Sherlock tossed and turned, trying to dispel the anguish he was feeling. Grabbing four nicotine patches from his bedside drawer and planting it on his arm, Sherlock shivered at the shock it had caused. Some dizzying pleasure entered his system, almost calming him down.
Almost.
He could still picture Irene's grey eyes staring at him, the way it stung when she regarded him as an "old colleague." Is that all there is to it?
He should've let her explain, yes, but it is bright as day the moment that man-Godfrey Norton-planted a kiss on her lips. The way he looked at her, the way his pupils dilated at the moment suggested this man is in fact in love with Irene Adler. And knowing her story, Sherlock figured Irene wouldn't just let any man be with her if she wasn't in love with him.
So everything that had happened before... Was it even real?
Of course they are faced with danger, chaos, destruction-that is their world. But maybe she just used her wishes for his safety to run away from him. To escape that mortifying life.
Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. He wanted it to be real. Of course, this is the very reason why sentiment is toxic... It burns him alive.
He could still remember the night when they were both discharged from the hospital-the night before Coventry. He could still feel the way she kissed him as if every thread of their being sealed that kiss. The way his fingers fumbled over the zipper of her dress, his mouth tracing the curve of her neck, throat, breasts...
She was quivering under his touch, both of them oblivious to the injuries they were still recovering in, his tongue rolling over her scars, whispering how he loved every inch of her-whether it be perfection or imperfection. He recalled the way Irene raked his back as they joined, her breath warm against his ear as pushed into her, deeper and deeper in passion, her voice calling out his name at every plunge.
In perfect memory, he could still see her image-lips swollen from their kisses, hair tangled and splayed against the pillow, eyes half-lidded but staring at him lovingly-all of which he hold dear in his heart.
Was she just lying to him the entire time? Was it just a game?
Is she happy now that she had won?
Shaking in anger, Sherlock started throwing and swiping the kitchen table, causing his test tubes and beakers to shatter on the floor. Dropping to his knees, he shut his eyes tight with his hands clenched to fists.
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she appeared on the doorframe, immediately trying to raise Sherlock by the shoulder. "What happened here?" she asked, looking around, immense concern evident in her voice. "You hands are bleeding! Oh dear!"
Sherlock raised his bloody hands, pain started to hit his fingertips. Still, his insides felt nothing, ears deaf to whatever it was that Mrs. Hudson was saying.
As soon as the rays of the sun glinted outside the windowpane of 221B, John Watson arrived. "Sherlock, what happened here?" Noticing the mess on the kitchen.
"I assumed that you know, seeing how early you cam. Mrs. Hudson already told you so why ask?" Sherlock simply replied, eyes fixed far ahead.
"Just stop, Sherlock. Stop the "I'm so clever" act. Mrs. Hudson was crying when she called, can't take the image of your bloody hand off her head." John hissed.
"She's being dramatic." Sherlock replied.
"And so are you." John bit back, causing Sherlock to snap his head to the doctor's direction.
"Why are you here, John?" Sherlock asked exasperated.
John swallowed, fidgeting slightly as he reached for something is his pocket. "This is what it's about, isn't it?"
Sherlock studied what was in John's hand, feeling an invisible fist land on his chest as he realised what it was. An invitation.
"Where did you... No... Don't answer it. She brought it you personally." Sherlock muttered.
"Quite a surprise to me and Mary, actually. I thought it was from both of you... But clearly not." John mused.
"You didn't open it." Sherlock said.
John shook his head. "She said it was for you. And anyone you would want to take."
Sherlock just stared at John coldly, his mind reeling. Was Irene trying to insult him?
"When did you find out she was back?" John asked quietly.
"Last night." Sherlock replied.
"Oh."
"What else did she say?"
John shifted his weight, trying to read Sherlock's stoic expression. "She said she was sorry."
"I'd like to be alone, John. Give my love to Mary and Elizabeth." Sherlock said, his voice on the brink of cracking.
John sighed, nodding.
"The invitation, John. I'll have it." he heard Sherlock say, making him stop halfway to the door.
"You're not seriously thinking of going?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with concern.
Sherlock stretched out his hand and John clicked his tongue in resignation. He handed to invitation to Sherlock and looked at his friend sadly one last time before leaving.
Made of high-quality paper, laced with perfume, gold trimmings-the invitation spells high-profile marriage. Design is very personalised though, each signed by the couple-very private-visitors are narrowed down to close family and friends. Very selective guest list.
Sherlock's eyes trained on the message, his mind suddenly blazed at what he saw.
MR. AND MRS. ALBERT NORTON REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY
AT THE MARRIAGE OF LUCIA ELISE BENNETT TO THEIR SON, GODFREY JAMES NORTON, ON THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER, 4:00PM IN COOMBE ABBEY, BRINKLOW ROAD, BINLEY, WARWICKSHIRE. RECEPTION TO FOLLOW.
Irene's fiancé is Albert Norton's son-the lawyer whose clientele hold national intelligence.
Everything seemed clearer now. This was Mycroft's play all along.