Irene Adler tore down the alley way, her heart beat furiously against the cage of her ribs, fighting the dizzying adrenaline which pulsed through her body, willing her legs to move faster. Her senses were invigorated by the ever present dread and sickening excitement of her pursuer. Her feet pounded against the concrete with such force that the soles of her feet stung and the muscles in her legs ached with exertion. She rounded a corner and found herself on a deserted street, she sprinted into the dark without a moment's hesitation as the grind of a misplaced step sent the person hounding her skidding to the ground clumsily, surrendering their chase. She raced the last meters to Tower Bridge effortlessly, gasping breaths as she leant over the railing to gaze out to the river boats running tourists about London. She smiled inwardly at her small triumph, winning was always fun no matter your age. She hadn't been there long, but long enough to regain her poise and get a sufficient amount of oxygen into her lungs before Sherlock came sprinting up behind her. He fell gracelessly against the wall and choked out a welcome. His hair was attractively windswept, and his coat was pulled oddly around his slender frame where he had collapsed. There was a swatch of grime smeared across his right trouser leg from his ungainly mishap where he had lost his footing and fallen at the corner. She eyed him expectantly as he writhed mentally with frustration and defeat. "That wasn't fair; you're too much of a distraction to chase." He said sulkily. Irene tossed her hair nonchalantly and smiled sweetly, "Life's not fair." She pointed out.
They retired to a cafe nearby, ordering hot drinks to warm them after their training. Sherlock watched the granules of sugar spin helplessly in a clockwise formation, caught in the dark tempest of coffee churned in the polystyrene cup. He could feel the raw heat of the concentrated adrenaline from the chase dissolving through his body, and the cold regret of defeat seizing and chilling his limbs and souring his expression. Irene contemplated the street with fascination, drumming her fingers absently on her own cup clasped in her hand. Sherlock grimaced in humiliation. He was glad John wouldn't hear of this. His mood worsened at the sight of Irene's other hand cunningly hidden from his line of sight beneath the table, tapping feverishly at the keys of her mobile while she held a calm demeanour and sipped her tea casually. Sherlock reached for her hand and prised the phone from her grasp, brushing her fingers lightly against his own, which sent an annoying jolt of electricity through him, studying her face as he did so. Sherlock had electrocuted himself on numerous occasions on account of his many unpredictable experiments, but it didn't mean he had got used to receiving that sudden spark of heat and surprise from any human contact, however brief. He looked at her nervously, in the hope that she had felt it too. In response, Irene gently laced their fingers together and held them beneath the table where no one could see. She knew Sherlock didn't like public displays of affection, especially towards him, so she strived to accommodate this in her actions. Keeping their hands entwined, Sherlock edged around the booth to where Irene was seated, and sat very close to her so that their shoulders were touching. One text to John Watson, outlining his shameful defeat, he sent it without thinking, swallowing his pride, exercising the odd sensation of dropping his facade of calm, and did nothing more.
Sherlock flexed his sinewy forearm, watching the taught muscle and veins slip against each other beneath the papery skin. A low, guttural moan escaped his parted lips as the nicotine spread its feverish tendrils throughout his body. Every sense was elevated, refined, and tuned to a thrilling frequency. The monotonous drone of the traffic carried with it the tang of exhaust fumes and a stimulating snatch of conversation on the bite of cold wind from the cracked window of 221B Baker Street. The broken leather felt smooth and pulled slightly at his clammy skin, the exhausted timber drew him into the sofa, enclosing him tightly against the backrest. Sherlock detected a hint of must creeping to his nostrils from the accumulation of books huddled together on the excessive amount of bookcases. He could almost hear them whispering, sharing their curious knowledge and jostling about on the shelves. It was an ever present drone, which others failed to hear, resembling the hum of bees, swarming words flitting between the pages and hissing a tantalising discourse of information of their contents, infesting his absent mind. Then there was the intrusive staccato of heels on the ancient floors. Irene crossed the room, her fingers brushed his forearm, Sherlock shivered. She tore one of the four thin adhesive patches from his arm, in the same fluent motion as one would strike a match. His skin flushed pink and angry. Sherlock grunted in protest but his eyes remained shut. Irene closed her hand around the nicotine patch, crushing it beneath her fingertips. She flicked it vengefully and it struck Sherlock on his temple, 'such an impossible man' she confided to herself, returning wordlessly to her seat. Sherlock threw his legs over the arm of the sofa, and padded to the kitchen bare footed. He was dressed entirely in a tailored suit which accentuated his lean body flatteringly, but, for some reason, he wasn't wearing any shoes. Irene thought it best not to ask.
Sherlock studied the eyeballs critically as they rotated on the little turntable within the microwave. As of yet there was no visible reaction. He huffed distractedly and punched the buttons of the microwave, wrenching the cross hatched glass door open forcefully. He whipped the dish out, bringing it level with his face so he could study the glassy retinas of the detached orbs with greater scrutiny. Sherlock paced the room in indecision; one hand worried the nape of his neck subconsciously. Eventually he took the dish in hand, thrusting it into the recesses of the fridge, knocking aside the slowly decomposing decapitated human head. Sherlock was not in the habit of assigning names to the dismembered human limbs he distributed about the flat, but John had once referred to the head as 'Albert', remarking that it was a name that suited him amiably. Sherlock had seen no reason to argue, and, having no strong opinions on the name Albert, he had allowed the name to stick. Albert was in a very bad way. His usefulness, Sherlock feared, was wearing thin, like the flesh of his jaw. Soon Albert would be redistributed to his rightful place, whether that was a respectful grave, or a rubbish tip, Sherlock was of yet unsure.
Once again Sherlock Holmes was summoned to the hallowed halls of Scotland Yard via the incessant vibration of his BlackBerry, which tracked neat concentric circles on the worn wood side table. Irene stirred in her chair but made no move to silence the angry pulsing of the phone. Very few people considered themselves within any right to touch Sherlock's phone. She was one of them; the other was Dr. John Watson. In any case, she preferred to let Sherlock alone when he was working. Although, she had grown weary of his gruff sensual moans as he administered the nicotine patches to his forearms in dosages far more indulgent than would seem wise. Irene drew the proverbial line at six. There was a difference between stimulating and endangering your sanity.
Sherlock re-appeared; somewhere between invading the kitchen and entering the living room he had managed to locate himself a pair of shoes and had put them on, though the laced trailed limply on the ground. Sherlock reached for the phone, his fingertips inches away from its smooth, shiny surface when John Watson burst into the flat. People did a lot of bursting into his flat, Sherlock observed. He was surprised the door had not vacated its hinges from all the bursting. John was panting in ragged, irregular breaths. He stumbled erratically into the flat and peeled his scarf from his neck, and then he fumbled clumsily with his name tag from the clinic, cursing as he pricked the pad of his thumb on the safety pin. Sherlock and Irene exchanged bemused glances. Sherlock reached the last few centimetres to his phone and navigated it with impressive agility and speed, his thumbs barely grazing the keys as he texted a reply to Lestrade's urgent plea, identical to the one John had undoubtedly received moments before, judging by his uncharacteristic behaviour.
'Copycat serial killer, your area? Please come.'
'On my way – SH'
John straightened up, placing his hands on his hips in a way which made him seem almost heroic, and at the same time vaguely a bit of an idiot. Sherlock looked sceptical. "Right, let's go." John said matter-of-factly. Sherlock stooped and began to leisurely tie his shoelaces. John's smile faded on his lips, Irene watched the humorous scene unfold, the contrast between the two was startling at times. John whipped out his phone and began to scroll through his messages, dropping the action man pose. Sherlock stood nonchalantly and took his coat from the hook, draping it around his elegant shoulders. "Come along, John, we can't keep the inspector waiting." Sherlock ushered in his familiar, resonant intonation. They made for the door. "Nice try, but I'm not missing this one, dear." Irene cut in, striding between them and donning her own coat of a deep midnight blue. Sherlock shrugged, offering her his arm, all three of them descended the stairs.
A few hours later, and London was suspended in the infinite lull of a lucrative and sleepy night before it relented to the impending dawn. Their breath ghosted trails of frost which dissipated in the grim December chill. Irene sought solace in the ethereal snatches of moon light that struggled against the sombre opaqueness of the towering buildings, which enclosed the narrow alleyways. John Watson tore through the night, carving a path in the soupy, cold air. His body resisted the drag of fatigue as he pressed onwards, tailing the quickly retreating billow of the Consulting Detective's coat as it disappeared in the folds of darkness. John's heart was strong and capable; it thrummed steadily as his feet pounded the asphalt, the cold stung his eyes and choked his desperate breaths. The serial killer took a sharp left, leading them into a labyrinth of streets and back alleys, where John speculated on how flawlessly Sherlock had these mapped in his mind. Sherlock threw himself against the crumbling brickwork, and ricochet down the street in hot pursuit. The training he had participated in the previous day with Irene had only heightened his rush of adrenaline as he trailed the killer.
John had begun to track the path they had taken, but got lost after a few meagre turns. He swerved to avoid a bollard, then a thought struck him, it wasn't an urgent thought, more like an inkling in the back of his mind, but present none-the-less. Where was Irene? She had been hot on the trail for most of the chase, but at some point he had lost sight of her. John cast his gaze back over his shoulder, but the street was deserted, the only sound the pant of his breath and the drop of his feet as they fell in a heavy pattern on the road. "John, do keep up, we're losing him!" came the desperate cry from the opposite end of the street. John took to running, feeling his pulse beat reassuringly in his limbs as he pressed onwards.
Irene navigated the borough with inhuman ease, drawing on the rhythm of the night air as it danced past her swiftly moving form. Left here, twenty paces, right, bollard, blind corner, nine paces, left, left, railing, stairs, vault wall, one meter drop, recover, left. She leapt, the ground rushed to greet her, she stumbled and sprang to the left, right into the path of the killer. He yelped involuntarily, skidding on the loose gravel that sprinkled the path. Irene wasted no time, she darted a hand to his throat, paralysing his vocal cords. He stared at her dumbfounded. She drop kicked him in the gut. The man slammed into the ground and lay writhing in pain, momentarily disabled by surprise. Sherlock bounced off the wall, nearly tripping on the sprawled limbs of his former opponent. "What took you so long?" he gasped as he snapped the metal handcuffs onto the criminal's weakly resisting wrists. Irene shrugged, breathing heavily. "I had to change my shoes."