look at her and instead looked out the window. "Do you take pride in your lover or would you keep quiet and keep them all to yourself."
"I don't understand." Sherlock said after a while. "The kind of person I am determines the kind of lover I am. I don't understand what you're asking."
"When you were around him, how did you act?"
"I simply was." He frowned.
"You weren't playful? Did you tease him? Did you put yourself into a dominating position and smirk at him? I can see the last one being you."
"No… none of that really. We were just…" Sherlock pursed his lips. "This conversation is over."
"I just want to know—"
"As soon as we land I can send you straight back." He hissed. "It doesn't matter what kind of lover I was because it's over. He's made his decision and I'm going to live with it if he wants. I'll relapse. I'll go back to America and buddy up with Rachel for two more years, but I'll have closure and that's all I am able to get. Lover or not." He said.
Irene looked at her hands. "But what if it's not over. What if he sees you and remembers—"
"Shut up!" He bellowed. "I am not going to entertain that possibility because I don't have it in me to hope anymore. Hope is a weakness—a weakness that I have crushed with cocaine and now you're trying to implant it in my head again? You really think that having my hopes crushed is going to help this impending relapse?"
"You're not going to relapse because I'm not going to let you."
"You couldn't stop me." He hissed. "That's not the point. I am not going to begin to imagine that anything good is going to happen in two weeks. I'm simply looking to see him. That is pleasure enough for me."
Irene was quiet. She stood up quietly and sat back in her seat. "Do you think you'll ever love again?"
"No."
"But what if you do?"
"I won't."
"You'll stay bitter until you die alone, then?"
"In my line of work, that could be in a few years." Sherlock mumbled. He turned on the television, if only to drown out Irene's voice. Someone had put the Return of the King in the DVD player. Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed play. He didn't watch the movie.
What did it matter what sort of lover Sherlock was? It didn't matter. That sort of thing only mattered if he were seeking someone, if he wanted to be compatible with several other people. Sherlock was only compatible with one other person in the entire world.
Beh I don't know what to write here
Maybe I should just shut up and let you read
but tell me what you think, please!