When the van came to a stop some ten minutes after he had heard the driver talking to Irene Adler, Sherlock was more or less in charge of himself again. The genuine surprise brought about the knowledge of her participation in this whole sordid affair had faded and given room for rational thought to enter his brain again. In those scarce minutes Sherlock had gone through the whole history between them, from the unexpected start to the unsettling last time he had met her. It had been seven months, give or take a week, when Sherlock had saved Irene from beheading; and it was seven months, give or take six days, when he had last seen her in that shabby motel they had taken refuge for one night.
The memory of Irene made Sherlock both smile and cringe at the same time. The woman. Impossible, simply intolerable; and yet so fascinating, so challenging. One of a kind, really. The fact that she had been furious with Sherlock for saving her life only went to prove that - of course Irene had been more angry at herself than at Sherlock for allowing such a scenario to have come to an existence, but the rage had been very clearly directed to Sherlock. It had to be said that it probably hadn't done much good for him to point the obvious out, several times even; but then again, he had been only in the right.
All in all, Irene Adler was not a good loser; what interested Sherlock now was what kind of a winner she would be.
When the van stopped and the driver turned the motor off, the silence felt almost louder as the roar of the engine had. All four men sat still - Sherlock and Moriarty in anticipation as of what would happen next, the two men apparently waiting for someone to let them out of the car.
Sherlock heard the driver's door opening, slamming shut and then his heavy footsteps as he walked to the back of the car. When he opened the doors Sherlock felt a rush of cold air on his skin, protected only by the thin fabric, and was suddenly very aware of how inconvenient the situation actually was. In more ways than one.
The driver spoke; the way he pronounced his words indicated he had a cigarette in his mouth. Unlit as of yet - there was no smell. "Come on then."
With that Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun on his temple. "You heard the man." The man who had sat next to him nudged the gun a bit to the side of Sherlock's head in order to make the impact of his words stronger.
Blinded by the cloth covering his face, Sherlock reached with his hand to his left side and with the support of the bench they had been sitting on, guided himself towards the open doors. What had felt like cool air suddenly got freezing as he stepped out. The coldness enveloped him like liquid ice and Sherlock couldn't help his body from shivering; he was physically weak after not eating for God knows how long and the coldness now conquering him did not make things exactly easier.
He sensed someone next to him and assumed it to be Moriarty. In his head Sherlock mapped out the likely setting; they were standing on a paved surface - a driveway, perhaps - in front of the van that was parked behind their backs. Moriarty was on his right-hand side and the two men who had been with them in the back were between them and the van, making their presence known with the guns pointed into the back of their heads. The driver was probably getting Irene, or then he was very, very silent in terms of breathing.
Sherlock evaluated the situation - he was handcuffed, at a gunpoint, freezing, hadn't eaten in days - well, at least he was used to that - and waiting for the woman who had not only managed to get him here very much against his will, but also of whose agenda Sherlock truthfully speaking hadn't a clue of. And all this together with Jim Moriarty; it didn't get much more complicated than this.
Or much more interesting.
For a fleeting second Sherlock thought about John. Where was he? Did he have any idea of what was going on? Did he even know Sherlock was alive? What he would have given to have John there right then; the only person Sherlock had ever admitted needing and the only one who had ever needed him, truly - not to solve a case or fulfill a role presented to him by someone else but needed him, as he was, all of him.
The thought of John was pushed away by two sets of approaching footsteps, a man and a woman's. The man stopped some meters away; the woman walked straight to Sherlock. He heard the even clicks of her heels approaching and as they stopped right in front of him, Sherlock felt her presence even as he saw nothing; she had to be less than a feet from him. Sherlock was able to smell her perfume, and if there had been any doubt in his mind it was now wiped away - it was definitely Irene.
Sherlock wasn't quite able to tell whether the tension in his body was because of her or because of the coldness that started to feel almost painful; he chose to keep it that way.
She didn't say anything. Had it not been so windy Sherlock would have probably been able to feel her breath on his skin; now he was left with the mental image of it. Then, without a single ruffle of her clothes that would have given her movement away, Sherlock suddenly felt her hand on his chest; her touch burnt on his ice-cold skin through the thin fabric. Irene held her hand still for a while and then let it slide down on his body, from the collarbone to the hip, where it lingered for a while; very light, very smooth; as if to check it was him.
Then she stepped back, and when she spoke Sherlock heard from her voice that she wasn't smiling.
"Gentlemen, welcome. If you would follow me."
x
x
x
John had been a bit unsure about putting Molly behind the wheel. She seemed to have fallen near to a catatonic state; the look in her eyes was empty and she didn't react to most of what he said to her. John had had to literally drag her out from the house and shove her into the car; it was like she would have stopped caring about anything altogether and what would or wouldn't happen next interested her little if not at all. But John couldn't very well drive himself, for two obvious reasons - he didn't know where they were going and he wouldn't have been able to keep an eye on Molly had he had to pay attention to traffic. She was crazy as a shithouse rat, that much was obvious, and there was no telling what she might do if left unsupervised. Therefore the risk of getting killed in a car accident was something John now had to take; that is, if he wanted to have any chance of seeing Sherlock alive again.
And he sure as hell wanted.
So John had put her into the car and maneuvered himself to the passenger's seat. After doing so he just sat there, for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. It had all been a bit much, really, and his head hadn't been quite able to keep up with all the turns of the events. It felt surreal, as the possibility of your wildest dream about to come true only can - and having Sherlock back would be just that. Even the thought that the man that mattered to John the most was now out there somewhere, breathing and alive, was close to unreal.
Shaking the thought out of his head John turned his attention back to Molly. She was sitting on the driver's seat, her hands in her lap, staring straight in front of her as if waiting for instructions; there seemed to be no active cell left in her. The problem now was that John didn't know if she was faking it or not; the change in her had been so complete that it was hard to think she wasn't; but then again, how could he know how deep the distortions of her mind went? He would just have to play it as went; but if one thing was certain it was that he didn't need any more surprises.
John cleared his throat. "Molly? Let's go." John didn't point the gun at her anymore; it didn't seem necessary at the moment. He had it in his hand though, resting the barrel on his thigh - ready to act should there be a need for it.
Molly blinked a few times. Then, without saying a word, she put her other hand on the wheel and with the other turned the key and started the car; the sound of the engine made John startle a bit.
She pulled away from the house and took to the main road, turning the car towards London. Still she said nothing, and the expression or the lack thereof on her face did not change. Yet there was solidness in her presence; she didn't appear to be resigned or defeated, on the contrary - Molly seemed determined even if distant.
"So where are we going?" John felt the need to keep some kind of line of connection open to her.
Molly didn't take her eyes away from the road but John saw her expression tightening. "Get Sherlock." Her voice was as determined as her appearance.
John resisted the urge to grab her by the throat and shake the crazy out of her head. Instead, he asked with a patient voice, "Yes, but where is he?"
Molly's voice had gained a bit color; there was anger in it now, and disappointment. "I was promised him.. And they took him, they took him." Her grip of the wheel tightened and she muttered something John couldn't hear.
John wasn't even trying to pretend he was following her. "You were.. promised? By who?"
Molly shook her head; a motion more meant for herself than to John. "She promised I could have Sherlock. She promised." She was mumbling now, and John wasn't sure if he had heard her right; a big part of him hoped he hadn't. She. If there was a "she" involved, it could be only..
"Molly? Who promised?" He actually didn't want her to say it.
Suddenly Molly turned her face to John, and in her eyes reflected a mixture of anger and jealousy. "You know who. Irene Adler." She spat her name out as if it had tasted bad in her mouth.
John leaned back on his seat. Irene Adler. "Great." His tone was enough to reveal that it was everything but.
So it was Irene who was behind this all. Not Molly but Irene fucking Adler. John didn't even bother to be surprised that she was alive; the hell, if you can fake your death once, surely you can do it twice. Nothing seemed to be able to get to that woman, and now she had Sherlock in her hands - the man who had robbed her of her life insurance and, according to what John had heard, quite a considerable amount of wealth while he was at it. And not to talk of the impact she had had on Sherlock -
A wave of jealousy washed over John before he was able to stop it. Determinedly he pushed it away - it wouldn't help now, besides, it was completely irrelevant. Completely. And yet he couldn't help remembering how Sherlock had behaved, how she had obviously mattered; and Irene, bloody frustrating, perceptive Irene..
"Does that make me special?"
"I don't know, maybe."
"Are you jealous?"
"We´re not a couple."
"Yes you are."
"If anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."
As it had turned out some months later, Irene had been in the right and John in the wrong; and for some reason it annoyed the hell out of him.
John turned his eyes back to the road. This would require some thinking.
x
x
x
When the bag was finally lifted from his head, Sherlock found himself in a situation that had became more or less familiar to him during the recent past - tied down. He had been guided inside a building, up the stairs and to his right, where the man escorting him had pushed him down to a bed and cuffed his hands as you can only cuff them in a situation as cliche as the one at hand was. The whole chain of events ever since they had departed from Molly's house was so old-school gangster style that Sherlock couldn't help himself from being slightly amused; but when Irene pulled the bag that had been over his head off, there was not even a trace of smile on the face of Sherlock Holmes.
Irene, after freeing him from the inconvenience of not seeing, remained standing next to the end of the bed, staring down at her apparently unexpected prisoner. The sudden excess of light made Sherlock blink, and the fact that she had positioned herself - no doubt deliberately - right in front of a window from which the rays of the now setting sun entered the room, didn't make it exactly easier for his eyes.
After a few seconds, his eyes having adjusted, Sherlock locked his eyes on hers. She was as beautiful as ever, the same intelligent eyes with the very particular glow that suggested she knew more than you did; the same pale skin that accentuated the redness of her lips and the darkness of her hair. Her body, clad in a simple but elegant black dress that was just tight enough to arouse one's imagination but loose enough to keep it working, unchanged; her posture as impeccable as it had been the last time Sherlock had seen her.
It had been seven months but it could have been seven hours.
"Miss Adler." Sherlock's voice carried with it the recognition of the nature of their previous interaction.
"Mr. Holmes." She glanced up and down on his body, letting her eyes linger on his physique, and Sherlock knew she did so on purpose; it was to show him who was in charge. "What an... unexpected pleasure." Her voice purred like a cat that had eaten the canary and she gave him a smile. It didn't reach her eyes and remained unanswered.
"I should say likewise." Sherlock's voice was neutral but the look in his eyes was not; he looked at her like one might look at a beautiful but poisonous her, scanning her. Deciding how close it was safe to get to go.
Irene tilted her head a bit. "May I?"
Without waiting for a reply she sat down on the bed, on the level of his waist. Her hands she crossed in her lap, overtly chastely for someone like her; for a second she looked almost shy. All for show, of course - there was nothing Irene could do that wouldn't make Sherlock forget who she was and how she worked; and yet he had to remind himself of this on a regular basis.
Sherlock didn't let his eyes leave hers. "I see you are well." His voice still revealed no emotion or strain; by the sound of it they could have been two strangers chatting in a cocktail party.
Irene smiled again. "Thank you, yes. And I will be even better in the near future. And yourself?" Her tone was equally nonchalant.
Sherlock looked at his right wrist, then back to Irene. "I could be better."
"I'm sorry about those, darling. But you do understand I just can't let you run around freely." She sounded so sincerely apologetic that it made Sherlock sneer.
"Of course." He paused for a while. "But, on the risk of asking the obvious, why not? What is it that you want from me?"
Irene placed her right hand on his chest. Sherlock felt the warmth of her palm on his skin, and knew that she felt his heartbeat. It was even.
She leaned closer to him, her chest touching his, until her lips were only inches away from his. "What would you like me to want?" Her voice was not much louder than a whisper.
"Don't play games, Irene. I'm sick of them." Sherlock's voice was quiet but deep.
Irene kept herself on top of him for a while, observing Sherlock's face very intently. Her hand, still on his heart; his pulse, still even. You could have cut the silence in the room with a knife.
Then she pulled away. "Yes, I can tell." There could have been a hint of disappointment in the depths of her eyes. Then it was gone and she smiled knowingly. "John, is it?"
Sherlock stared at her for a while before replying. When he did, his voice was solid. "Yes."
Irene shrugged her shoulders. She didn't look surprised. "About time." She pulled her hand away back to her lap and turned her eyes to the window. "As for what I want from you, my dear, is not to meddle."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. "With your plans for Moriarty."
Irene looked back at Sherlcok, feigning surprise. "What ever makes you think I have plans for him?"
"Molly told me that whoever was behind this all wants Moriarty dead." This time the surprise on Irene's face was real; obviously she hadn't expected Sherlock to know that. Before she had time to reply, Sherlock continued. ""But you don't want him dead. That's what you may have told her to get her to help you - by the way she behaved towards him there's some bad history between them - but I don't believe it for one second you are planning on torturing him to death as Molly seemed to believe. No, you have something else planned - what is it, Irene? You need another life insurance? You need his help with something? Why not just go to him like you did before, why this charade?"
Irene's eyes darkened and she shifted her position a bit. Sherlock saw he had hit a nerve. "Oh, you can't? He won't help you because you're useless to him without your bundle of information? So you capture him and make him help you?" After his words, silence fell into the room.
Irene's eyes were burning; Sherlock had managed to push her. "Perceptive as ever, I see." She practically hissed the words.
Sherlock lowered his voice a bit. "The only question is, what do I have to do with any of this?"
Irene glared at him. She was angry but in control of herself again. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You shouldn't even be here, and you wouldn't if Molly would have done her share of the deal."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture of interest. "Deal?"
Irene rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious, detective Holmes? I promised her you for her help to get to Jimmy."
Sherlock looked at her, slowly. "You... Promised me?"
Irene snorted. "Oh, don't look so offended, it really doesn't suit you. Quid pro quo. Girl's gotta do what girl's gotta do." She stood up from the bed and stood next to it, looking down on Sherlock with a hint of affection in her eyes. "I was sad about it though. Such a waste..." Her voice traveled off.
Before Sherlock had time to reply, Irene turned around to leave. On her way to the door she said, "I don't know yet what I'll do with you..." In the doorway she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. "But I must say, I rather do like you there." She flashed him a smile and was out.