A/N: Oh! So many lovely reviews! Thank you very, very much for reading this—and yes, the question mark after the 'TBC' was nothing but a tease, I couldn't possibly abandon two characters as deliciously twisted as Irene and Sherlock…
(By the way, they're not mine, in case you wondered.)
I hope this update lives up to your expectations: I've been writing it while fighting off a terrible cold, and trying to work out a new chapter for my Downton Abbey story (so many great fandoms, so little time!...). Enjoy, and let me know what you think, please!
He's been here several times before, helping the Yard solve a few theft-slash-murder-slash-both cases, so the clerk recognizes him the moment he walks through the door.
"Mr. Holmes, a message for you," he smiles politely, and hands him an envelope (standard issue hotel stationery, no perceivable smell) before turning away to another visitor. Nobody pays him any attention as he carefully takes out a single sheet of paper.
He'd put his money on her renting out a presidential suite, or something of a similar grandeur, but the three-digit number written hastily (blue pen, most likely provided by the hotel) in the very middle of the paper tells him (he'd memorized the layout of the building long ago) that it's in fact a studio with a kitchenette attached, located in the far end of the East wing: a solution that's much more simple and severe, and yet allows the dweller greater independence, something she'd surely appreciate. He crumples the paper into a ball and stuffs it deep into his pocket as he bypassed the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time.
The manner in which he'd climbed up five floors is (probably) the reason behind his slightly elevated pulse and breath catching in his throat as he walks down the corridor towards her door. He knocks—three fast, short taps—and waits, hands pushed into his pockets, elbows stuck out in a defiant pose.
There's a rustle and a creak, and then she opens the door.
Quickly he takes inventory, eyes roaming all over her: hair pulled back, no make-up; skin a little paler than he'd remembered, glowing in low light seeping from behind her; fingernails cut uncharacteristically short, no polish; wearing a thick, black sweater with too long sleeves falling past the wrists, hand-made by somebody who clearly had no previous experience in knitting, and jeans; feet bare, toenails coated with magenta polish.
She looks tired, but composed and watchful as she waits for him to complete the 'scan'. "Are you going to come in?"
He realizes he'd missed her voice, low and velvety, and covers his confusion over the fact with a blink. "Perhaps I'd better. Wouldn't want any undesirable people noticing you." He steps forward decidedly, inhaling as he passes her. She smells of chocolate, liquorice and anise—a strangely fitting combination.
She snorts and closes the door behind him, putting the lock and chain in place. It makes him feel something akin to anticipation. "Nobody knows I'm here—nobody except you, that is, and you're already in too deep to turn me over to the authorities, aren't you? By the way, how's your dear brother?"
"Fine," he answers curtly, not wanting to discuss Mycroft, of all the things, with her, of all the people. He takes in the room: impersonal, brownish furniture, queen-size bed, small table with two chairs, a dresser, the kitchenette separated by a long, wooden counter. Thick, chocolate brown curtains are closed, the only light in the room comes from a line of weak bulbs under the hood of the electric stove. The carpeted floor is almost black, making Irene's feet look like pale fish as she walks in front of him, rounding the counter.
"I have mulled wine," she says, not meeting his eyes. "Would you like some?"
"You've been to Eastern Europe? Austria? Galicia?" he asks, sitting down on a stool opposite her. She glances at him, eyes sparkling with mirth.
"You're quite eager to fill in the empty pages, aren't you? Not so fast; we have all the time in the world."
He doesn't agree with that assessment, but understands the sentiment behind it. "Wine would be nice, thank you."
He observes closely as she pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and switches on the stove, a pot already on it. She moves sparingly and purposefully, hands steady and white. She's yet to touch him, to acknowledge the tension that has been building between them practically since the moment they'd first laid their eyes on each other; the way she treats him, impersonal and cold, paradoxically makes him relax: this is something he knows, something he can relate to. If she's doing it on purpose, to making him feel at ease, he doesn't know—but it's a generous thing to do, and he's grateful.
Another quick look around the room. There aren't too many personal objects on display: a duffel bag resting on the suitcase rack, a thick book wrapped in a newspaper page on the desk, a computer—ultra-thin laptop, undoubtedly chosen for its lightness and small dimensions, so that she could carry it inconspicuously in her handbag—next to it. The bed looks freshly made despite the late hour. The kitchenette is impeccably tidy, except for an empty wine bottle (a special blend one would use when making Glühwein) and a half-used packet of spice which she must have added to the pot beforehand.
The contents of the pot smells quite good, and he feels saliva flowing into his mouth, making him swallow hard. Irene looks up at him and quirks her brow with a smirk, but doesn't comment.
In a few minutes, the drinks are ready, and she hands him one of the steaming mugs as she climbs onto a stool on her side of the counter. "Cheers."
The mugs bump gently, and they raise them to their respective mouths, taking a sip at the exact same moment, focused eyes holding the other's gaze. It's hot, sweet and spicy, and Sherlock knows it's going to go straight to his head.
Somehow, in this room, with this woman, it's the most appropriate drink he could possibly have.
"So, you've come back," he states evenly after a moment of easy silence. "Intend to stay in London for a while?"
"Actually, I'm leaving tomorrow," she answers lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. "I'm done with my business here, time to move on."
This is surprising, and not in a good way. "Business? Are back in your game, then?" He hopes his voice doesn't betray the hurt he's feeling: if it does, Irene pretends not to notice.
"Not exactly," she says instead in a slow, lazy tone that suggests she isn't telling him anything of real importance. "I've changed the profile of my activities, though I still listen to what the people tell me, find out what they like and make use of it, to break it all down. Right now my interests lie in the economy, finance, and investments. It's all quite fascinating, once you really look into it."
He raises one eyebrow and takes a long gulp, the wine gently teasing his taste buds. "Is it something our mutual friend would be interested in?"
"You mean Jim? Heavens, no! One needs to devote lots of time to it, to be patient and plan ahead for everything to work out properly. He prefers more… dynamic areas of influence."
"Then who is it? Who are you working for?"
She shrugs, clearly amused by his impatience. "Myself, most of the time. I much prefer freelancing than answering to some mediocre man with a cartload of complexes hidden in his wardrobe, thank you."
He puts the mug down, both hands touching warm porcelain, much like hers are, and fixes a long, steady gaze on her face. She may look tired, but she's definitely stronger, more self-confident and harder to crack than when he'd seen her last. This Irene Adler wouldn't need him to save her from the Karachi partisans.
She would never get caught in the first place.
She is looking at him, too, and her eyes are warm and soft, unlike the set of her lips. "You've lost weight," she observes nonplussed, and it sounds like something an overprotective mother would say to her daughter living alone in college dorm, or perhaps a concerned girlfriend to her overworked boyfriend.
"I'm still wearing the same clothes," he points out dryly. She shakes her head, a strand of hair escaping the knot and coming to rest against her right cheek.
"You look thinner," she insists. "Your skin is tighter; now I'd be sure to cut myself if I…"
She reaches out, the fingertips of her left hand almost brushing his cheekbone, and breath catches in his throat.
She stops, hand hanging in midair millimetres away from his skin. She looks into his eyes, searching, questioning his intentions, but doesn't move a muscle.
Slowly, Sherlock raises his left hand, and catches the stray strand of Irene's hair between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward to put it back behind her ear, and leans his face gently against her fingers: first point of touch.
In the low light, he cannot say if her pupils are dilating to accommodate to the darkness, or if there's another reason for it. Dismissing the thought, he concentrates on the feeling of her skin—cool, delicate and soft—and hair—thick and silky—where he can reach it. "You'd better watch out then, Miss Adler," he whispers, embarrassed to hear his voice come out husky and raw, "or you might hurt yourself."
This is finally what they've been doing those past few months: teasing, testing, provoking the other party to react, to bare themselves in front of the other. The thrill of the chase, of circling around each other for so long—it all comes down to this: to small, gentle touches in a darkened hotel room, to the way Irene looks at him from under her eyelashes, her eyes almost black.
"Sometimes the anticipated pleasure is worth coping with a little pain first, Mr. Holmes," she replies, her voice a quiet, sensual murmur.
"Is this one of such occasions?" He has an inexplicable urge to rub his face against the hand touching it, like a cat begging to be stroked, and bites his lower lip to fight it off. Irene smiles: a real, beautiful smile that makes her appear younger, more delicate, and (he has to admit it, even though he'll never say it out loud) heart-warmingly beautiful, and pulls away, brushing her fingers against his lips as she goes.
"One could only hope," she says softly, and is about to say something more…
The electronic alarm clock built into the stove starts beeping.
Irene jumps up from the stool and presses a combination of keys to turn it off. When she turns back to Sherlock, her face is calm, but closed, impassive, all signs of tenderness he'd detected earlier gone without a trace.
"I'm sorry to rush you, but I really need to go to sleep soon," she says in a business-like tone, not meeting his eyes. "I have a plane to catch early in the morning."
"Of course," he says immediately, standing up and brushing at the almost invisible wrinkles on his shirt, trying to mask his annoyance at being dismissed like a naughty schoolboy. "It was nice to see you," he tells the carpet, too embarrassed of his feelings—disappointment, anger, confusion, frustration—to look Irene in the face.
"Likewise," she answers warmly, and when he finally looks up at her, she has a small, gentle smile on her face. "I hope we'll see each other again, Mr. Holmes. And then, there are always emails, are there not?"
"Precisely," he straightens up his back, transforming all the unwanted emotions into an armour against her and the world of feelings he clearly doesn't need. "Try not to get yourself into trouble—and by that I mean also not standing in my way, professionally speaking."
She lets out a short, forced chuckle that sounds extremely false to his ears. "Are you saying you'd hand me over to the Yard without as much as a second thought? Is that what one does to one's friends?"
"I wasn't aware we were friends, Miss Adler."
It's a challenge, and she knows it, he can tell from the proud set of her chin, the coldness in her eyes. "No, we're not," she replies, and walks past him to the door, taking down the chain, unlocking it. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."
He takes the cue and gives her a deep, respectful nod as he passes her. "Till our next meeting, Miss Adler."
He can hear the sharp, metallic clicks of the locks as he walks down the hall.
He wonders idly if it was an actual alarm she'd set, say, in the morning, or whether she turned it on as she was preparing the wine, to time their conversation and make sure it was properly short.
The cabby that takes him home is extremely talkative, going on and on about some political scandals, stock exchange movements and other things he doesn't give a damn about. By the time he opens the door to 221B, all Sherlock wants is to get into bed, which he does, not bothering to shower or brush his teeth.
The house is eerily quiet: Mrs. Hudson's asleep, and John hasn't come back from the stag party yet; Sherlock crawls between his sheets, naked, and tries to find the most comfortable position, his train of thoughts finally slowing down, pushing all memories of Irene Adler to the depths of his conscious mind.
He's almost asleep, his breathing deep and even, when he hears the doors downstairs open.
Then there's silence, forced, unnatural silence, and somebody's walking slowly up the stairs: must be John, trying to be as unassuming as possible to hide the actual extent of his drunkenness. A typical behaviour of those who drink sporadically, but when they do, they take their poison with buckets, Sherlock thinks, and proceeds with clearing his mind of all thoughts, again.
The steps pause in front of his bedroom door. Curious.
The doorknob turns, and the movement of air brings a whiff of aroma to his nostrils.
Liquorice and chocolate.
His eyes open in the darkness, the only part of him that moves, his whole body tense like a bowstring.
Suddenly sleep is the very last thing on his mind.
TBC…