Q & A

He waited approximately three seconds, before he gave in. "Irene, I'm not accustomed to having to ask for an explanation, so since it happens so rarely, please humour me." He had even added the magic word, John would be pleased.

She shook her head in mock disbelief. "I am a bit surprised that you're not the one explaining it to me. I do know how you love to show off. Not up to your usual standard, it appears?"

Taking this as the challenge it so clearly was, he quickly scanned his memory for clues, but to his frustration the time between when he had commandeered the military vehicle and when he had realised she was in his hotel room was a blur of adrenaline (not unlike the past hour). The only mental image he could conjure was the sight of the long dusty road in the beam of his headlights as he drove towards the city. Damn it, he couldn't tell her how.

Taking in his blank expression and narrowed, darting eyes, Irene laughed, and it was a charmed, girlish sound. "No? How remarkable."

"Please," he repeated, and her face glowed with a spark of something. Excitement? Satisfaction? He couldn't tell, but he got his answer almost at once.

"All right then, since you're begging. . ." she murmured pointedly, leaving the unsaid words 'for the second time' to hang between them, and he actually felt himself colour, more from the sudden feelings of arousal that the reference stirred, than embarrassment.

"It was simple, actually," she was saying, moving on briskly. "You weren't difficult to track given that I knew to look for signs."

He snapped back to attention and his eyes flicked to her face. "I could say the same thing about you," he said wryly, grateful to be diverted from where his thoughts had begun to meander. "But then, that's how you intended it, isn't it?"

She almost completely ignored his remark; she didn't look at him or answer, but an eyebrow twitched in response to his rhetorical question.

"I was nearly caught at one point," she said, clearly starting from the very beginning, just after when he'd told her to run. "Rifle reports were coming the chamber where I—where you were, which summoned several guards down the central corridor. I managed to hide myself behind a concrete pylon just in time. . . It's fortunate that it was dark, I was wearing black, and that they were focused on the gunfire. When I made it out of the compound and up to the sentry posts, I was able to take a rifle off of one of the men who had been knocked unconscious by your bomb—nicely executed, by the way."

Sherlock nodded his head once in acknowledgement, though internally he was uncomfortable with hearing how she'd nearly come to harm. His preplanned diversions of the bomb and the gunfire had been designed to facilitate an easier escape for her, but at the time he had considered them to be merely two strategies in a complex plan of which only he was capable. It had been all about him, he'd thought: his relish over such a challenge, the validation of his ego if he succeeded, the cure to his boredom. Securing the rescue of an impressive mind such as The Woman's was merely a peripherally favourable outcome, though not the main objective. Or so he'd told himself.

Yet now he understood with total clarity that it was exactly the reverse. All those incentives had merit, to be sure, but they were not the main impetus for coming to Pakistan. She was.

Not that my sentiments change anything, he reiterated to himself sternly. It was in his character to want to thoroughly comprehend various causations and consequences, and so there was value in him understanding the nature and extent of his feelings, but that didn't mean they had to alter his life in any way. I live without other temptations I've known, and I can live without this.

This entire thought process streamed through his brain in two seconds, so that by the time he had reaffirmed his stance on his feelings and tuned back into her words, she was still at the start of her explanation.

"I was able to conceal the gun under my cloak and then I took a position by the side of the road, pretending I was injured, waiting for a passing motorist to assist. I knew that at any moment someone could stop who knew about what went on in the compound—knew about me—and sympathised, but I was prepared and willing to use the weapon in that case, and it would still provide me transportation. Fortunately, practically right away a young teenager on a moped pulled over. I think I gave him a nasty fright when I threatened him with the weapon, poor thing. At that point, I didn't know what to do or where I was going to go; I didn't even know if you would survive, though I believed that you would. So—"

"Stop," Sherlock said, putting up a hand as if he were hailing a taxi, and Irene immediately went silent.

"Of course. The car," Sherlock said in an even tone, the answer completely obvious once he worked backwards through several dependent variables to realise the course she must have charted after her escape; he was irritated that it hadn't occurred to him sooner, though he knew he wasn't operating at his usual levels at this moment. "Out of all the roads that lead from there—the two paved and six unpaved, which all network out to over a dozen more—you must have chosen the one that heads towards the M5 and the city; it's clear now. You should have gone towards the sea, though. Coming towards the city was the obvious choice, and one I hadn't expected you to take. It was foolish, that's the direction they would've guessed you'd taken and you could have been pursued."

But instead of looking contrite, she looked excited, which he guessed stemmed from the fact that he'd successfully guessed which road she'd taken - she understood that it meant that he'd already figured out the rest in order to lead him to that conclusion.

"I felt confident that I had enough of a head-start," she rejoined, her confirmation of his induction implicit. "And don't forget that I did have the rifle. So, what about the car?" she added, her expression anticipatory.

"I say you must have selected that road, because that's how you would have come across. . .which is how you knew. . ." he murmured.

"Yes?" she prompted eagerly, and he raised his eyes to her and spoke in a ringing, declarative tone.

"As you traveled the most expedient route towards the city, you came across a conspicuous car parked on a shoulder. It was a late model sedan, clearly a rental, and a lack of road dust meant it hadn't been parked long. Not to mention that it was still in one piece; metal thievery is rife there. But what was such a car doing along such an impoverished country road as that? you wondered, almost immediately knowing the answer."

Irene grinned and nodded. "It couldn't have been more obvious to me that it was yours than if it had had a personalised license plate or a bumper sticker reading I 'heart' Mendelssohn."

"So," he continued, barely pausing as she commented, "looking for confirmation but moreover, clues as to the location of my Pakistan base, you pulled over to examine the vehicle, and a carpark ticket was fastened on the inside of the windshield. It gave the name and address of a hotel in Karachi and the surname Sigerson. Any doubt that might've caused you, however, was erased as soon as you saw a pair of dark trousers, folded over a navy shirt in the passenger seat. Having a discerning taste in apparel, you would have recalled my particular brand and style preferences, and immediately recognised the clothing as mine."

"Yes, you do seem to have especial loyalty to a certain Savile Row tailor," she agreed, and Sherlock could tell that she was struggling not to make a remark regarding clothing, or lack thereof. Instead she settled with: "And this exact cigarette packet was protruding from one pocket." She gestured to the now nearly-empty pack lying on the side table. "I take it the smoking is new?"

"The smoking is old, and new. Sustained nicotine habit, varying delivery methods." He switched gears without missing a beat. "Then, once you arrived here, you simply asked for Mr. Sigerson's room number. . .

"Impressive," he added a moment later, looking her over in favourable appraisal.

"Thank you," she smiled. "And all correct, of course. You've restored my faith." She placed a quick but sensual kiss on his shoulder, and though he certainly registered the feel of her lips on his skin again, and the flesh there tingled a little too pleasantly, he was distracted by a nagging thought.

Sherlock's eyebrows wrinkled, and he felt agitated. The explanation had been rather straightforward until this point, but he couldn't pin down the final part; there were too many possibilities.

"How did you actually enter the room? I have several theories, and I'd like for you to confirm the correct one."

"Oh?" she teased flirtatiously.

"Yes, approximately six," he responded impatiently, anxious to nail down the final details.

"Why don't you share them with me, and I'll tell you if you're hot or cold?"

He thinned his lips but she simply smiled, and he stared fixedly ahead again. "I don't like games, Irene."

"Of course you do, Sherlock," she rejoined, and after a moment he decided that he was pleased with her contradiction. He couldn't fool her, and it was refreshing. With most people he could say and do whatever he wished and get away with it.

He huffed but raised both hands in the air, one holding all five fingers aloft, and one with just his index finger straightened.

"One," he said, folding the index finger so that the left hand was just a fist. "You were able to take the master key card off of a maid somehow; either from her person or her cart."

"Decidedly cold," Irene pouted, but her eyes were dancing with enjoyment.

Sherlock dropped his fist and the first finger of the right hand. "Two. You flirted with the security guard in order to distract him, at which point you obtained his master key card."

"Still cold. That's just a variation on One, and they're equally wrong. You don't get to count those as two separate theories." Her voice was gleeful; she was enjoying this far too much.

"Three," he continued. "You somehow lifted a guest's wallet and bribed a security guard, or maid, or bellboy, or whomever, to give you a key."

"Warmer, but still cool. I didn't steal anything. All three of your premises so far have rested on the presumption that I did."

"Fine. Four. You pretended to be my mistress who was surprising me while I was here on business, and you promised that I would provide rich recompense to whomever admitted you to my room."

"Even warmer. And I like that scenario," she purred. "Are you interested in the concept of role play? From what I've seen of you dressed as a priest, I think you would quite enjoy it. . ."

"Five," he said a little more loudly, acting as if he hadn't heard her, but he couldn't help but dart a quick glance at her lips, the lower of which she was gently biting with her upper teeth. At the sight, his pulse picked up slightly, but he quashed it. It cannot happen again, he ordered himself.

"You don't have any money, as far as I'm aware—" He shot her a quick, questioning glance, and she confirmed with a shake of her head. "So barring theft, which you've already ruled out, bribery is off the table—unless you didn't bribe with money, but with. . ." He cast a sudden look at her nude body, and then his nose and brow scrunched with disgust. "Don't tell me that you performed sexual fav—"

"Of course not!" Irene interrupted as if she were appalled by the idea, then smirked and said a beat later, "There wasn't enough time for that."

Sherlock stared at her for another moment, his eyes narrowed, and then pouted his lips thoughtfully in acknowledgement. "No, I supposed not. You were already inside the room when I arrived, and I didn't waste any time returning."

He looked at her again, taking in her creamy skin with its light dusting of freckles, and he was dismayed when he was able to diagnose his unpleasant reaction to 'Five' as jealousy. He was even more disgusted by the realisation that he felt relieved when she had ruled out the theory.

"Alright, then. Five: You said I was warm with the mistress concept. . . You pretended to be an escort that I had ordered, but you were supposed to be ready for me when I returned from work, and I had left you a key at the front desk. You managed to convince the (markedly) naïve receptionist that there had been an error, and that I would be very angry if I didn't get my way. You promised him that I would tip him handsomely for his troubles. Obviously you would look the part (if consistent with the footwear you wore into my room, your captors let you keep your own clothing beneath the chador), so it wouldn't have been much of a stretch to convince him."

"While I'm intrigued by your line of thinking, you're cold again—except for the clothing part, you're correct about that. But Occam's razor, Sherlock; that theory is too complex." She leaned over to rest her palm on his sheet-covered thigh, and he stared down at the top of her hand. "Look, shall I just tell you?"

With difficulty he pulled his eyes away from where she was touching his leg, and he gave her a penetrating look, his mind reconsidering and then dismissing his final idea. After a moment he relented with an airy wave of his hand, but he knew she was not duped into thinking he wasn't very interested. She smirked, which confirmed it, and slid her hand off him.

"I simply walked in," she explained breezily. "The maid was finishing hoovering, and I casually entered as if it were my own, smiled at her, and headed into the shower."

Sherlock nodded, then frowned. "But it was only your footprints that headed into the room. How did she unplug the vacuum cleaner?"

"The outlet was in the hall."

That was true, he recalled, but, "No. Even if she had retreated out of the room hoovering over her footprints until she was back in the corridor, your prints occurred after that."

"I arrived right as she was finished with the room," she teased.

"And what, the door was just magically propped open?" he sarcastically countered back immediately.

She smirked, unabashed. "A gold star for you, then."

"What really happened?"

She simply smiled enigmatically at him, silent in the wake of their rapid-fire volley.

"Not to mention," he added, "the maid service had long since concluded by that time of evening."

Her smile turned playful and she quickly slid the back of her knuckle up his arms as if she were distracted. Against his control, his muscles rippled slightly under her touch and he felt the small hairs there stand on end.

"Fine," she said, her voice slightly smug, whether from the fact he didn't know the answer or his response to her touch, or both, he wasn't sure. "You had some of the correct elements, but you didn't put them together accurately. I did persuade the receptionist to give me a duplicate key card, but I didn't play the obvious role. Rather—once I binned the chador in the women's toilet and looked suitably foreign and western again—I marched up to him screeching that I was your wife from England who had tracked you down here—"

"My wife, hmm?" Sherlock couldn't help but note in a slightly acerbic tone. "What was that you said about disguises? 'No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait'?" So is that what you'd like to be, Irene, my wife?"

"Oh, are you proposing?" she countered immediately. "Only if you promise you'll never ask me for children."

"Mr. Sigerson is Norwegian," he stated flatly, rather than reply to her and continue a segue he'd almost instantly regretted making. Though they were speaking in ironic tones, the subject resonated with his recent realisations a little too closely for comfort.

Irene immediately caught on to his apparent non sequitur and made a dismissive scoffing sound. "As if he's paying attention. Most people aren't, you know."

He did, and the fact that she did too was. . .rather extraordinary. Of course, she was rather extraordinary. He had recognised that even before he'd ascertained the exact nature of his regard for her.

"Besides, Norwegians are permitted to live and marry in England, although apparently unhappily so, in your case." She adopted a high, strident tone that made him cringe. "'He's supposed to be in Mumbai on business, but I know he's here with her.' I quite enjoyed getting into the histrionics of a woman scorned."

As someone who had frequently employed disguise in the course of an investigation himself, he had to admit that he was amused. He even found himself chuckling aloud at the mental image, before another question occurred to him.

"But how did you manage to actually convince him to ignore decorum and hotel policy in favour of letting you into a guest's room? Without money, or 'other' compensation."

She gazed at him levelly. "Well there wasn't 'other compensation' then—like I said, there was no time for that. But I'm afraid I did rather lead him on, I implied I'd meet up with him later tonight. I think he probably thought he'd be my rebound/revenge shag." She hummed mischievously, "Perhaps because I explicitly told him so. . ."

"Ah, now that sounds more like the woman I know," Sherlock said, actually smiling. "He'll just have to assume the Sigersons managed to work things out unexpectedly. Maybe I should tip him to help compensate for his imminent crushing disappointment."

She was looking up at him with a sly yet also shy expression, not speaking, and he nodded distractedly as something clicked.

"Oh I forgot. You did expect it."

Their eyes glued together again in that damn unbreakable connection and he could feel his respiration and heart-rate pick up immediately. And so very easily, he cursed. Riveted, he watched as the back of her knuckles softly grazed the side of his arm again, her expression one of solemn deliberation. His right hand came up to capture her wrist in his gasp, though not to take her pulse this time, and they stared into each other's faces for a long moment, both breathing hard.

Feeling his resolutions becoming more and more feeble against the powerful compulsion of what he wanted, he cast his mind desperately for something, anything, to distract him. Finding it, he seized upon it gratefully.

"One last question." He couldn't believe how preposterously low and baritone his voice sounded.

"Mmm," she said, her eyes dark and half closed, her lips half parted.

He slowly released her hand and folded both of his tightly over his stomach so that he wouldn't be tempted to take it again, and she blinked and shut her mouth. The spell was broken, at least for the moment.

"What did you do with the weapon?"

She paused for a second, then seemed somehow resigned. "It's in the bathroom. I didn't know when we might need it ag—"

Before she could finish her sentence he had bounded out of bed to see the gun for himself. He found the AK-47 leaning against the pedestal sink at a rakish angle as if it belonged there, and when he checked the magazine, he saw that there were still 30 rounds; it was full. Perfect.

He started to return to the bedroom, but then took a deliberate step backwards, wrapped a towel around his waist, and then took a position at the doorway, which seemed neutral.

"I'm going to take a shower," he announced, the avenue of escape (albeit temporary) suddenly occurring to him. "But you should probably get some sleep. Since I've found you so quickly—"

"I found you," she corrected, not missing a beat.

"Since we were able to coordinate so quickly," he reworded impatiently, "we should set the rest of my plan into motion first thing in the morning."

"The rest of your plan?" she asked blankly, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning on them.

"Of course, the rest of my plan," he said, drumming his fingers against the doorframe. "You don't think I've gone to all this work without ensuring that you won't simply get captured again in several weeks' time, do you?"

Her brow creased with confusion. "But I came to you. I found you."

"Yes, yes, we've established that you found me first. But that's only because there was no time to convey to you where to meet during your rescue. We were a bit preoccupied, if you'll recall."

"But you didn't know where I would go. . ."

"As I said, it would've been wiser for you to head towards the sea and try to get away from the country by boat. And as you're a not-unintelligent woman, I anticipated that you would choose that route. As such, I spent the day before yesterday and the day before that, traveling the coast and stopping in each fishing village in the radius of a day's travel, focusing specifically on those that one can reach by taking roads or connecting roads from the compound. I provided incentives for people to keep an eye out for you in the form of 3,000 rupees, and I offered a reward of 145,000 rupees to the first person who saw you and reported your whereabouts to me."

He paused to grin. "God, I love bribery! I only wish it were more acceptable in England, although to be fair I do get away with it quite regularly there as well."

Then, business-like again, he continued, "I even passed into India and went to the ports of Mandvi and Jamnagar, just to be thorough."

Irene took in the long but rapid explanation with a stunned expression, and Sherlock felt somewhat pleased that he was able to surprise her like this. It was evident that she'd believed that she'd been on her own after her rescue, but she should've known better; he never did things halfway. That would just be sloppy.

"What if I'd headed to the city but decided against contacting you?" she challenged.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes quizzically. "Why would you do that? But for the sake of argument, I'm certain I still would've been able to track you. I've made it this far, haven't I? Finding you in one city is significantly simpler than tracking you across the globe."

"You found me because I wanted you to be aware of my movements," she pointed out, finally confirming what he'd come to suspect.

Her jaw was set and her eyes shining, and he stared into them for a second that felt like much longer as all the implications of that statement regarding her sentiments—and his, since here he was—flooded his mind. Finally he shook his head and pushed two hands through his lank curls.

"Look," he said firmly, in an attempt to sound confident as he reverted back to the safe, rational topic at hand. "I knew there would be one of three outcomes: I would find you due to my own diligence; you, remaining consistent, would leave a trail that would lead me to you; or you would come to me yourself. The rest of my plan is predicated on us being together, so clearly I wasn't concerned."

She was still gazing at him from where her head was propped on her knees, and the room was simultaneously very tranquil and very nerve-racking. He felt the correspondingly paradoxical needs to slam the door in her face or go to her, and he slightly cleared his throat.

"Now as I said, try to rest. We'll get started in the morning."

She still didn't move, and her blue eyes drilled into his, full of that same unclassified emotion. Was it gratitude? No, that didn't seem quite right. As he'd told her, he'd seen that countless times, and it was simple to read, unlike this. This was complicated.

Intentionally surrendering their game of chicken, he blinked first, and shut the door softly between them, his heart pounding hard in his chest again.

Turning on the shower tap, he was grateful for a moment away from her knowing, piercing look so that he could think, but as soon as the hot water began cascading across his head and shoulders, a wave of exhaustion swept over him that was so profound that he could barely finish washing his hair.

When he stumbled from the steaming bathroom, he saw that the lights had been switched off, and Irene's form was long and still under the covers, but he was too exhausted to observe whether she was genuinely sleeping or simply faking it.

On autopilot, he dropped his towel and slipped on a pair of pyjama bottoms, before settling into bed opposite of The Woman.

He fell asleep instantly and slept more fully and deeply than he had in weeks, perhaps months. It wasn't until the weak rays of early morning light were beginning to slide under the hotel's plush drapery that he awoke, and then it was only due to the puzzling, repetitive, and unsettling sound that was filling the dim room.