"We've an hour to wait until the flight. I told you we didn't have to leave so early. But you don't listen to me, do you?" Irene complained, crossing her legs and sitting against the hard, uncomfortable backing of her seat. Her husband was next to her, texting his brother and utterly ignoring her existence.
"Oh, come off it," he replied, punching letters into the screen. "It won't take long. Didn't you bring a book, per my instructions?"
"I did, but per my own instructions. I choose my own books, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said, reaching into her carryon bag and drawing forth a copy of And Then There Were None. Sherlock snickered.
"Getting the itch?" he asked, his eyes surveying the glossy hard cover.
"I told you I like detective stories…and detectives…and I still do." She licked her finger and opened to the page where she had left off. "Don't mock me, Mr. Holmes."
"I don't mock," he asserted.
"Then don't say anything."
"Fine," he said, navigating his way to Twitter. He hadn't been on in a few months, but it wouldn't hurt to check anything…or tweet. He always would whenever he was in a good humor, as he was this morning.
The week in Iceland had done something to him…he was having a hard time admitting that he didn't really want it to end.
Day one had been so odd. There was no denying that. They had both been so incredibly bored; there were no puzzles to solve, Irene had been successful in catching Sherlock, so she was no longer "in pursuit." There was no John Watson to wrinkle his nose at them or shoo them out the door, and there was no Mycroft to make them do something that he thought they couldn't do. So for a long while, they just did nothing.
Finally, Irene drew back the curtains (which had been shut and carelessly left so) and emphatically declared, "Let's do something, for goodness sake. We're in Iceland, Mr. Holmes. We ought to do something about it."
And do something about it they did.
Sherlock had nearly gotten their heads blown off trying to measure the geothermal energy inside the Strokkur Geysir after normal daylight hours. It was an experiment for his blog, apparently. He had finally gotten an estimated measurement calculated mere moments before the ground began to vomit boiling water.
Irene dared him to try whale meat, the flavor of which nearly made him regurgitate into the nearest waste bin whilst she snickered hysterically. When he had the chance, he had his revenge and forced her to stomach a morsel of fermented shark. Forcing herself to chew, she managed to preserve her feminine dignity and laughed in his face after she had swallowed it.
"I don't see what's so bad about this," she quipped, to his immense irritation.
They ran around the island like two little children, Sherlock finding the volcanic rock formations fascinating and Irene wasting his money on the fashions of downtown Reykjavik.
And, of course, they stayed up late doing what married people do (and what both of them had equally wished for) in the dimly lit space of a candlelit room that smelled of cinnamon, lilac, and love (the smells of which were perpetrated by his eager wife).
Sherlock decided that this was what puzzled him most.
It seemed to frighten them both in the beginning. For the husband moreso, for he had never allowed himself the liberty to love someone as he found himself doing. It terrified him, for it seemed that he was opening the windows of his soul so someone could look in…so she could look in.
Naturally, it will be supposed that the wife was eager, determined, and quick to execute that which had been a longing of hers ever since she had laid eyes on him, and it would not be incorrect in supposing so. But it must be mentioned that when the anticipated time came, a strange reckoning passed before her mind, and she understood why she had hesitated for the smallest of moments before she had first kissed him.
She had never known this beyond a mere act. The physical collision of two people for the sake of self-gratification had been her financial stability and source of power for years: a routine…her bread and butter. But Sherlock Holmes was her husband; she his wife. She wasn't being paid to do this. Her love wasn't for hire. She actually felt something for the person in question. And she decided that she wanted to show him how she felt. Because it wasn't lust…it was…desire. It wasn't blind, mad, ridiculous passion with no point; there was a point, and that point was her love for him.
And what it did to her…what it did to her was another matter entirely.
It reminded her of something she had read in secondary school. The name of the book escaped her, but the words were applicable this time, despite them never having been so.
"What is a lizard compared to a stallion? Lust is a poor, weak, whimpering, whispering thing when compared with that richness and energy of desire which will arise after lust has been killed."
She smiled every time she thought of it.
Because it was evident that Love was at her spinning wheel; busily spinning two threads into one piece of cloth.
Similarly, the emotional depravity that had mastered Sherlock when Irene had "died" had seemingly returned to knock him over and haunt the hollows of his mind palace once more; only this time its magnitude was manifested in the form of ecstasy. It brought only laughter to his lips. Emotions were manifested equally between them, and for once the balance was equal. Their unending game of domination was forgotten; she saw no need for it. Indeed, neither of them did. In its place was a strangely gentle consummation and an energetic passion.
The detective had never been allowed the time to dwell on the clichés of romance. He had never particularly wanted to. But now he was one, for God's sake. Whether he was or not, he now felt that to say "the two become one" is no gross sentiment (as he had previously considered it), but merely the only weak, inadequate way that humans have to express and describe a complicated, amorous reality.
A reality where two people…can actually become one.
It fascinated him. Fascinated him to death.
Ugh. What was happening to him?
And it was just the same for her. It had been many years since anything had cleared her mind of monstrous memories and filled it solely with warranted, lawful happiness: happiness that, if shoved into the open, would never once have caused her embarrassment, shame, or extortion. But such was this time to Irene Adler. Or, as she became known legally: Irene Holmes. And while in Iceland, Mrs. Holmes unadulteratedly loved her clever detective with everything she had (she was allowed to and required to by the British government, it seemed), and each day they went out, she made him wear the funny hat.
Today was the fifth day; and they were flying home in less than an hour now. He wondered if it was wrong of him to have enjoyed it so much…to have enjoyed her so much. He glanced at her reading her book, daintily turning each page with a manicured hand. He grinned silently to himself. What a lucky man he was…to have such a clever woman.
His phone buzzed, interrupting his matrimonial reverie, which successfully managed to irk him. He was irked at himself, apparently.
But on the phone whirred, vibrating against his fingers. He glanced at the screen, and to his surprise, he found that it was Greg Lestrade who was calling him.
"Who is it, darling?" Irene asked, turning another page.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock answered, hoping his wife would figure it out.
"Hey, Sherlock. How's Iceland? How's the wife?" Greg asked, his voice indescribably perky. Sherlock wanted to vomit into the phone.
"Greg, don't try and do small talk. I know what you're calling about. What's happened? London up in flames the minute I step out of the country?"
"Well, we've had a break in," Greg replied.
Sherlock blinked twice. Then he laughed. "A break-in? I thought break-ins weren't your division?"
"Well, they're not, but this one was…important. National Gallery."
"The National Gallery? What's been stolen?" Sherlock demanded, his eyebrows kicking up in interest. Irene's eyes were inquisitive little creatures, and they looked like blue half-moons. She was doing her very best to eavesdrop on her husband's conversation.
"Nothing, actually," Lestrade continued, "But…well, we found a corpse. One of the security guards. Knife to the throat…again. Just like the last one."
"Spare me the details. I'm at the airport right now, and I'll look into it when I get back. It'll be nice to have a case to come home to," Sherlock blurted, quite resolute.
"We figured you'd say that. But before you go, I've got something else to tell you."
"What?" the detective asked.
"Well…seeing as it's just like the last one…we're quite sure it's…you know…him. Because he left another note."
Sherlock bit his lip.
"What kind of note?" he asked. Irene was leaning on his shoulder with her ear to the phone.
"Well…written with someone's blood. At least, that's what it looks like."
"And what does the note say, Greg?" he asked, his voice pressing and urgent.
Lestrade paused a moment before answering, and they could hear him swallow before he said: "It just says, 'Congratulations.' That's all."
Irene smiled.
"Ohh…it's time to play again, is it?" Sherlock asked under his breath. Then he started laughing to himself. Lestrade was a bit confused. "We'll be at the National Gallery as soon as we can, Greg."
"Yeah, that's great…erm…we'll see you in a few hours, then?"
"Yes, fine. See you then. Goodbye."
He turned to Irene, who was still pressed up against his phone.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
She tenderly kissed his angry lips and said, "You needed a nudge, darling. Getting rather slow, these days. Let's not forget you needed my help with the last one. Besides…I like it when you get cross with me."
He huffed, putting his phone into his pocket as she sank back into her chair. Pulling out his own book, he opened to the thirtieth page of The Man Who Was Thursday. Mycroft had recommended it, but Sherlock didn't see what was so clever about the novel. All the men were idiots, and if they weren't dead by the end, then they would be unemployed beggars. Either everyone was an anarchist, or no one was. Quite typical of eighteenth-century literature. However, he was convinced that something spectacular would happen when Sunday and Syme were reunited…which was an event most likely to occur at the novel's conclusion. And he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who Sunday would end up being. It felt so hilariously obvious.
They sat side by side for twenty minutes, Irene trudging deeper into Agatha Christie, and Sherlock sighing aimlessly after every other page of his novel. He decided that he could have saved these fools from quite a bit of trouble if Chesterton had written him in as a character. But he mustn't chide them too harshly; they were Scotland Yard fellows, after all.
Sherlock's phone buzzed angrily inside his pocket for the second time that day.
"Who is it this time?" Irene wondered out loud, setting her book in her lap and glancing at the caller ID. It was an unrecognized number, but it was a British one. He answered it promptly.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" asked a delicately deep feminine voice from the other end. The voice sounded like its owner had been running or panting or crying. He couldn't tell which. It wasn't a young voice, but neither an old one: strong, deep, mature, but still delicate. Sherlock squinted. He had heard this voice before, and it was driving him mad that he couldn't place it.
"Yes, and who is this?"
"Lady Smallwood—Alicia Smallwood, Mr. Holmes. Your brother gave me your mobile in the event of an emergency in which I needed to reach you in his absence."
"And I suppose this is an emergency, then?"
"Oh dear God…" Lady Smallwood muttered, her repetitive breaths shuddered against his ear, and Sherlock's face grew pale. "It's more than an emergency, Mr. Holmes. Are you sitting down?" She sniffled.
"Yes, I—I am. What—what's happened, Lady Smallwood?"
He was trying to stay calm. His breathing was irregular, but he struggled to keep his voice steady. The woman on the other line sounded frantic, and he didn't want to upset her further.
"Oh, dear God…" she whispered again. "It's…your brother, Mr. Holmes. It's Mycroft. He's…he's just been taken to the hospital. He wasn't breathing…and there was blood…lots of blood…" she said, sighing in despair. "…blood all over his vest…and…"
Sherlock thought his heart had stopped. There was a moment of silence in which he could hardly hear himself breathe. Irene stared at him; her eyes wide in horror. Clutching the phone, he smushed it into the side of his face, as if doing so could make the woman keep talking. His lips were ajar, his tongue had gone dry, and his stomach was in the back of his mouth. His heart was banging noisily against his ribcage.
"What exactly are you saying? What's happened?" he asked, each word painful and excruciatingly difficult to form. He closed his eyes as he heard her inhale in preparation to speak.
Her voice was hardly a whisper as she said, "Mycroft's been shot."
The phone fell from his hands, clattering onto the floor.
He put his hand to his mouth. His forehead started sweating. His heart was louder than anything and everything. Blood was pounding inside his head, his fingers were shaking, and his insides rattled around inside him like a moth caught in a jar. He wiped his face, ran his hands over his head, and was breathing abnormally loud. He was coughing now, too. His head was spinning: the ground was up, the ceiling was down, his legs were planks of jelly.
"No…" he whispered to himself, over and over. "No, no, no, no…"
He walked over toward the window to stand in silence, his hand on his head. He had to control his breathing. He had to slow his heart. He needed to calm down. He leaned against the glass, pressing his forehead to the cold surface. He closed his eyes, muttering words under his breath. Perhaps he was calming himself. Perhaps he was praying. Who knew; perhaps he was defying logic and telepathically wishing his brother back to health.
Irene had since picked up the phone he had dropped and was speaking with Lady Smallwood. He couldn't even hear what she was saying. All he knew was that his brother was in an ambulance somewhere…not breathing…bleeding…possibly dying.
Dying…Mycroft…
Mycroft was dying?
"Mr. Holmes? Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"
He had his eyes closed; he wanted to go.
"Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."
He wanted to close his ears, and he wanted to go…now.
"Listen to me! For God's sake, Sherlock!"
He needed to go. He was almost there.
His wife's hand was on his shoulder, massaging it. She tried to pull him from the window, but he didn't move. She scratched his head consolingly, but all he wanted was to be alone. Of all the places, he wanted to be there: alone. This was one of those times when alone was going to protect him.
"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, pressing on a sore spot in his neck.
"Can you just stop?" he responded furiously, waving his hands to shoo her hands away from his face as if they were buzzing flies.
"Are you alright—"
"Shut up—just shut up!" he whirled around, facing her. His face was frantic: like he had barely escaped from a tornado's vortex. His eyes were wide, and she could hear the panic in his voice. Nevertheless, she was angry.
"How dare you—"
"Just please…shut up for one moment."
"No, you listen to me, Mr. Holmes," she practically spat into his face.
"You don't understand. You cannot understand this."
"Understand what?" she asked.
He looked at her solemnly. He didn't mean to wound her, but the heat of the moment had frustrated him so. Cupping the side of her face in his hand, he said, "I need to go to my mind palace. Please. Let me go to my mind palace. I'll come out before the plane leaves, but for God's sake, just let me go to my mind palace."
Irene's eyes were now sporting morning dew drops, and she looked so terribly vexed.
"Fine."
She turned away from him and went to sit in a chair facing the open window so as to watch the planes come in. Her hand was over her mouth; Sherlock had never seen her so distraught. He knew that if he was anywhere near a good husband he would go and apologize. But then again…he was something of an exception in that area.
He had his brother to think of. He had to find him…now. He had to hear his voice. Sherlock Holmes needed his brother. He was no longer afraid to admit it, and the thought of Mycroft Holmes lying unconscious on a stretcher with blood spurting from his chest put a ball in his throat and sent prickles up his back.
So he closed his eyes.
He went into his mind palace.
Running like mad through the many rooms, calling the name of one of the only people in the world who had ever meant anything to him.
"Sherlock, you okay?" a voice asked. John Watson was here. He was at a desk typing on his computer. But Sherlock ran past him, leaving him bewildered.
"You need to breathe, Sherlock. Breathe," a commanding voice told him as he turned a corner. It was Molly Hooper in her white coat, latex gloves, and pony tail. He paused a moment in front of her, but ran past, nearly tripping as he went by her.
"What's wrong with you?" another voice asked, and Sherlock saw Anderson coming out of a room, his wide eyes popping out of his hairy face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and barreled past him without even thinking.
"Fancy a cuppa, dear?" asked a squeaky, motherly someone. Mrs. Hudson had a cup and saucer in her hand, smiling in a concerned sort of way at Sherlock.
"Erm—not now, Mrs. Hudson, but thank you!" he shouted in a tizzy of excitement. She looked flustered just standing there.
He kept running: running through halls, rooms, memories, fears, terrors, nightmares, and dreams. He saw Musgrave Manor up in flames. He saw himself searching for Redbeard…for Victor. He saw the graves with the fake dates on them. He saw himself.
He was close now.
Peeking into the next room, he stopped abruptly. He didn't hear a voice. He didn't see anyone's figure. But this was the one. He had made it. He had finally found his brother. Maybe his eyes were wet when they recognized what was happening.
But there he was.
He had found what he was looking for.
He had found Mycroft.