Analysis Paralysis

Once he was somehow able to absorb some of his initial shock, his numbness began to give way to a burning, sickening feeling centred in the pit of his stomach, and he recognised that he was becoming consumed with impotent rage. It was directed primarily at himself, but some of it was focused on her as well. In fact, he realised he felt as if he might hate her. Hate her for making him have feelings for her and actually fall for her—and fall for her game—and hate her for this betrayal of his trust. But he also understood that for him to have such a depth of feeling, of passion, it meant he might have been in love with her. And likely still was.

With his lips pulled back over his teeth in a grimace of fury, he kicked his heels hard against the inside of the opposite car door, but besides the jarring feeling of shock-waves shooting up his legs, nothing happened, just as he'd known it wouldn't. But it had been an emotional outburst rather than a rational action, anyway.

Emotion, he thought with deep bitterness and contempt. Emotion had brought him here to Karachi, and now emotion had betrayed him—reason was all he really had (all he'd ever really had).

So he had to try to use it.

He struggled, at first without success, to rein in the feelings that were overwhelming him, and force himself to regain a measure of calm. To regulate his breathing he pursed his lips and inhaled through his nose, his nostrils flaring, before he said in as steady a voice as he could manage, "Irene, you still need me."

She turned back to him while Jarwar looked on in cynical anticipation, as if he were expecting to be entertained by whatever attempts Sherlock would try in order to get Irene back on Sherlock's side, confident that he was now her favourite, and enjoying that 'special status'. He seemed to be even more in her thrall after he'd checked her rope work, if that were possible.

She doesn't care about you, you absolute moron, Sherlock thought with scorn, but it only made him feel worse; it reminded him that he'd been made that same fool himself.

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't need you," she disagreed with him in an almost conversational tone. "Well not anymore," she amended. "But thank you very much for all of your help." She started to turn away from him again.

"Everyone will know you're still alive," he said in a rush, all too aware that their time grew shorter and shorter. "Your life will still be in danger."

"I don't see how. . ." she said, apparently unconcerned.

Sherlock made a face, impatient when someone failed to be on his same page, even now. "The video," he spat. "The raw recording hasn't been edited, and that's what will make people think—"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, although her expression was still one of congeniality. "Oh, but no, Sherlock," she interrupted. "You see in the confusion of everything, just before I went through the window and you were shielding my body—which was very noble, by the way—I slid the mobile out of your pocket."

His hand automatically tried to fly up and touch the front of his jacket, but the sharp tug of the rope reminded him that he didn't have any freedom of movement at all. He could do nothing but shoot daggers at her with his eyes.

"Now I think I'll just cross-reference men who've won Baftas for editing in the past few years with your contacts, and email him from your account," she went on, obviously pleased with herself. "I take it he is expecting the footage?"

Ah, she could do 'reason' too.

"You won't get through my passcode," Sherlock stated, but his voice had gone flat, and he couldn't believe the bizarre turn of events that had led to this moment, to having this conversation again. But he had apparently stepped through the looking glass, because now everything was in reverse.

"Mm, don't need to," she purred dismissively. "After all, I doubt it's as if you have, oh I don't know. . . miniaturised explosives rigged to destroy your SIM card if someone hacks it," she smirked with one brow propped up. He could've sworn there was a trace of amusement in her eyes, and another flicker of anger threatened to undermine his very tenuous cool.

They both knew he didn't have anything of the sort. He had always thought that in the exceptionally unlikely event that anyone could ever part his mobile from him, his 4-digit code was sufficient security—relative to the information it held. His phone contents weren't inherently dangerous as hers had been, and yet in this context that didn't matter. The wrong information in the wrong hands could be just as devastating. Once again he felt sick for how he had so readily trusted her, even after she had shown him her true colours months ago.

He squeezed his eyes together then blurted out the first thing he could think of. "But if Mazari finds out. . ." he started in a low, tight voice. But he hadn't really thought the idea through, and although his thoughts normally sped up under pressure, this time the profound shock had destablised his entire mental process.

"Oh I intend to tell Mazari what happened," she cut in. "That a compassionate member of the LeT decided to let me go—" here she flashed Jarwar a humble, grateful smile, and he basked in it sycophantically, to Sherlock's disgust "—but that they wouldn't release you, not after you caused one of their deaths. I'll just add that your last request as we parted was that this not all be in vain, that he makes sure to keep me safe and to go on with the plan as discussed."

Sherlock willed his mind to return to its usual standard of functioning so that he could, at minimum, make some retort, but it just alternated between dazed denial that this was happening and explosive anger.

Jarwar touched Irene's elbow and gestured he was going to go pick up the mobile he had dropped by the side of the road when they had broken out of the car, and Irene watched him with wry amusement.

"I think Mazari will believe me. After all, I can be. . ." she glanced over at Jarwar reaching down for his phone, then murmured the rest, "very persuasive." She gave Sherlock a piercing look at that, which he interpreted as her mocking him that he had been just as susceptible. The burning feeling increased, and he could feel his face flush red.

Finally, something rational clicked in his brain through the haze of hateful emotion. "My brother—" he started heatedly as his former driver rejoined them.

She sighed over his words, then interrupted, "Will believe that you've finally gotten yourself killed as he's likely always feared you would, although he won't believe it was in the commission of trying to save me (but tragically failing, of course). I imagine he'll blame himself a bit, for introducing us. But I doubt he'll figure it out, because you've already been so clever. Now do stop talking, dear. As Mr. Jarwar says, they might be here soon and I'm quite eager to take my leave."

Her subtext seemed to say, Checkmate, and Sherlock just stared at her. He could think of absolutely nothing more to say.

Jarwar was staring, too, and looked utterly confused, but incredibly he didn't seem very curious or suspicious. Sherlock deduced that the man was already so overwhelmed with what had happened that he didn't care to question things further, in case they complicated things more than he could handle.

Then he blinked and after casting Sherlock one last wary look, he said urgently to Irene, "Yes, madam, you must go. Quickly."

"I couldn't agree more, Zairaan," she responded, looking into Sherlock's eyes with a hint of something that looked like satisfaction.

"There's just one last thing," she said, and she turned to the other man and smiled hopefully. "If you have any coat or extra chador, so that I don't have to be seen in this. . ." she gestured to her tailored but worn navy dress in concerned distaste, as if it were as offensive to her as Sherlock imagined it had been to the LeT. Even while he understood that her request was sensible—she didn't want to stand out as she made her way back to the city—he probably would have sneered at the pretense with which she asked, if he hadn't felt so dazed.

But Jarwar was listening eagerly, and after apparently thinking for a moment, his face lit up. "I do, yes! I have a spare kameez!" he said, as if thrilled to be of use, and he moved to retrieve it for her.

It happened then, with lightning speed.

In one moment Zairaan Jarwar was leaning towards the console between the front seats, and then in the next he was crumpled on the ground, his limbs sprawled out across the dry yellow-grey dust of the road. The transition was only interspersed by one blurred streak: the arc of Irene's arm swinging down hard over the man's head.

For a full second Sherlock just gaped at the prone figure, so taken aback that he almost didn't notice the fist-sized rock that dropped from Irene's hand. And due to the flood of adrenaline that had begun to course through his body, it took him yet another second to realise that she must have grabbed it from the ground while Jarwar had been inspecting Sherlock's bindings—and while he'd been speculating if he could head butt the man.

Then Sherlock watched in blank astonishment as she dropped to one knee and unlooped the strap of the rifle from around the unconscious man's torso and draped it over her own shoulder, then frisked him and produced the key to the car and what Sherlock recognised as his own Swiss Army Knife. She pocketed both and started to pivot and rise.

The sight of his knife seemed to somehow jolt his brain into action, and even though he didn't fully accept the legitimacy of what he was seeing before him, an urgent thought occurred to him—one that he had to express just in case Irene's actions were now actually what they appeared to be.

"Stop," Sherlock shouted, and she froze with her eyebrows raised and her face tense. "We have to bring him along."

If the two of them left him to be collected by the LeT, he could potentially help the insurgents piece together that the SSG agent who had helped Sherlock Holmes earlier that day was the same man as one of their new recruits, and Sherlock needed Mazari to remain imbedded so that he could confirm Sherlock's version of events to Mycroft. Also, if Mazari were discovered there would be an inquiry into how it had happened, which would expose Sherlock's actions and jeopardise Irene's future.

She nodded then braced in a crouching position, locked her arms around the man's chest, and managed to drag him the metre between where he'd fallen and the back door of the vehicle. Sherlock reflected that since he was so incapacitated, it was a good thing the man didn't weigh much more than Irene—only two stone more, give or take a few pounds. On top of that, her obviously vigorous dose of adrenaline meant that she had Jarwar propped up against the car in a matter of seconds. Which was very good, because Sherlock was all too aware that every second counted, with a host of extremely dangerous and vengeful LeT terrorists closing in, and only a partially loaded rifle in their possession for any defense.

Reassured that there were very practical logistics and details on which to now focus, he suppressed any thoughts about what had transpired in the past ten minutes. He knew, warily, that she might bring it up herself, but as far as he was concerned, they didn't ever have to discuss it in the future, or refer to it in any way. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime nightmare of out-of-control emotions, and he didn't ever want to think about it, or analyse it, again. He wished that he could delete it in its entirety, but he knew that the harrowing experience was permanently etched in his mind.

He could push it from his thoughts at least, and for the moment he was able to, although he sensed with chagrin that it was only temporary.

When she opened the door, Sherlock scooted towards the exit and slid out of the car to perch precariously on feet that were set too closely together, but still he managed to help Irene swing the man's lower body into the backseat after she had hoisted him halfway up.

Then he made his way around to the left of the car in a series of short jumps and slid in, knowing that the sight of a 6'1" tall man in his thirties moving in such a way was absurd, but not caring. He didn't mind appearing ridiculous from time to time; it was the actual way in which he had recently been ridiculous that was so detestable.

Irene slammed the door behind him then circled around to get behind the wheel of the vehicle. She paused only long enough to dig out the key and Swiss Army Knife, which she opened and positioned in his hands before thrusting the key in the ignition.

"Cut through the riding turns on the knots and they should come apart easily," she instructed him. "But hold on. . ."

Then, not looking to see if he was following her directions, she shoved the gear lever into Drive and the car jerked forward with a lurch and a screech of tyres.

As she glanced between the road and the rearview mirror she accelerated sharply, and the needle on the dashboard climbed from 25 mph to 40 to 60, then came to rest around 75. She didn't say a word to him, and as he sawed at the rope, he didn't speak either. He didn't trust himself to say anything, not while he still struggled to gain dominance over the multitude of conflicting emotions that were fighting for control over him. And he still didn't trust her, for that matter.

Normally he wouldn't hold himself back and he'd unleash a barrage of eviscerating words on whomever had committed offense, but this situation was far from 'normal'. He'd already made himself vulnerable enough, and if he opened his mouth now, he had no idea what humiliating confessions and recriminations would emerge.

They drove several miles in somewhat loaded silence, and when he finally he did speak, it was only to state a bit superficially—and pettily, "You're going the wrong direction. The motorway is east, behind us."

"Oh, do you care to see what happens if we pass a convoy of the LeT coming towards us on the road and they recognise me, or Jarwar's car?" she asked, still peering warily into the mirror every few moments.

Sherlock shut his mouth with a snap, once again feeling reproachful despite his attempts to detach himself from all emotion. Because of course she was correct, and he resented how even in this small instance she had outwitted him. What was worse, she was the one to blame for his disorientated state.

She glanced over at him, then sighed. "You're angry with me."

"No," he immediately replied, but the heated way he couldn't help saying the word somewhat undermined his denial. Feeling his cheeks colour traitorously, he bent forward to work at the knots at his ankles.

He sensed her looking at him from the corners of her eyes for another lingering moment, but she didn't say anything, and then she turned her attention back towards the road.

A moment later he cut through the last of the rope, and kicked the tangle of knots over his feet as quickly as possible, then sat up and rubbed at the raw red flesh that encircled his wrists, frowning.

"Why did you knot them so tight," he muttered, then mentally flinched at the obvious tone of peevishness in his voice. He realised some of the enduring feelings were still bleeding through his resolve, and he became even more determined to quell them. He didn't want her to know the full extent and nature of his panic due to her actions.

"You know why," she said distractedly, as she turned the wheel around a particularly sharp bend. They were getting into more mountainous territory.

Now he understood how John felt when Sherlock implied the same thing to him, and after the flash of irritation, his mind reached for the solution.

"Ah, yes," he said quietly after only two seconds. Now that he was not preoccupied with determining her intentions and his chances of survival, the answer was almost embarrassingly obvious. In fact he had already known, but he'd deleted it, dismissing it as inconsequential.

The faded scarring on Jarwar's hands suggested the frequent handling of netting, probably a nylon gillnet, since the fine webbing of scar tissue indicated a mesh of about 150 milimetres long, plus that had been the most common kind of netting he'd seen when he'd traveled around surrounding fishing villages several days previously. That alone was information enough, but in combination with their proximity to the coast and Jarwar's region-specific surname (indigenous to where they were located, the Sindh Province, where the vast majority of people were employed in fishing), it made Sherlock positive that he had grown up in a fishing family, and had helped out with the duties before he'd moved to the city in search of a more exciting life. (Well, he's succeeded, Sherlock thought dryly.)

And as a fisherman, he would have been extremely familiar with boats and rigging—and knots. If Irene had not legitimately and securely bound Sherlock, Jarwar would have been able to tell, and it would have undermined everything she had accomplished. With such high stakes, he (grudgingly) acknowledged that she couldn't have afforded to do that.

Sherlock initially felt a burst of confidence from making the connection and with such relative ease, after feeling so impeded by the emotions that had taken his brain hostage, but as soon as he even slightly let his guard down, the waiting cacophony loomed once more.

He let out a soft groan and covered his eyes with one of his now free hands, but was saved from the increasingly exhausting task of holding the feelings at bay—from himself and from her—when his mobile emitted the electronic beep-beep sound that indicated it had picked up a signal. Sherlock's eyes widened; now that they were at a higher altitude, the phone must have been in range of the signals being transmitted by a cellular tower.

But more significantly, the sound had issued from his front jacket pocket—exactly where he had replaced it himself. Irene had never even taken it; it really been just talk. But why? Had she merely been stalling until she found the right opportunity to knock out Jarwar? That was a dangerous gamble considering how short their time had been. He looked over at her sharply, but if she sensed his narrowed-eyes gaze she didn't show it. She kept her face forward, focusing on the increasingly winding roads.

Without hesitating for another moment, he slid his phone out and checked the levels of connectivity. The signal was weak, but Sherlock thought that it would be sufficient, and he pressed a speed dial button that he had programmed that morning: Mazari's mobile.

Fortunately the SSG captain answered on the first ring, and without preamble Sherlock launched into a concise but rapid-fire debriefing on everything that had happened, only glossing over the part where he had actually bought into Irene's bluff.

The man listened attentively, interrupting just to ask clarifying questions, and Sherlock felt satisfied that he had grasped all the relevant details in only a few minutes.

"We have to keep him quiet about us," Sherlock said, concluding. "So I need you to arrange for him to remain in custody, although covertly somehow. . . I assume Mycroft will hop onto his jet the moment the video is released, so let Jarwar go after a few weeks if necessary. I don't care and I doubt he'll be a threat to anyone. I just don't want his testimony to get out, and back to my brother, which could happen if he's questioned and charged."

"Not a problem, that's easy enough to manage," Mazari replied in his characteristically detached but no-nonsense tone. "We can hold terror suspects indefinitely without formal indictment."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Lovely, but let's not turn him radical, shall we?"

"He was ready to hand you over to be executed," Mazari pointed out, his monotone voice slightly raised for once.

"Well, do what you see fit," Sherlock relented dismissively, not willing to waste any more time on someone like Jarwar. "I commend him to your care."

He just wanted to get him out of his sight; he didn't really care what happened to him. He was utterly repulsed by Zairaan Jarwar, though he was faintly aware that he was projecting his own anger and self-disgust, for having been as susceptible to Irene's manipulations as this common, gullible man.

"One lonely, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special. . ." his brother's voice echoed in his brain again—mocking, but oh so apt. Again, as well.

"Where are you now?" Mazari asked, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts, and he glanced out the window, noting their relative elevation and the height of the peaks on either side of the road, then took into account how long they'd been driving.

"Bela Road, approximately five miles southeast of Sipai Sing," he replied, and there was a moment of silence from the other end, during which Sherlock could tell that the other man was consulting a digital map.

A moment later, Mazari directed, "Pull over when you get to Ara Kaur Bridge in approximately ten miles. We'll meet you there in an hour."

Sherlock's brow creased. "We're two hours in the direction opposite from where you were headed. What, are you going to just hop onto your helicopter?" he asked sarcastically.

"Of course," Mazari answered deadpan, "How else would I reach you so quickly?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, once again impressed despite himself with the resources the man seemed to have at his disposal, and idly gratified that he'd been willing to assist.

"One hour," the captain reiterated, and hung up.

When Sherlock clicked off, Irene cast him a questioning look. "What did he say?" she prompted a moment later when he didn't explain (momentarily savouring the fact that this time he was the one privy to critical information, as puerile as that was).

"At the first bridge after the next town, pull over," he finally answered. "They're coming by helicopter."

She nodded and continued driving, while he looked out of the window at the barren rocky pass with a grim expression, still struggling to rein in the glut of feelings that seemed to grow only more adamant and powerful as time progressed, not less so.

Less than ten minutes later, as the sky was starting to fade from a vivid midday blue into a paler, more muted late-afternoon shade, and the shadows cast by the mountains were lengthening, they reached a 150 metre concrete bridge, under which slow-moving, muddy tan water flowed. Irene steered the car over to the side of the road, which was barely two lanes by that point, into an almost nonexistent shoulder. She shifted the vehicle into Park, and then turned the key in the ignition so that the rumbling of the motor faded away. As the minutes ticked by they sat next to each other in silence, and while it was still awkward, Sherlock now also felt somewhat satisfied with it. Though he still didn't necessarily trust himself to speak, he took a strange sort of pleasure out of being able to give her stony silent treatment, since he felt as though he was the one who had been wronged.

He realised too late that such a line of thinking was a slippery slope, and in the absence of any other distractions, the emotions began to swell within him despite his herculean attempts to ignore them. They were too formidable, and he was too mentally exhausted to fend them off any further.

Helpless, he felt the weight of the intense and contradictory feelings crash over him: his profound relief that she hadn't betrayed him (and secondarily, that he wouldn't be killed), his grudging but great admiration for her, his distrust of her after the reminder of how expertly she could manipulate, and his intense anger toward her. The anger was diluted from the hatred he'd thought he felt before, but it was still potent.

But even a straightforward emotion such as anger—one that he actually did permit himself to feel from time to time—was confusing and complex when it came to her. He was angry with her for excluding him from the plan, for making him think she was betraying him, and for causing him to feel doubt about the agenda behind everything she'd said to him, but most of all, he was furious that she had made him feel, full stop.

He had lived his life exclusively in his mind, and everything else was peripheral or in service of his brain: his legs were transport, his food was efficiently-used fuel, and emotion was immaterial at best, and dangerous at worst. And yet she had struck all of that down: a lifetime of carefully built discipline and control was devastated in a matter of weeks. She had him utilising his body in a manner distinctly separate from cerebral pursuits—and worse: enjoying it, wanting more—and now emotions were not only prevalent, but reigned over him.

He couldn't wait to return home to his sanctuary on Baker Street, away from this emotional quagmire. Perhaps it was simplistic, but he thought that if he could only get back to London and his life there, he could put all these complex and overwhelming feelings behind him, permanently. Because as long as he was here, with her. . .

He growled low in his throat and turned on her, no longer able to hold back, despite the potential cost.

But just as he had opened his mouth to say something (he wasn't quite sure what), a muffled moan came from the back seat, and they both stiffened at once. Jarwar was conscious, and if they didn't act quickly, he might attempt an escape through the same window Irene had smashed.

It was perhaps the one thing that could have diverted him from his outburst.

Her face set, Irene grabbed the AK-47 and leapt out from behind the wheel, leaving Sherlock alone in the front seat for a moment, before he slid out as well. He felt compelled to see how the other man would react to Irene's apparent betrayal, particularly in comparison to Sherlock's own response. He privately hoped that Jarwar would rage and plead with her; at least then Sherlock could perhaps feel marginally better about how he had comported himself.

But to his initial surprise, there was no defiance or fight in Jarwar as he gazed up at them from the backseat, only resigned acceptance. A moment later Sherlock realised that the driver probably felt he deserved this outcome, to some extent. After all, he wasn't a criminal or even vindictive in nature himself, he was just a pawn caught up in extreme circumstances, driven by forces beyond his control.

Somewhat like myself, Sherlock thought sardonically. And to a degree I felt I deserved it, as well.

Meanwhile, Jarwar had glanced at the weapon in Irene's arms, then looked away, averting his gaze submissively.

"You tricked me," he said, staring forward with blank, downcast eyes.

"You left me little choice, didn't you?" Irene asked, her voice not reproving but mild and matter-of-fact, and he just nodded listlessly.

"What will you do?" he asked, his voice bleak. It was clear to Sherlock that he believed that they had brought him to such a desolate bridge in order to treat him to the same fate that the LeT had intended for them.

"You're going to be arrested," Sherlock informed him in a flat tone, and Jarwar started, as if he had not noticed Sherlock standing behind Irene's shoulder.

Only then did something register in his eyes, and he stared at Sherlock almost appraisingly, then glanced back at Irene.

"You do care about him. I was right to begin with."

Sherlock watched Irene from the corner of his eyes, waiting for her reaction, but she just raised her eyebrows, neither confirming nor denying his statement. He felt strangely, but immensely, relieved.

But Jarwar seemed to take her absence of denial as admission, because he nodded to himself.

"But you were so. . . I believed you."

"Oh don't beat yourself up," Sherlock drawled. "It's what she does." He had intended for the comment to sound light and wry, but an acidic edge had crept into his words. Irene glanced sharply at him, the skin around her eyes tensed into fine lines, and the eye contact they made was unexpectedly intense.

Sherlock looked away first, his heart beginning to pound an arrhythmia in his chest.

Jarwar's gaze darted between the two of them, and a dent creased in his brow. "It's obvious now, even if you don't admit it. I should've stood by what I thought. . .then I would've never. . ." he trailed off weakly, and Sherlock let out a huff of dry laughter at the absurdity that Jarwar could read Irene, when even Sherlock couldn't do that.

But then Irene shocked him. "Yes. You were right, I do. . . care," she professed in a soft voice, her eyes shifting towards Sherlock, but not quite reaching him, before snapping back to Jarwar.

Sherlock froze at these words for a moment, the laughter dying on his lips, before he whipped around on his heel and stalked back into the car, starting to breathe hard as he slid into the seat and glared through the windscreen across the shadowy and barren landscape.

Rather than appeasing or mollifying him, her claim (yes, claim, he thought savagely; he could hardly take her words at face-value after everything that had recently happened) that she had "cared" for him incited the exact opposite sentiment; somehow he felt even more agitated than he had before.

Initially he couldn't grasp the basis of the caustic feeling—it was too all-encompassing, just too much—and for a moment he felt almost smothered in helpless confusion and fury. But after several minutes of attempting to lower his heart-rate and respiration, his brain finally managed to begin parsing through the flood of disorganised ideas and feelings, though still without nearly the clarity with which it could process facts and data.

If she had said nothing to Jarwar, he could've accepted that she'd had her own reasons for not wanting him dead, ranging from simple partiality or respect, to wanting him as a resource in the future . . .That she had previously only orchestrated the seduction because she believed that that's what he wanted, and she needed his ongoing cooperation at the time. That was something that he could have (perhaps) tolerated—at least he could have reconciled such a narrative with his life back in London. As he'd decided before, he could have sublimated his own feelings once he returned home, and although he might never be able to delete them, he was confident that he could have eventually suppressed them to the point where they could no longer distract him from his life, his work.

But since she did elect to make such an unnecessary declaration and appear to raise the emotional stakes between them, it told Sherlock that she still had an agenda of her own—that she was making yet another play of some kind.

But moreover (and more personally salient, he understood), he could not believe that she had the audacity to try such an angle with him for a third time, when it was so blatantly clear that it was just a string she pulled whenever she wished to turn him into her puppet. Just how much of a smitten fool did she take him for? Especially considering she had performed an identical trick on Jarwar right before Sherlock's eyes not one hour ago. . .

The question should be, he thought with deep disgust, why wouldn't she continue use this approach?

Dangling "the promise of love" had obviously proven so effective in all the previous times she'd wished to manipulate him, after all. She was all too aware of his sentiment for her, and she apparently viewed him as such a mug that she thought she could repeatedly exploit those sentiments, and he would remain oblivious—just grateful for her attention. The fact that he had repeatedly proven himself just as much the fool she took him for was unbearable.

But now, finally, his eyes were clear. He could see through her pretense, and it enraged him. Even more than the understanding that he had been consistently outwitted, genuine and raw pain fueled his fury. Even while he loathed himself for falling for her ruse, he felt something for her, still wanted to believe that her words could be, and had been, true.

But not this time, he avowed, hating his ongoing weakness for her. Whatever it is, I will not degrade myself yet again.

After a moment he sighed, feeling weary more than irate, closed his eyes, and ran through another mental exercise to distract and calm himself. He named all of Bartók's compositions for violin by ascending order of the key in which they began (Pieces, Fantasia, Sonata for Solo Violin. . . he listed), but when he opened his eyes again, any comfort he might have found was obliterated. Irene was sliding into the seat next to him, an intent expression on her face, and her eyes penetrating.

He did a double take and his eyes narrowed, then spat out, "Jarwar—"

"Is bound and secured to a handle in the door," she interrupted in a rush. "I think you can personally attest that he's not going anywhere, yes?" But before he could answer she continued, "I'd like to talk about what happened before."

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to unleash various accusations or scathing retorts, but before he said anything he realised that as satisfying as that would be, it was wiser not to speak, as he'd originally resolved. He had the dreadful feeling that if he started talking it would devolve into the verbal equivalent of Pandora's box, and he would divulge things—personal and private things—that she could use to exploit his damnable sentiment even further. So instead, with effort, he pressed his lips back together and blinked coldly.

She countered with her own silence, although her gaze continued to drill into him, and there was a drawn-out battle of wills between them. This time Irene relented, and she sighed and turned her face towards the window, looking restive and unhappy. And though Sherlock felt satisfied with this small (very small) victory, he was also surprised that she hadn't forged ahead regardless; his icing-out tactic had never fazed her before. This thought was immediately followed by the familiar spasm of aching want and the urge to dismiss everything he'd just concluded and ask if she'd meant what she said, but instead he hardened himself against her with even greater resolve.

No, he decided. For our remaining time together she'll be just like any other client, albeit an untrustworthy one of dubious motives. Nothing more.

Forty minutes later, Captain Mazari and a team of two, including one of the SSG men who had helped with the video, touched down on the road in a Bell AH-1S Cobra helicopter, its rotors whipping up dust and churning the nearby water into whitecaps. The SSG agent parted ways with the rest of the party to drive the car and its prisoner into custody, while Mazari and his two silent, guarded passengers lifted into the air and turned southeast, bearing towards the Port of Karachi, and closer to their parting futures.

In the words of J.K. Rowling:

"One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode!" – Ron Weasley

"Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon. . ." – Hermione Granger

(Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix)