Author's Note: I'm feeling quite nervous about how this chapter will be received as I know what you're about to read is a long-awaited turn of events! I'm hoping it lives up to everyone's expectations, but please let me know what you think :D This is your M-Rating warning...Be prepared! :o)
"Watson, a great man once said that 'the sole purpose of comrades is to shoulder the very heaviest of one's burdens'..."
Watson, who had been staring uncomprehendingly into space, looked at Holmes as if he had only just realised his friend was there at all.
"Really?" Watson asked vaguely. "Might I ask who you're referring to?"
"Myself," said Holmes. He was twiddling his thumbs behind his back, never having been one for compassionate words, and feeling entirely uncomfortable with the situation. "Perhaps...There is something you'd like to...share?"
"There's nothing on my mind that's more important than the case," Watson assured him with a noticeably half-hearted smile.
"Is it the medical practice?"
"No, Holmes."
Holmes snapped his fingers, as if hit by a sudden epiphany. "Family worries, then. You must be missing your dear wife..."
At this, Watson's entire body seemed to stiffen.
"Thank you for your concern," he said finally, through gritted teeth. "But please, it's nothing, so let's drop it."
"Very good, I understand."
Watson snorted. "No you don't..."
Holmes, Watson and Irene were walking together by the side of the river under the midday sun. The landmark tenth day of the investigation had arrived, leaving only four days left to prove Irene's innocence before the warrant would arrive from the office of the Home Secretary in London. In light of this, Watson had suggested they spend the afternoon away from the palace in order to discuss their most recent findings where they would not be overheard. Watson himself had several points to discuss with his comrades, concerning his recent conversation with Jhasmine. He hadn't managed to find the time the day before...
"Do you think it's safe to talk?" Watson asked as the trio came around a hairpin bend in the river and sat down to rest beneath a canopy of tree branches. The slowly rotting body of a bovine creature lay on the riverbank a little way away and the smell was far from pleasant. Nevertheless, Watson knew they would be lucky to find a better spot to converse in private.
"We'll have sufficient warning should eavesdroppers approach," Holmes assured him. "Doctor, the floor is yours!"
Watson adjusted his hat and settled himself on a craggy rock, chin resting on his clasped hands.
"I've become acquainted with the Maharaja's daughter, Jhasmine..."
Upon hearing this, Irene broke into a huge grin.
"Fantastic! What did you think?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course."
Watson considered, aware that he was speaking about a member of the Royal Family. "Just as you would expect a princess to be," he said. "Pampered, self-absorbed... In this case - exceedingly distressed by the death of her brother, and a crack-shot with a rifle!" Watson eyed Holmes meaningfully. "She's not fooled by the hearsay concerning Jamal's death, that's for sure..."
"An informant?" Irene asked.
"Perhaps," said Watson, "Or..."
"...She knows who it was that killed him," Irene finished. "But we don't..."
"What if it was Jhasmine...?"
Irene turned to stare incredulously at Watson.
"But if the murderer and the thief are the same two people, are you saying Jhasmine killed her own brother? I thought you said she was distraught?"
"She is. I'm not saying it was done willingly," Watson said uneasily. "But we already know there are two people responsible for the theft of the Sapphire and the murder of the guards; one of whom had to have been good with a firearm." He looked 'round at his companions, his expression unusually grave. "If the second thief had some sort of a hold over Jhasmine, who knows what she might have done?"
"I hate to interrupt this lovely banter," Holmes butted in, "But theorising will fail to get us anywhere at all."
"Jhasmine didn't kill her brother," Irene said firmly, ignoring Holmes completely.
"Of course she didn't," Holmes couldn't resist interrupting again. "The manner of which he died rules her out of her brother's murder enquiry. Despite your hopeless ramblings, the deductions you made concerning Jhasmine's shooting skills may prove to be essential to our further enquiry, Watson. I confess myself to be impressed..."
"What if we focused on Alcott?" Irene asked Watson. "He could easily have a hold over Jhasmine."
"How so?" Watson asked.
"He has his ways..." Irene shot a dark look at Holmes, who realised she was referring to the case of Nahali and did not press it.
"So Jamal's death was a warning," Watson stated. "A deadly reminder to Jhasmine of her forced allegiance with Alcott?"
"Alcott's been after the Sapphire for years," Irene said. "He blackmailed Jhasmine into helping him steal it; had Jamal killed as a further threat; and then used Jhasmine to get to us once he realised we were making progress." She nodded. "It all fits."
"With a lack of conclusive evidence, it's all we've got to work on," Watson agreed. "Holmes?"
"What have I told you about twisting facts in order to suit theories, Watson?"
"Well of course you always know better," Watson snapped. "You already have this case solved, don't you? Well now would be an excellent opportunity for you to stop withholding information and tell us what you are thinking, Holmes!"
Watson hissed through his teeth when Holmes made no attempt to reply. He could usually put up with his friend's behaviour, but today there was something within him which revolted against the idea. He knew he had to excuse himself. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and that meant being a long way away from Sherlock Holmes.
Without a word, Watson turned on his heel and began to pace angrily back along the path.
"Where are you going?" Irene shouted after him.
"For a walk."
"Doc, it's not safe to go anywhere on your own." Irene hurried around the bend and after the retreating figure of Watson, leaving Holmes far behind her. She caught up with him, and sighed deeply when she looked into her friend's eyes and saw nothing but grief and sadness.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked in a low voice. "We could go off somewhere...?"
Watson shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I'd like to be by myself." With a half-hearted smile, Watson turned his back on Irene and continued his walk down the pathway and back towards the palace.
Watson did not return for afternoon tea or for supper in the evening. After the meal, Holmes and Irene sat in their bedroom in complete hush.
Holmes had his eyes closed and his arms folded tightly in his lap. He was not -as Irene no doubt believed he was- reasoning out the finer details of the case. In fact, his mind was preoccupied with a different issue entirely – Irene's 'Game'. The most recent round had been rather more difficult to handle than Holmes would let on. The very thought of being helpless against Irene Adler and a needle caused Holmes to break out in a cold sweat, but was it solely through fear..?
Holmes slowly opened his eyes, only to discover that Irene was watching him closely. As their eyes met, she winked and smiled in his direction before looking away once more.
Once Holmes' eyes were closed again, however, the carefree smile died on Irene's lips. A close friend of hers had been murdered and they were no closer to finding his killer. Another of her close friends was suffering emotionally, and Irene could do very little to help him. All in all, Irene did not feel much like smiling at present. And then there was Sherlock Holmes – the man whose very existence was enough to make her break down and cry through pure sorrow and desire. Irene had never wished for anything before in her life, and it seemed unbearably cruel that now the one thing she longed for was the one thing she knew she could never have.
Her eyes growing suddenly hot and moist, Irene shook her head furiously, determined that she would not let the tears fall in front of Holmes. But try as she might, she could not escape from her feelings anymore. She knew that Sherlock Holmes was no good for her, and that their frequent (heated) liaisons would never do anything more than tug harder on her heartstrings. But if tricking and manipulating him into touching her would satisfy just one ounce of the painful craving she experienced when he was near, then Irene was willing to go to whatever lengths were necessary to make it happen. At least, she had been willing. But Irene was tired of pretence. Now, at long last, the impossible had happened – Irene Adler had lost the will to lie!
Holmes and Irene sat in silence as the sky outside grew dark, not even uttering a word when a member of the palace staff arrived to light the oil lanterns around the room. Finally, Irene got to her feet and walked over to Holmes' armchair.
"I'm going to bed," she said quietly. "Goodnight, 'darling'..." She bent at the knee to deliver a cheeky kiss to his cheek, but found herself lingering. Holmes turned his head in surprise, and found himself suddenly nose to nose with Irene. He scarcely had time to draw breath before Irene had tilted her head forwards and captured his lips with her own.
It was all part of her plan. Truthfully, Holmes knew that this -like every kiss they shared- would do nothing except to increase the severity of the battle which raged between what his heart secretly yearned for and what his head told him he could not have. That was not to say that he was in love with Irene; at least, not directly. Emotions ran deeply within Holmes -deeper indeed than in many men. But the deeper something is buried, the harder it is to find, and this was the case with Sherlock Holmes. That said, Irene stirred within him a distorted sense of unease; the burrowing of long-forsaken emotions as they attempted to break through to the surface.
Since the moment they had first met, Holmes had been inexplicably intrigued by Irene Adler; her masterful intelligence proving to me more of an attraction than her beauty which was, Holmes had to admit, quite incomparable.
In his lifetime, there had been four people for whom Holmes would admit an emotional attachment of some kind, even if he only ever admitted it to himself. The first was his mother; the second his older brother Mycroft. There was Watson of course- his comrade, his best friend, and in many ways his little brother. Number four was Irene Adler. Although he was fast losing count of the amount of times she had humiliated him in the past, Holmes was forever in awe of her and the turmoil she brought down upon him. Her very existence was a test to his (suddenly matched) intellect. Every move she made had him breaking out in a cold sweat; his heart beating faster in anticipation of a challenge. And when she touched him, if only for a second, the release she brought him was greater than drugs of the very highest potency.
He made no attempt to fight back. Her kissing him was a natural cause of events now, like the changing of the winds or the coming of spring. And her ending this kiss in her usual fashion of emotional cruelty was as certain as her beginning the next with the same torment in mind.
Though Holmes found it easy to read many people, he had always struggled with Irene. Watson often said he was 'blind' to her faults, but it was more than that. Irene had trained as an actress in America, and their many liaisons over the years meant Holmes found it hard to believe she would ever open up to him completely. But as she kissed him now, Holmes found himself wondering where the lies had gone. As she kissed him now, it was if she were kissing a lover. As she kissed him now, for the first time, it was as if she was bearing her very soul.
Just as Holmes was beginning to comprehend what this might mean, Irene ripped her lips away from his and turned her back. Embitterment and annoyance swarmed through Holmes before he could stop it. He was about to speak, but Irene got there first.
"I can't keep doing this..."
Holmes heaved himself out of his armchair and took a breath to consider his next words carefully.
"Unsurprising. You never seem to grow tired of your games."
Irene laughed. It was a single outburst, and truly the last thing Holmes had been expecting.
"Oh my God," she said, as if staggered. "Oh my God...I can't believe you still think this is about some idiotic game!"
"Would you care to explain otherwise?" This woman is a mystery...
"Give it a rest, Sherlock." Irene was incensed. "You're London's greatest detective...don't pretend you haven't worked it out already!"
Holmes stayed silent, but his mind was already whirring as he pieced together what he already knew with what Irene was telling him. Of course he had worked it out for himself. He had known the answer ever since their last meeting atop the unfinished bridge over the Thames. There was undeniable pain behind her eyes now, Holmes decided. This was no act, not this time. In a flash of reminiscence, Holmes remembered his shout of desperation as Lord Blackwood had pushed her over the edge of the bridge, and later her confession that her one weakness was the love she felt for him. He had been too slow to see it. It had nearly cost her life. Loving him had put Irene in danger so many times. Well, Holmes was determined he would not be that man anymore.
"I cannot allow this to become an issue."
"Cannot or will not?"
"Miss Adler." Holmes' voice took on a steely edge. "I was under the impression we had discussed this before." He tore his eyes away from her gaze and faced the window, hands clasped behind his back. She was there in an instant – Holmes shivered as a curl of her hair brushed his arm. It wasn't fair, he knew. She knew exactly which buttons to press and was clearly as intent as she had always been to press them. Nevertheless, Holmes cleared his throat obstinately.
"Call a halt to this game, or I will go to Captain Alcott and expose us all." He moved away from her once again. "Those are your choices. Which will it be?"
"What, so you're giving me an ultimatum now?"
"Make your choice and accept it," Holmes said, not meeting her eye.
"What is it I'm supposed to accept?" Irene was still furious, and it showed with every word. "That you don't care enough about me or that you don't care enough about yourself?"
Holmes did not answer, and Irene was suddenly calmer. She put a gentle hand on his bicep, following him resolutely when he tried to shy away.
"I wish you'd just be honest with me..."
Holmes almost laughed at the ridiculousness of her request. To his mind, Irene Adler was the very last person who should be lecturing him on the merits of honesty!
"Do not accuse me of not caring for you," he said uncomfortably, deciding a swift change of subject was his best option at present.
"Do you?"
Again, there was silence. Holmes turned from her once again and Irene sighed. "What if we're over-complicating this...?" She gave Holmes' arm a squeeze. "You already know what I want... But what do you want, Sherlock?"
You. The word jumped to the forefront of Holmes' mind before he could stop it. He shook his head. It was not that simple. It would never be that simple. But his eyes were betraying his every thought, and he knew it. Irene was too clever for his lies. She knew him far too well... Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Irene pressed her finger to his lips, shushing him.
"You don't have to say anything," she whispered. "I know what you're thinking..."
Their heads came together slowly, foreheads touching but nothing more. There was a terrible roaring in Holmes' ears and he wondered what it was before realising it was his heartbeat. It was hammering so hard and so fast, Holmes had not recognised it as his own. And with every beat, Holmes felt himself giving up the fight. He was surrendering; he was letting her win because finally he saw the bigger picture. Maybe, just maybe, this was the man he wanted to be... So why the unbearable hammering inside his head?
"It's called being nervous," Irene murmured as if reading his mind. And in a way, she really was...
Irene took Holmes' hand and raised it to her own neck, pressing his fingers against her pulse point. He smiled ever-so-slightly as he felt her own anxiety and realised it was of a similar degree as his own.
At long last switching off his brain and allowing human instinct to be his guide, Holmes let his hand wander from Irene's neck up to her hair. He selected a chocolate curl and wound it around his finger. It was the right move to make – Irene sighed softly and tilted her head. Now, their noses rubbed gently together. Her breath ghosted Holmes' face, and he closed his eyes as Irene parted her lips and leant into him.
The hammering in Holmes' ears faded as their lips moved gently over one another. Now he could hear Irene's heart instead. It was an incredible feeling. Anxious to sustain it, Holmes lowered his hands to rest on Irene's bare forearms and felt the blood pumping through her veins in a way which made him feel unspeakably human. There was no need to rush this, he knew. He needed the release that came with Irene's touch more than anything he had ever experienced before. In a world of addiction, self-loathing and terror, she was all he had still to cling to; the only thing that was constant. His body was crying out for the contact that would provide the release, but as his lips were parted by hers and he felt the warmth of her breath, he found he could no longer focus on himself and his own needs. All he could think of was her.
Irene's heart skipped a beat as she felt Holmes push his tongue inside her mouth and push her lips further apart. Her arms were around his waist with his hands resting on her elbows, but she broke free of the embrace and allowed her hands to wander up into the gorgeous curls of his hair. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her in so they were much closer in body. Then, he deepened the kiss.
With her body pressed so tightly against his own, Holmes was experiencing a burning desire he had not felt in years. Come to think of it, Holmes was not sure he had ever felt a yearning quite like this. The tension which had existed between them for so long smouldered in the very pit of his stomach and filled him from head to toe with warmth. His lips were ablaze now as well as their two tongues for once did not fight for control, but accommodated and caressed the other in a way that was more loving than lustful.
It was Irene who moved first, pulling him down gently onto the bed so they were both sat on the very edge- still facing each other and still kissing. Her focus drifted as the strands of hair she had wrapped around her fingers tickled her skin. The dark curls on top of Holmes' head were nothing like the coarse tresses she had once imagined; but instead were softer and silkier than the finest Indian fabric. It struck her as ironic that a man whose essence was so hardened could possibly possess hair that was so soft...
Neither spoke a word as Holmes reached behind her back and slipped the ties of the dress she wore from around her neck and applying his lips to her collarbone. She closed her eyes; sighing deeply as she always did at the sensation of unshaven stubble ghosting her skin as he worked her dress down to her waist and kissed every inch of flesh his hands had touched.
Irene's hands were shaking as she fiddled with the button clasps on Holmes' shirt. He unlaced her corset. She slid his trousers down over his hips. The pile of clothing on the floor of the bedroom slowly grew until there was nothing separating them but physical space. Holmes shifted, lowering his gaze and taking in her body. A mere look had never felt more sensual to Irene, and she shivered again through pure exhilaration. She had seen him naked before when she had handcuffed him in a cruel trick, but this was the first time she had bared herself to him in such an exposed fashion. Irene had never been shy about nudity. She had slept with many men in her twenty nine years, but not one of them had looked at her the way Holmes was at that second. There was neither lust nor perversion in his stare; only a deep affection. A soft light of warmth shone in Holmes' perfect brown eyes, and all at once, Irene Adler felt herself grow cold with timidity.
As if sensing her nerves, Holmes brought his gaze up to her face. He didn't need to speak - he just offered a hand. Though her own hand was shaking now, she reached for him and pressed their palms together, fanning out the fingers. Their bodies faced each other on the bed as he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.
Every one of Irene's senses was heightened at that moment. Above the normally overpowering scent of tobacco smoke, she could smell cologne (admittedly filched from Doctor Watson) and the sweet smell of Holmes' own skin. She shivered again, flattered by his chivalry as he rubbed soothing circles into her back and shoulders.
Filled with a sudden urge for what was to follow, Irene swallowed her nerves and cupped Holmes' cheeks with her hands. She kissed him again, and at once, her anxiety evaporated. His hands shifted to her lower back; the touches so sensational that she felt suddenly weak and limp. His strong hands guided her in wrapping her legs around his waist, and then he held her steady as she gasped and collapsed against him.
Irene arched her back and threw back her head. Holmes' hands were there once again, and they fitted perfectly into the small of her back as he straightened her spine and simultaneously pulled her hips towards him.
He watched her every move, mesmerised by her beauty even when in such a vulnerable position as this. Her eyes were tight shut, but her ruby-red lips were parted slightly as they began to move together as one.
As his own breathing became shallow and sweat began to stand out on his skin, Holmes clasped his hands behind Irene's back; digging his short nails into her shoulders. For a split-second, he worried that he was hurting her. But then she rocked against him again, and Holmes had to close his own eyes in order to keep some of his control.
Her eyes were still clenched shut, but as she pressed herself into him one final time, The Woman's eyes opened and in them, Holmes' saw a thousand emotions. It was a perfect and deeply profound moment as they stared into each other's eyes, unmoving, not even breathing. Not even Holmes could describe what he felt at that second. The Great Detective simply could not have found the words. For a second, there was nothing. And then Holmes fell shivering against her; not just from the physicality of what they had done, but from the intensity of the mental release she had given him. Suddenly, miraculously, he was at peace. The beauty of the woman before him was no longer shrouded in denial and judgement. For the first time, he saw her for what she was - the woman who had outsmarted him; the woman who was better than he; the only woman there had ever been, and the only woman there ever would be. Holmes was almost saddened by the realisation that within mere hours, the clarity would be gone and he would scarcely remember he had thought of Irene Adler in this way.
As it was, Irene slid herself off Holmes' lap and allowed him to kiss her forehead. She pulled back the satin bedclothes and snuggled down beneath them, curling into Holmes' arms and closing her eyes. Neither spoke a word – there was no need to. The truth rang louder than a cavalry charge.
And as the hands of his pocket watch turned slowly through the hours, Holmes lay awake, watching Irene sleep and wondering if anything would ever be the same again...