The Getaway

After banking sharply over a dense mangrove forest placed incongruously next to the sprawling and industrial port, they set down on the helipad on the edge of the complex. Ten minutes later, the rotors roared in Sherlock's ears and whipped his hair wildly around his face as he disembarked into twilight from the military-grade helicopter, which looked like a piranha amongst goldfish when surrounded by the small civilian helicopters parked around the landing pad.

On the tarmac in front, they were met by another vehicle (this time it was a Lincoln towncar), and Irene looked incredibly natural sliding into its sleek, dark interior. Sherlock pursed his lips slightly in self-reproach, then slid in next to her and saw his blue Paul Smith scarf draped over the garment hook.

"My things?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"In the boot, yes," Mazari confirmed from a front seat, and Sherlock nodded sharply in satisfaction and leaned back against the leather seats, sinking back into silence. He had taken the most important documents with him and had placed them under his coat before they'd parted with the other car, but the rest of his belongings had remained at the hotel. Collecting them had been the final (albeit minor) point of business, but now that it was settled. . .

As they drove through towering blocks of stacked containers, cranes, and cargo lifts, Sherlock began to mentally recalibrate and prepare himself to segue back to his life in England, or at least he attempted to.

He felt satisfied that the operation itself was finished—had gone quite well, in fact, despite various detours—and normally he reverted to a state of boredom almost immediately after finishing a case or experiment. He usually only felt a sense of satisfaction while he was breaking a case or pulling off some machination, and he rarely experienced much of an afterglow.

But he certainly didn't feel bored now; he still felt the thrill of agitation he had when in the deepest throes of a case—when things still seemed chaotic, before he could rearrange the disparate facts into a logical sequence of events. And I know why, he thought with a frown on his lips and between his eyes, as they were waved through a checkpoint after the flash of Mazari's badge. Irene is the 'unsolved case'.

The hour-long helicopter ride had been unbearable at the beginning. Anger and uncertainty still wreaked havoc on his nervous and mental processes, even after he'd made his resolution not to think of her as anything but a client.

Finally he had (somewhat) mastered the feelings through a strategy composed of Judo-based Zen breathing, structured distraction, and good old-fashioned English repression. But while he might have managed to (somewhat) inhibit the disorientating thoughts as they repeatedly cycled through his mind with the velocity of his normal ones (though with none of the usual resolution), he still felt restless and edgy. Things were unresolved, and he couldn't fathom how they would be—at least not to his satisfaction.

Speaking of satisfaction, he would kill for a cigarette, and he thought longingly of the last Dunhill in the packet.

After approximately twenty more minutes of navigating the narrow lanes of the port and passing through yet another checkpoint, they steered onto a long dock, with a pedestrian walkway leading from the closer berth to the massive freightliner, the aptly named Independent Venture. Their getaway vehicle, so to speak.

When the Lincoln pulled up to the gate that lead to the walkway, Sherlock grabbed his scarf and wrapped it around his throat before collecting the rest of his items. He and Mazari (and he supposed Irene from the sound of the footfalls, though he didn't spare her a glance) approached the customs official posted at the entrance.

Sherlock fluidly slid the two counterfeit passports from his coat's inner pocket—each one stuffed with fifteen 5,000 Rupee notes—and passed them to the official.

"We're in rather a hurry, Officer. If you wouldn't mind not taking the time to go through all the formalities, such as scanning or stamping. . ." he stated in a clipped but authoritative voice, then shifted his gaze from the man's face down to the passports, with his brows slightly raised.

The young official's eyes momentarily bulged from his head at the sight of the sum of money, but he quickly recovered and resumed his passive expression.

"Ehm. . .yes sir, everything looks to be in order," he said, passing the documents back after comparing their names to the passenger manifest, and then slipping the cash into his uniform pocket with shaking fingers.

Dismissing the official the instant he'd served his role in Sherlock's agenda, he turned towards Mazari, who was wearing a jaded but complacent expression upon witnessing the illegal exchange. Still, Sherlock knew that as honourable as he appeared, Mazari couldn't be entirely above-board himself; it was unlikely the man would have consented to be part of this entire illegal operation if he were.

"No offense Mr. Sigerson, but I hope that this time it really is goodbye," the SSG captain said with a hint of dry amusement beneath his words, as he raised his right hand. "So I hope not to hear you've run afoul of any pirates. . ."

"Mm, yes," Sherlock replied as he shook the proffered hand, not just to expedite the parting but out of actual agreement.

"And Miss, you'll stay out of trouble?" he asked, turning to Irene (whom Sherlock had been steadfastly ignoring) and fixing her with a stern stare.

"Oh I won't make any promises that I can't keep," she retorted with a mischievous spark in her eye, and as they clasped hands Mazari chuckled despite himself, his grave poker face splitting into a smile.

He thinks she's joking, Sherlock thought.

His phone vibrated and he looked down to see an incoming call from Caldwell, but immediately he pressed 'ignore' and then began typing.

Boarding the ship now. Mazari will inform you of the rest. Enjoy Karachi. SH.

He smirked to himself at that last bit as he pressed 'send', feeling pleased that he could get in a sarcastic barb about Caldwell's demotion without alienating him, since Sherlock still needed his help when Mycroft investigated Irene's 'execution'. Another reason to prefer texting to ringing: no way to discern tone.

After that last self-satisfied thought, he promptly dismissed Caldwell from his mind as well, and moved up the gangway towards the towering freightliner, and away from Karachi and all that had transpired there.

After checking in with the ship's chief steward they followed the gratingly talkative man to a mid-level cabin, and although Irene walked beside Sherlock wordlessly, he knew that she was only biding her time, waiting for the 'right moment' (which as far as he was concerned, was never).

They entered a well-appointed suite and the steward pointed out all the various amenities in the bedroom, sitting room, and en-suite bathroom. And although Sherlock was irritated with the man's inane chatter (really, anyone with even one functional eye could see that there were six electrical mains throughout the quarters and an interior telephone), he also dreaded his departure, when he and Irene would be alone again.

As soon as the door closed and only the two of them remained, there was one long moment of silence, before he attempted to initiate the conversation so as to control its course. But just as he inhaled to speak, she began to talk as well.

"I didn't realise one could travel on a cargo ship with such style," she said in a conversational tone.

"I didn't book it for its amenities," he replied coldly, not looking at her. Irene Adler making small talk?

"Mm, speaking of your booking. . ." she redirected, apparently unbothered by his patronising tone, "Only one cabin?"

Perhaps not small talk then—just transitioning into her incredibly leading question.

"Evidently," he said, unzipping his suitcase to find a certain manila envelope, and not rising to her bait. Fortunately, they had pertinent and critical details still left to discuss, and so he wouldn't have to be subjected to such loaded conversation—for the moment. Finally his fingers closed around the file and he pulled it from the case then turned swiftly and thrust it into her hands. She accepted it with slight surprise, and he pressed his advantage.

"Enclosed is all the documentation I've collected for your transition into a new identity," he stated at once in a detached monotone. "And here is your passport." He handed her the navy blue and gold credentials, which she took with a wry smile.

"I actually have the authentic version," she murmured, fingering through the crisp bank pages.

Though his face remained impassive, he did a bit of a mental double-take as the words hit him; after he had spent so much time delving into her past with no success whatsoever, she was initiating the conversation herself. At one point he might have immediately asked a number of pre-devised questions, but now he didn't dare. Knowing someone's past could be incredibly intimate, and that was a risk he could not afford.

Instead Sherlock quashed the remnants of curiosity that rose in response to her intriguing opening, and corrected, "You mean Irene Adler did." He unwound his scarf and hung it up in the fitted wardrobe, and added curtly, "You're really going to need to start separating yourself from your former identity."

Other than giving him a brief, patient look, Irene ignored him. "My father was American and I was born there," she continued, then flexed the passport between her index finger and thumb. "Impressive, U.S. passports are supposed to be the most difficult to forge. You're certain it's going to pass the screening?"

"Of course," he answered abruptly, while once again resisting the strong urge to ask follow-up questions about the information she was so readily and repeatedly offering. But the information did answer one question that had been nagging him: she had referenced the television series because she'd been (at least partly) raised in the United States. Although due to her accent, it was likely that she had relocated prior to age twelve, since most linguists agreed that after age twelve the native accent—FOCUS, Sherlock, he reprimanded himself sharply, disrupting the train of thought.

"This one is designed to appear pre-2007, so there's no biometric chip, just a barcode," he continued, somehow managing to redirect his attention to the topic at hand. "It's still valid but the security parameters aren't as rigorous, and it expires in 2015 so after that you'll be responsible for your own documentation. You also need the yellow fever certificate for passage through the Suez Canal enclosed in the folder."

"The Suez Canal?" she asked, looking up. "Where's our final destination?"

"Not 'ours'," he contradicted flatly. "I'm disembarking tomorrow in Muscat, Oman, but you'll continue onward for about a week to the port of Piraeus, which is half an hour outside of Athens. Greece has the laxest maritime border control in the EU—just a stamp, no scanning. They can't exactly afford that type of new equipment as of now. . ." he added in a bit of a snide tone, then continued in a rapid-fire but concise pace:

"Included is also a plane ticket for ten days from now, Delta Flight 133 from Athens to JFK, departing at 12:45. I trust you'll be composed as you pass through U.S. customs. In New York you will find an account at Chase Bank in the name of Erin Sigerson—same as the passport, of course—and the paperwork, bankcard, and checkbook are included in that file. The card has been activated and you'll be able to withdraw money; the PIN is enclosed as well. I considered adding your new pseudonym to your account in Zurich, but decided it's too risky for now. If I were able to track down your Swiss bank, so can Mycroft, and he'll be sure to monitor the activity. I don't know for how long. So you shouldn't transfer any money any time soon, probably not for years, if ever, I'm afraid. Still, two weeks ago I was able to withdraw an adequate sum myself—don't ask me how, it was incredibly tedious and dull—and I bounced it around a bit before using it to pay for your documentation. I deposited the rest of it into your Chase account in cash, so you won't be destitute. Far from it, in fact."

By the time he was finished, she was gazing at him with a slightly aroused and glassy-eyed stare, and in the long moment that followed he was strongly reminded of her reaction to the time he'd cracked the AirBond code. He wished she would say something.

Finally she broke the silence to ask, "Erin Sigerson?"

Not that, however.

"Yes," he said, waving a hand in an indifferent manner. "Irene, Erin—they're practically homophones. And Erin is a quite common name in America." He was attempting to deflect the subject, but it didn't work.

"Any relation to Dr. Sigerson?" she pressed, but the brow raised in faint amusement indicated that she already knew what he was going to say.

"His wife." He looked away and quickly added, "Hence only one cabin, to answer your earlier question. We need to adhere to our identities."

She looked as if she were about to say something; Sherlock knew that it would be an ironic allusion to the night before, when he had drily remarked on her motives behind the choice to pose as his wife at the hotel.

"Don't make assumptions," he cut in, forestalling her. "It was simply the most efficacious way to establish your American bank account. Sigerson has excellent and established credit that goes back over seven years."

Irene made a faint sound in the back of her throat that Sherlock didn't quite understand, but then she added softly, "No, I think we're well past 'assumptions'."

When he didn't answer or acknowledge her words, she sighed and added, "I don't know what to say. You've obviously gone to a great deal of work. Thank you."

"Please," he brushed off, slightly scoffing. He had in fact gone to immense effort, but unlike most cases, he wasn't comfortable with the recognition—it felt strangely embarrassing all of a sudden. Furthermore, he found her apparent sincerity when thanking him rather disconcerting. Trying to set aside the feeling of wrong-footedness, he pointed out: "I didn't arrange a Social Security Number, so I trust you'll be able to secure any exigent needs yourself."

She nodded briefly, unconcerned, then asked, "Where did the name Sigerson come from?" He looked suspiciously into her eyes for traces of shrewdness, but all he saw was genuine curiosity.

Interesting, so she was intrigued by his past as well, apparently. This realisation elicited a flicker of something—something that felt like being flattered but resonated more deeply, somehow—and set his heart pounding.

They were getting into dangerous territory, and Sherlock felt that they had come around in a full circle, and that he was back in the Karachi hotel again, between four walls that were closing in on him. He felt dizzy, but he still found himself answering her. "My father," he said in a low voice, before clearing his throat. "His name was Siger."

"Was?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was just as unwilling to share his past as he was to ask about hers, and for the same reason: the familiarity it would bring, and all the dangers that came with that—everything that he was working so hard to shut out. Thankfully she quickly took the hint not to pry into that subject, and she moved on. "And you're his son. So, Sigerson."

Sherlock nodded brusquely, his lips pressed together.

"Sherlock. . ." she started, reaching a hand towards him.

But now that he had finished briefing her on the final phase of the operation, he knew that this opened the conversation to certain other, more foreboding topics, and he was becoming increasingly panicked that if he stayed in the suite for much longer, she would manage to bend him to whatever will she had. He knew (many times over) just how susceptible he was to her.

He needed distance, air, and most critically, a smoke. Grabbing his scarf again, he turned on the spot and swished out of the door, leaving her with her hand still poised in the air. He knew it looked like he was bolting, but he didn't care at that point. Besides, perhaps he was.

He strode swiftly down the corridor, tying on his scarf and tugging up his collar as he walked, then threw himself down a staircase marked 'D' and descended several flights at two or three steps at a time until he reached the main deck, where he headed in the opposite direction towards the cargo area. There he wove through the tall stacks of containers like a man evading a tail, which was essentially what he was doing. Finally, his breathing slightly elevated, he reached a section of railing that was mostly obscured by the towering aluminium boxes, and he fumbled for the precious final cigarette.

He shoved it between his lips and lit it with shaking hands, then inhaled deeply and finally allowed some of the tension to seep from his shoulders as he breathed out a long stream of smoke. While he continued to take deep, regular pulls on the Dunhill, he watched the glittering orange and white lights come up in the port as the sky darkened, and he thought he had never seen a more welcome view: it was the last sight he would behold of Karachi.

The calming and head-clearing effects of the tobacco took a little longer than normal due to his agitated state, but when they did come they were proportionally that much more satisfying, and he also reflected that he had never had a more welcome cigarette.

Of course, the thought promptly provoked him to compare this one to the last two cigarettes he'd smoked in the past twenty-four hours, but rather than shove them away in a knee-jerk reaction, he allowed his nicotine-soothed brain to recall the details. Objectively, the memories were pleasurable, he admitted, and they weren't dangerous in and of themselves.

Perhaps if he could just detach the attendant sentiments from the memories, he wouldn't have to lock them away in a vault deep in his Mind Palace. They could be useful, a part of his mind tried to justify: the additional life experiences might lend certain insights into work in the future. It was likely—he'd already realised that he had missed various nuances and motivations in past cases because of his inexperience. Ultimately that hadn't stopped him from solving them, of course, but he might have been able to crack them even sooner.

But, he understood as he took another drag, it wasn't actually feasible for him to dismiss one part and retain the other; the act and the feelings were too closely intertwined for him.

Why am I unable to divorce emotion and sex with the ease that so many other men seem to? he thought in frustration as he inhaled the rich smoke of the cigarette into his lungs again. He generally found it so easy (effortless, really) to detach himself from others.

And yet he knew the answer at once—had known it as soon as he'd thought of the question. Setting aside the fact Irene wasn't 'others' (she was a remarkable force that was impossible to ignore, as he could so easily ignore most people), the main reason was that for him sentiment had come first, and the lust was entirely predicated in his cerebral appreciation of The Woman: her mind, her wits, her cunning, and even her audacious streak. Without those compelling qualities, there would be no sexual attraction. (Not to say that his attraction to her physically was any less potent because of that—quite the reverse, he suspected.)

So unless he slept with someone else, someone ordinary, in order to gain those same insights albeit devoid of sentiment (a concept he found surprisingly repulsive and abhorrent despite its possible practicability), the memories of his sexual experiences would always be coloured by emotion.

But no, it's better to never foray into sex again—with anyone, he thought. He'd always been right not to risk it; the disadvantages severely outweighed any potential, unverified benefits. Though it was maddening to leave something so unresolved, when absolutely everything in his character objected to such a concept (especially the part of him that still clung to the idea of he and Irene) in the absence of other tolerable choices it was really the only option.

He nodded to himself, and took one final, deep pull of tobacco smoke, just as he sensed that he was no longer alone in the narrow portion of deck.