I did some research on how one may create and sustain memory palaces (or as Sherlock calls his: a 'mind palace'). It's pretty interesting stuff!
"When Preparation Meets Opportunity"
When Sherlock awoke the following morning, he was aware of two things almost before he even reached full consciousness. The first was that beyond some minor muscular soreness, he felt extremely refreshed and alert yet very unusually relaxed, and he immediately knew that he had slept hours beyond his typical though irregular allotment.
The second thing he noted at once was that for some reason, his mood was exceptionally, intangibly good. Usually waking brought on an immediate sense of directionless boredom and ennui, since getting sleep of any quality was an indication that he was between challenges. And though there were no cases waiting for him in London (as far as he was aware, though he had been somewhat preoccupied recently), the exceptional nature of the mission he had just completed, and the ongoing. . .situation. . .with The Woman were certainly interesting enough to hold his attention for the timebeing.
And so in the moments just after he returned to consciousness he kept his eyes closed, memorising and savouring all the textures, sounds, and smells of the morning. This was almost certainly a one-off, and he wanted to catalog it as thoroughly as possible so that he could recall it, in the (unlikely? inevitable?) case that he would miss it—miss her. Eyes still shut, though a small crease appeared between his brows, he spanned his fingers outward and pressed them down into the slightly rough surface of the fitted sheet below him, as the knuckles of his other hand brushed lightly but deliberately across the very smooth skin of the woman at his side.
Finally he cracked his eyes open but remained still, feeling too heavy and warm to adjust his position just yet. There were times when the prospects of the upcoming day were so scant or unpromising that he would just lie amongst his bedclothes in a sort of semi-catatonic state, even too apathetically bored to spend effort on thinking of something to alleviate the unbearable tedium. He never lied in bed just for the enjoyment of it however, and he had never understood the appeal of so-called 'lazy mornings'—until now. Like so many other various things in the past day or two, that previously incomprehensible custom suddenly made slightly more sense to him.
He temporarily delayed the gratification of looking at Irene, and instead spent several prolonged moments taking in the pale watery light that filtered through the small porthole windows and cast the cabin in a soft grey glow, as well as the flecks of dust motes floating around them in the air, illuminated in the weak rays. But after only a few moments he found that he couldn't keep his eyes away from her any longer, and he allowed himself to turn his gaze down towards The Woman and fully observe her sleeping form. She was on her side facing away from him, and the duvet was folded over her hip, showing him her dark, now-tangled hair, the long and supple line of her spine, and the tantalising dip of her waist.
He was aware that the human brain found certain ratios and contours particularly pleasing, and anecdotally he could definitely sense himself reacting to hers now. The attraction was further heightened when he noticed a collection of dark red marks along the side of her throat and at the juncture of neck and shoulder—contusions caused by excessive suction. He smirked to himself. He had ended up leaving his mark, after all.
Automatically, he lifted the hand that had been grazing against where her hip pressed into the mattress, with the intention of settling it onto her waist, and hopefully waking her. He estimated that they had been asleep for over seven hours, and since they were due to arrive at the port of Muscat, Oman that night, he didn't want to expend any more of their severely limited time together on something so dull—something they could defer until after they were separated.
But then she stirred, making a small contented murmuring sound in her sleep, and he stilled his hand an inch above her, ambivalent. It occurred to him that he liked this, as well—just this. It took a great level of trust and vulnerability to simply sleep beside someone else, and though the past several days had contained a number of firsts, this was no less significant or unlikely than perhaps any of the more dramatic events.
Besides, having the chance to observe her in such a way was unprecedented, novel and quite appealing. In fact, he felt quite certain (even though it was an imprecise, unsubstantiated certainty) that being observed like this was equally rare for her, as well, and that perhaps he wasn't the only one for whom the more understated intimacy of simply sleeping besides someone was a new experience.
So, rather than wake her as he had originally intended, he pushed himself slowly and carefully into a sitting position against the pillow, to better view her face from over her shoulder.
He couldn't resist one touch though: impulsively he reached out to brush back the hair that was draped across her cheekbones and obscuring her features, but other than her lips slightly pressing together and the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, she didn't react.
With a look of intense concentration, his eyes meticulously scanned her face, left to right, from her hairline down to the rounded edge of her chin. As he processed her smooth, tranquil expression and prepared to move the incoming data into its permanent mental storage location, he couldn't help but compare it to the untamed and passion-driven appearance he had memorised the previous night. He was nothing if not thorough in his collection of data, and that ethic was especially critical now. His memories of her were to be of the highest and most comprehensive quality possible.
He reentered his mind palace, which had originally begun as a reproduction of the attic of his childhood home in Sussex, then had grown into the entire manse, and was now significantly grander than even that, with extensive additions and entire other wings. He quickly made his way along the route towards where he had carved out her room, in the basement next to the wine cellar (A very valuable room itself; the bottles were organized by year as if by their vintage, but instead each bottle represented a key scientific discovery of his [the labels' images specified which, since he had any given number per year]).
He pushed open a door marked with the universal 'Women' symbol to reveal a spacious room with large and gracious round bay windows, through which bright midday sun was flooding—her Belgravia sitting room. (Though logic absolutely ruled his mind palace, it was its own internal brand of logic, and not necessarily bound by rules of nature. And so, even though The Woman's room was technically underground, it would always be saturated with as much light as when he had physically visited the place.) He pictured himself striding across the wide-beam wooden floors and pastel-coloured silk carpet towards an intricately carved black marble fireplace, where he came to a stop.
In the intervening time since first meeting her the year before, he had placed a number of items in this chamber. Prior to Karachi, the room had already held a riding crop, camera phone, syringe, and a tube of lipstick, each representing different encounters and nuances he had deemed worthy of committing to permanent memory (which was every encounter and nuance, as it turned out). More recently, he had hung the Modigliani painting A Reclining Nude on a White Pillow on the wall above the mantel (modified only slightly so that the woman [The Woman] was wearing marquise-cut diamond earrings), which served as a token of how she had looked the previous pre-dawn morning, emotionally vulnerable yet physically alluring. Below the painting—almost in contrast to it—he had added a gun rack holding an AK-47, and the plaque affixed to the rack was transcribed with particularly memorable quotes from her bluff to Jarwar. Though the memory held certain unpleasant emotional connotations, it was in many ways the central item in his collection, the crown jewel. It was a reminder that she had saved both their lives on instinct and intellect alone, and it served to illustrate how utterly remarkable she was—how brave, and deviously ingenious, and skilled. And it proved that they were true equals.
In this visit to her room he mentally added a ten-inch educational model of an exploding supergiant star to the mantel, which represented the passion of the previous night, and then he looked outside and visualised the sun in the sky. The sun: much less dramatic and much more stable than a supernova, and yet still glowing white-hot and pulsing with energy, and responsible for illuminating everything else in the room. The sun was the present moment: the intimacy, the trust, the sentiment. And once again, contrary to the rules of nature, he did not need to avert his eyes away from its brilliance here in his mind palace.
He stayed for a moment in that place, staring through the windows up at the sun and basking in the both real and metaphorical warmth. Then finally, satisfied, he stepped back to mentally take stock of the entire room, and etch it permanently into his memory.
Even after he had returned to awareness, he continued to watch her in silence, and over the next half hour he noted every change in her breathing pattern, each case of rapid movement beneath her eyelids, and the occasional slight pursing of her lips. All of it was compelling to him somehow, and though their limited time was continuing to pass and the light in the room became brighter and warmer, he didn't reach a point of boredom.
It was only a harsh and uncomfortable cramping sensation in his stomach that finally diverted his focus and fully returned him to the mundanely physical domain, and that was only after he ignored it for over twelve minutes. But with his mission to extract Irene and deceive his brother now (mostly) concluded, he could allow himself to indulge his body a bit—in more than just the way than he already had. And he actually did feel quite hungry; his rate of food consumption after a case tended to increase by approximately 430% compared with what he ate while working as it was, and on top of that he had continued to engage in a much higher level of cardiovascular exercise than usual.
Still he hesitated, not entirely willing to succumbs to the demands of his body (with the exception of one thing) and lose the strange, somewhat ethereal magic of the moment. His brow creasing, he ran through the possibilities: Room service? Not an included amenity. Indefinitely ignore the sensation? Possible for me, but likely not for her. Precedence states that she'll seek breakfast when she wakes, particularly since she hasn't (we haven't) consumed a meal consisting of the requisite calories for almost 24 hours. If she insists on going when she awakes, we'll spend a greater amount of time out of the room and in the company of others (don't want to share). Best to retrieve food and bring it back before she wakes—the most expedient option in terms of time and limited exogenous interaction.
Watching her face carefully to ensure she remained asleep, he slipped out of the bed and made his way towards the bathroom, repeatedly bending at the waist to retrieve the clothing that had been scattered about the room. A very faint side-smirk appeared on his face as he recollected how each item had been cast off, piece by piece, although it faded into a look of annoyance when he buttoned up his shirt and then fastened his trousers. After the freedom and liberty of extended nudity his attire felt imposing, restrictive, and uncomfortable, and he sarcastically imagined the various reactions of their fellow passengers and the crew, if he showed up to the breakfast buffet in just a sheet. His smirk widened into a grin as he mused that that would be elegantly symmetrical in a way. Irene would certainly appreciate it: the manner in which she had first glimpsed him on the morning they had met, and then again this morning—potentially their last. . . Dressed in a sheet both times although for very different reasons on each occasion, which were reflective of their evolved relationship. But as the thought that it was their last morning sunk in, his grin froze and then withered away, and after one last darting look at her still form, he turned and left the cabin.
When he returned the bed was empty, and though she was momentarily out of view he knew that she hadn't left their suite, and the scene was strongly reminiscent of the moment they had first seen each other again after her rescue. The effect was intensified when she stepped out of bathroom and smiled at him somewhat beguilingly, although this time she wasn't wearing his dressing gown. In fact, she wasn't wearing anything at all.
He swallowed hard, but unlike the previous morning, his reaction was not to flee, but to pounce.
She was regarding him with a similarly ravenous expression, and he knew without question that it had nothing to do with the containers of food and coffee he held. For him (and it seemed for her as well), a much different type of hunger made them instantly extraneous, and it was thrilling to him.
For a moment they stared at each other through slightly narrowed eyes, before she squared her shoulders and drew up to her full height which, while almost ten inches less than his own, seemed formidable nonetheless.
And then she spoke, and it was in that confident declarative tone again. "Put those down," she said, but then closed the distance between them and took them out of his hands herself, and set them to the side, then shoved him hard back on the bed.
For a brief moment he was slightly startled, before her words from the night before about alternating who took control echoed back to him, and he toed off his shoes and swung his legs up. Then he settled back against the pillows with his darkened eyes heavily lidded, and his mouth slightly parted, his breath becoming ragged in anticipation.
She straddled his lap, looming over him magnificently, her hair streaming around her shoulders and her face radiating the same surety and emotion he knew she could see on his. In all that existed within the massive expanse of his mind palace, there could not be a more breathtaking or alluring sight than the reality of the woman before him—not to him.
Although soon all he would have were those mere tokens, and as eager as he was to return to London to resume work, and credit himself for successfully completing such a large-scale mission, he wasn't looking forward to the sudden deprivation of both sex and the object of his sentiment.
His thoughts must have coloured his expression, because before he could consider the matter in any greater depth, she let go of one of his hands to brush fingertips over his lips.
"Shhh," she hushed with a faintly reproving look. "I don't want to think about that yet, just stay in this moment."
With effort, he answered, "I didn't say anything. . ." His voice sounded like he had dredged it up from deep within him; it was hoarse and baritone.
"But I could hear you thinking it," she said, and he couldn't help but expel a softly huffed chuckle at that, both because she was right, and because he could remember all the times he'd asserted the same thing to others.
She looked momentarily satisfied that she had managed a small smile from him, but then her gaze turned absolutely determined again, and she pushed her fingers through his hair and down the sides of his neck, to rest on his clavicle.
"We still have an entire day together," she pointed out, her tone full of seductive promise. "Nothing scheduled, or planned or plotted. . . What a novel concept."
But rather than further distracting and calming him, she had incited the opposite reaction. . . Suddenly, for a reason not immediately apparent to Sherlock, the last word she spoke pierced through his intoxicated haze like the laser-sight of a rifle, and he stiffened and grasped her wrists tightly in his grip, pulling her hands away from where they were toying with the collar of his shirt.
His eyes turned to stare widely up at her, his mind still struggling to comprehend his sense of dread prompted by that resonating word, and after another (inexcusable) 2.3 seconds, the realisation hit him with the force of two smashing protons. Concept. . .conception. He blanched and felt his lust and contentedness abruptly sap from his body and his precise, analysing mindset snap back, like the proverbial splash of cold water.
"You don't have intercourse with men," he stated abruptly and stiffly, and she paused, and looked down at him in confusion, disconcerted by such an abrupt shift in tone and his apparent non-sequitur.
"And you've been in custody for three weeks," he continued, and he felt the icy chill of panic sink in his stomach, not at all dissimilar to how he had felt when he thought she was betraying him, and he swallowed convulsively.
"Sherlock—" she started, looking as if comprehension was dawning.
"Contraceptives," he cut in with a hiss, furious with himself for not having realised how irresponsible they had been, although they had had other things on their minds. Still, it was no excuse. "You don't have a reason to be on anything. And even if you did take oral or injected birth control for health purposes, their efficacy would have worn off while you were imprisoned. Meaning we've been having unprotected sex."
Irene nodded pensively as if considering his words, but then she rubbed her palms down, then up the fabric covering his pectoral muscles and up to his shoulders, then leaned in to kiss him. Glaring, he pulled his head back and pursed his lips.
"Irene. . ." he said warningly, but she leaned forward further and pressed a quick peck on his lips.
As soon as she pulled back, he demanded, "When was your most recent menstrual cycle concluded?" turning bracingly to the cold comfort of science in response to the harsh reality of the biological side of sexual intercourse. "If it was any time earlier than the evening you came back to my hotel there's a chance of conception, and even that is cutting it much too close, if you ovulate early."
She regarded him with a level gaze. "Do you think I'd leave such a thing to chance?" she asked. "As undeniably brilliant and gorgeous as a genetic combination of the two of us would be, it just wouldn't be fair to the poor thing to have us as parents. . ." Her mouth pressed into a line in barely-suppressed humour, but he turned his head away from her and glowered, not willing to jest about such a thing.
Instead his heart continued to pound in panic, though he tried to make sense of what she had meant by her presumably rhetorical question. He'd already listed the reasons why pharmaceutical contraceptives weren't viable in this case, and it wasn't as if they'd used condoms; he could rule out that method of birth control absolutely. Nor would she have been able to obtain levonorgestrel or its previous-generation equivalent at any time since they'd had intercourse; Sherlock didn't even know if such a drug were available in Pakistan, for that matter.
"Do you know why I came to find you?" she asked evenly, interrupting his frenetic thoughts, and he looked at her warily from the corner of his eyes, unsure what her question had to do with this immediate and extremely critical concern.
Still, he turned his head back towards her and slowly answered, "You wanted to know why I had come to Karachi. . ."
She tilted her head, considering. "Mm, more like I wanted you to admit why you'd come to Karachi. And I also wanted the chance to. . .thank you." One brow lifted, accompanied by a characteristic twinkle in her eye, and this time he perfectly comprehended her meaning when she was being 'delicate'.
"I knew that if you did come, it was because you had been actively tracing my whereabouts."
His brow furrowed. "Yes, but I fail to see—"
"And to go to such effort would've taken significant investment of time and energy, which you wouldn't spare on me unless you felt as I suspected that you did."
They had already discussed all of this, though: he understood that she had planned for and orchestrated her own rescue by covertly directing him, on the basis of her clearer understanding of his sentiment than he'd had himself. It had been a long-term game and an incredibly risky gamble, but in many ways she had won.
But what did that have to do with the fact that they had been so irresponsible when consummating that mutual regard and sentiment? His mind leapt into high gear, but he was still somewhat subpar at understanding the inner machinations of a personal sexual relationship.
"Put it together, Sherlock. . ." she encouraged, her eyes expectant.
Then suddenly he understood what she was trying to say, and with widened eyes he tilted his head back to appraise her incredulously.
"You knew that one highly probable product of your long-term plan was that we would have sex, because my appearance in and of itself would confirm that I returned your sentiments, and so physical intimacy would then logically follow. As I said before, 'You did expect it.' But since the one factor you couldn't anticipate was where we would find each other, and under what circumstances, you decided to be prepared for what you perceived as—correctly, as it turns out—almost an inevitability."
"I was a girl scout, after all," she interjected as an aside, smiling privately to herself, apparently knowing that the American reference wouldn't make sense to him, and so she elaborated: "'Be prepared.'"
"So you had an IUD inserted," he continued, ignoring her, then added for his own edification: "Intrauterine device."
"Effective for years," she added, by way of confirmation. "After all, while it's true that I don't have sex with 'men', I was planning on being with you. So you see, I rather did 'have a reason to be on' something."
He just stared at her, and the flood of profound relief mixed with utter amazement—again.
All he could manage was, "You actually planned it out down to that detail. You were really that certain of. . .me. That certain that my words to you in front of Mycroft masked how I actually felt. . ."
"I was. I staked my life on it, didn't I?" she said somewhat breezily, though Sherlock could detect the very serious undertone in her words.
He fell silent, considering that fact. He wasn't sure if anyone else had ever placed such intense and high-stakes faith in him before, and it invoked mixed feelings of heady power and anxiety. There was Moriarty, yes, but he had placed others' lives on the line, not his own, and the challenges had been constructed for the sole purpose of the man's personal entertainment and diversion.
To his shock, he realised that his perspective on certain matters had changed since he had first encountered Moriarty and his games.
During that case he had asked John if caring for Moriarty's victims would help to save those people's lives, and when John had answered in the negative, he had scathingly remarked that he would make sure not to make that mistake. And yet it was precisely his caring that had saved Irene, and he felt nauseated at what would have happened if not for his sentiment.
"Besides, if I had been wrong, it's not as if getting the implant would've adversely affected me in any way. . ." she continued. "Sex or death. Those were basically the two potential outcomes." She laughed, although there was a harsh edge to her tone, then added, "I suppose getting the IUD was my personal vote of confidence that it would be the former—somewhat like the girl who shaves her legs before seeing the person she fancies, only. . . our version of that scenario."
He was barely listening, still distracted by imagining the alternative outcome, and when she stopped speaking he drew her down to him and kissed her fiercely, and she responded with particular passion and fervency herself.
"You weren't wrong," he said, stating the obvious but for some reason needing to affirm it aloud to her.
"Thank God," she said with a weak but wry laugh. "Because I'd choose sex over death ten out of ten times."
Sherlock answered with a tight smile of his own, then looked away and said a bit stiltedly, "At this juncture I believe it's also customary that I inform you of my health. . ." He paused, deliberating, and then made up his mind and continued, "I. . .admit that in the past I've injected a solution of cocaine, as well as tried heroin, but I never shared any needles. Even - even at the worst of it. Anyway. I'm healthy. I don't have any type of disease—communicable or otherwise."
He glanced back at her to check her reaction, and though she was watching him closely and nodding thoughtfully, she didn't seem particularly surprised or fazed by his confession. In return, he wasn't particularly surprised that she had somehow already uncovered this less-than-commendable detail from his past. Perhaps she'd even had it in mind while she was accusing him of hypocrisy only the night before, and if so, he was grateful that she hadn't resorted to dredging it up as additional leverage against him. It was further evidence that she seemed to accept him in his entirety, just as he had finally come to unconditionally accept her inclusive of her flaws.
For a moment he briefly allowed himself to feel the poignancy of the moment, and smiling in immediate comprehension, she threaded their fingers together again, then braced her arms to lean over him.
"Now," she started, in a tone that brokered no room for dissent, "be quiet so that we get back to where we were."
With a velocity that might have been almost embarrassing if he were still feeling at all self-conscious, the lust re-engulfed him with full force, simply from the tone of her voice, and his brief detour into panic was forgotten and abandoned at once. If anything, his desire was magnified by the fact that she was so exceptionally perceptive, clever, and accepting of him.
"And where was that?" he prompted, the timbre of his voice rich and deep.
She smiled knowingly, clearly understanding that he wasn't asking out of actual curiosity but in suggestiveness, and she pushed him back down against the mattress again.
An hour later the breakfast had been eaten, the coffee finished, and Sherlock was starting to become restless again (his refractory period had definitely ended and he felt eager to repeat everything that he'd experienced sexually thus far) when Irene commented idly against his shoulder, "It's rather a good thing you brought breakfast since I'm not fit to be seen in that dress. . ."
"Modest, now?" Sherlock retorted, momentarily roused from his impure thoughts, and he saw her smirk in response. "Anyway, you do have other things—an entire suitcase. We can't have Erin Sigerson passing through customs without any belongings," he drawled.
She looked up at him with two raised brows, and Sherlock briefly savoured the rare feeling of being able to surprise her in some way. "In my size?" she asked, actually looking hopeful. He supposed that if he had been forced to wear one garment for weeks on end he'd feel quite the same.
"Why would I purchase clothes that didn't fit you?" he said, although his words were softened by a faint smile. For a fraction of a second he analysed why he might be smiling, and quickly realised that he was pleased that something he had done had made her happy. Odd. He had done it for a practical reason, but this outcome was far more satisfying, somehow. His actions had never been driven by the motivation of simply making someone happy, but he was finding it strangely rewarding. Surely the same results would only occur if he duplicated the conditions with someone else about whom he cared (eg John), but it was an interesting possibility, nonetheless. . . His brow furrowed, but when he noticed her looking at him expectantly, he added, "Although they are based on your former measurements so they're likely to be a bit large, now."
Then, with the most minimal effort possible to convey his point, he waved a hand in the direction of a small compact suitcase in the corner of the room, and she immediately slid out of bed, lifted the case to the writing desk under the windows, and hastily unzipped it.
"Who could have guessed that knowledge of my measurements would prove useful again one day. . ." she murmured, then looking at the labels, she read, "Reiss."
He lifted an eyebrow, thinking of her ruined Alexander McQueen dress lying in a heap on the floor and the £600 heels abandoned in the sitting room. "Problem?"
"Not at all," she smiled, then added jokingly, "If the high street is good enough for Kate. . ."
"Your assistant," he said, immediately recalling the name.
"Middleton," she corrected at once with a mischievous expression, and Sherlock idly wondered for the first time since hearing about the set of scandalous photos who the "young female person" had been.
"I just purchased their latest line," he explained. "It seemed the most expedient approach."
"Sherlock Holmes actually stepping into a woman's clothing shop and buying out an entire line. . . If I weren't already certain of your interest, this would definitely convince me. I only wish I could've seen it myself," she said, tossing a teasing smile his direction.
He smirked, and for once he didn't correct someone when they were operating under a misapprehension about him. He'd actually had one of the more polished members of his homework network perform the errand, because how would it look if Mycroft or one of his lackeys saw him on CCTV? But he didn't want to spoil the mental image she was clearly enjoying, and so he remained uncharacteristically silent as she continued to root through the contents of the new suitcase.
As well as a package of blended cotton M&S underwear, she pulled out several sets of lacy brief and bra combinations, which she held up with a genuinely stunned but amused expression. "And Rigby & Peller? My, my, Sherlock."
Her knowing look made him slightly defensive. "It's just a token of your old life to see you through to your new one."
"Lingerie as solace?" she laughed slightly condescendingly, then tsked. "It didn't occur to you what was really going on? You were such a poor, repressed thing, weren't you?" She looked flirtatiously over her shoulder and added, "I'm so glad that I've been able to divest you of that."
He chuckled despite himself, realising in retrospect that she was absolutely correct regarding his motivations. The justification/rationale he had used didn't stand up to the slightest scrutiny, and that fact that it had been the one clothing-related errand he had actually performed himself was equally damning.
"Yes. . . As am I. . ." he confessed.
"Good, because you're far too sexy to live like a monk," she said. "It would be such a waste."
He rolled his eyes, but also felt himself colour slightly at her flattery.
"Shall I model them for you?" she asked, sidling over to stand just above him, then looking into his eyes enticingly and holding them up to herself. He reached out to curl one hand around her thigh, stroking the bare skin there, and her smile widened in response to his unintentional, nonverbal assent.
Maintaining eye contact, she stepped into the lace and silk briefs. Then she reached for the bra and drew the loose ends of the band together just under her breasts, and Sherlock watched in intent fascination as she clasped them together, then rotated the material and slid her arms through the wispy straps, one at a time. It wasn't just the novelty of watching a woman dress in undergarments that captured his attention, he was personally invested in how it functioned. He hadn't examined them after his purchase (that probably would've transgressed into too dangerous a territory, then), and he hadn't needed to unfasten her bra in any of the four times they'd been intimate so far. But when he observed that it was a hook and eye closure, he smiled a hard, pleased smile. A pinch to disrupt the tension of the band, and a snapping motion of my thumb and index finger to release the hooks. Simple.
"A perfect fit," she declared, then crooked one eyebrow at him, and added, "You really did know where to look. And not only that—you remembered."
Sherlock didn't answer; he had no defense to offer, nor was he feeling particularly eloquent in the moment. Instead, as she turned one way and then another under the guise of showing him the fit (although a teasing glint in her eye revealed her true agenda), he mused at the paradox that although she had just covered herself to a degree, she wasn't necessarily any more modest. Something about the way the fabric highlighted and drew attention to certain areas of her anatomy seemed to incite dizzying need in him. Or perhaps he was having such a reaction because by putting something on, there was something he could rip off of her.
He flicked his memory back to the afternoon when he had stepped into that shop on Conduit Street, and recalled how he'd been so (too) determined that the reason for his presence was vastly superior to those of all the other male customers; he was there in the course of a mission of the utmost, critical importance—not out of some banal, prurient interest.
Idiot, he thought to himself, though with some wry amusement. He was so deft at discerning when others were lying to him—how could he have not detected it when he had been lying so blatantly himself?
The answer was immediately apparent: he hadn't been ready to face the truth of his sentiment and sexual attraction then (as real and prevalent as it might have been).
But he certainly was now.
And as she moved across the sheets towards him, all the images of what he wanted to try again displayed in vivid, exhilarating focus in his mind, and he tracked her approach with dark, watchful eyes. She had only been away from him for six minutes at most, and yet the touch of her skin on his almost felt like a relief (no, he was certainly not anticipating the readjustment period in London), and he enfolded her in his arms, pulling her closer to him.
But when she didn't immediately melt against him, he looked down and caught her expression, which was sharp and inquisitive. She was on the verge of asking a specific question, and he let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. She evidently had something other than sex on her mind.
"Speaking of my old life—and my new one. . ." she started pointedly, as he'd anticipated, "You think this will work." Her question was posed in the form of a statement, and he knew that she was referring to the rest of Sherlock's plot and her future security. She slid off of him and onto her side, and cocked her head up on her elbow, watching him expectantly.
"Obviously," he said automatically and somewhat impatiently, but then he glanced at her again. His usual curt response wouldn't do; he owed her his elaboration, and she deserved to be privy to all information that he had.
And yes, although he had done his best and he was legitimately optimistic about the outcome, there was always a chance that Mycroft would detect some minute error that Sherlock hadn't even considered. If his and Irene's roles were reversed, he'd want to know the potential risks in such an eventuality.
"Mazari is familiar with the LeT's usual method of propaganda video release," he explained, "and will ensure that your execution tape is uploaded online through the proper internet channels."
She nodded, but then a crease appeared between her brows and she challenged, "But in the event that the LeT deny responsibility. . . Won't that make Mycroft even more suspicious?"
"Oh no, they won't contradict that," Sherlock said confidently. "Why should they admit that someone managed to infiltrate them and allow you to escape, when they can simply take the credit for what they intended to do in the first place? They'll just assume—not without merit—that someone else wanted you dead even more than they did."
Irene hesitated, and he could see her scrutinising his words from various angles. It was fascinating to watch, almost as if he were looking in the mirror during his own periods of silent analysis. Finally she said: "But if Mycroft comes in person to investigate. . ."
"I'm counting on that," he replied fervently, and with some relish. "His contact will be Caldwell, who'll take -highly unprofessional - pleasure from deceiving my brother and refer him to Captain Mazari. Who will then confirm everything on the video is consistent and genuine: the LeT did indeed execute Irene Adler, and that he was the cameraman when they burned the body. He'll say he tried to save her ahead of time, but that he was unsuccessful and that he wasn't actually present at the execution itself. I've coached him on everything I want him to include, down to the finest details of his rescue attempts, and he's familiar enough with the organisation to provide supplemental information for the required air of authenticity."
"You've thought of everything," she said, her tone flatteringly marveling, and in contrast to his previous embarrassment and deflection when she'd noted his output of effort, Sherlock felt himself basking her in her words. "You invested an unprecedented amount of effort and brainpower, and I'm sure expense, not to mentioned you risked your life. . ." she continued, now sounding strangely subdued, as if overwhelmed with barely-suppressed emotion. And though she didn't say it, Sherlock still heard the unspoken 'for me' at the end of her sentence.
"I've already told you, I don't do things halfway," he said, and though his tone might have sounded arrogant to most, it was more in pleased reaction to her praise, and her answering smile told him that she understood that. Of course she did.
"Mm, yes, I've noticed that. . ." she answered with a suddenly much different yet familiar voice, and with almost absurd predictability, he felt himself responding with an abrupt uptick in BPM, and simultaneously they leaned in towards each other, as he reached one arm around her back and towards the clasp of her bra.
Sherlock's last cohesive thought before he descended into physical bliss was that as abrupt a transition as their emotional and sexual intimacy had initially seemed to him, it was exceedingly evident that both of them had spent months preparing for it in their own ways. Nor had all of his preparation been solely technical or strategic, and therefore only indirectly indicative of his sentiment (lingerie, for God's sake; it was almost embarrassing now to realise how deluded he had been). And though, yes, she had been more cognitively aware of the precise nature of their dynamic, he had still taken every ongoing step towards this, towards them.
He had never wavered in moving forward, though that begged the question: what would he do when all of this was in the past?
The chapter title is from one of my favorite quotes by Seneca: "Luck is when preparation meets opportunity." (Although of course in this context you can replace 'Luck' with 'Love/lust')