Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted and favourite. I've been hugely surprised and pleased with the response to this story. ;)
I read that lots of people thought this was very 'in character' and I just want to say that I'm sorry if this chapter isn't. Writing a chapter like this is hard, because it's hard to imagine how Sherlock would come to terms with his feelings and what he would be thinking after the rescue.
Hope you enjoy anyways x
He saw her from far away at first. They took him to her prison cell, and he made sure that his face was covered up. If she would recognise him, she would know that he had come to save her, and then she would get too confident. The wardens would that notice something was wrong, that something had changed.
Right now however, Irene Adler wasn't confident. She sat there, dressed only in black, her hair tied back and her makeup removed. She barely looked up when he came in. She looked defeated.
It scared Sherlock too see her like this.
Vulnerable and weak.
None of her usual confidence was there. Generally she was bursting with life; you could see it in her eyes, the energy there. Now however, she kept her eyes on the floor, downcast.
She did give him one small glance when he left. Eyes locked, and he could see the message she was trying to convey. Even at her weakest she was still giving him a look filled with hatred, hoping it would haunt him. She thought that he was the one who would behead her, and she couldn't help but try to make him feel guilty about that fact.
He spent the next two days arranging things with the other wardens and learning how the system worked. They thought he was a trainee; they had now no idea that he was there to 'behead' Irene Adler.
He sneaked her food sometimes; he could see she wasn't getting enough. He could see how thin she was, and how tired she looked. She was made to work every day, and it wasn't simple labour.
What angered him the most however, were the countless cuts and bruises on her body. He would observe her sometimes, when she was working, and whenever her black sheet slipped slightly it revealed the blotchy red skin. Scars that others had inflicted on her. He felt something rise within him and it took him a while to understand exactly what it was.
Anger.
Protectiveness.
And a desire to hit everybody who had done this to her.
Once again, these feelings utterly baffled him. He had established that he cared for this woman, but he had been very careful to stay away from using the word 'love' to describe his feelings. He had said it already; love was a weakness, a disadvantage when it came to life, and something he could do without.
But what was this feeling he felt when he looked at Irene then?
Not attraction, however much he wished it to be so. No, this feeling surpassed attraction and fascination.
He admired her. Admired her wit, her cleverness, her courage and her daring. But it was more than admiration too.
He supposed he could think of it as a crush. A fleeting feeling, which, after some time, would go away, and he would go back to being his normal self - unaffected by women.
But that wasn't true, was it? Even while she was alive he had wanted to see her, and that had been months. And after they had finally finished with each other, after he had given her phone to Mycroft, the feeling had stayed with him. Even after she had betrayed him, played him for a fool, hurt him, he still felt the need to see her.
And she wasn't just a woman; she was the woman, the cleverest, funniest, and most courageous woman he had ever met. And the only woman he had ever had feelings for.
She was the only woman who could thwart him, beat him and play the same game he did. She was the only one who could make him stop short. John had said it himself; Sherlock would outlive God trying to have the last word. But that wasn't the case with Irene.
So was it love? The realisation startled him, shocked him. It was certainly a feeling he had never felt before, but love?
Sherlock Holmes did not love. What a stupid thought.
.
.
.
When he wasn't walking around the jail cells he was arranging the way out of Pakistan. Karachi was close to the ocean, and Sherlock had already reserved tickets for a boat that would take them away. It was a ferry, but it would take them far away. After that they would continue on by plane.
He'd already had papers made for her, she would become Kate Baker. He'd already brought her an apartment in New Zealand. People wouldn't look for her there.
.
.
.
The day of the execution came. Sherlock had already thought things out very carefully, having befriended the real executioner. Slipping a large dose of sleeping pills into his food had been almost too easy.
After that he had put on his clothes and ID card. His face was almost completely covered up by the clothes he wore; no one would notice the difference.
It sickened him to see Irene kneel before him like that, ready to die. She looked so weak.
He had never seen her more naked.
Stripped of all confidence.
What sickened him more was that it was him, him, that stood over her with the machete. She thought that he was going to take her life. It took all he had to keep still. She had to believe it until the very last second.
His heart felt warm as she asked to send one last text. He was sure she countless friends and allies, but he was certain that she was sending her last text to him. He briefly wondered why she was doing it. Out of spite and anger? So that he would know that she was dead and that this was his fault? Or because she wanted to say her final goodbyes to him?
Either way it didn't matter. She wasn't going to die today.
He watched her lean down and bow her head, closing her eyes, bracing herself for the quick slice of the machete.
Sherlock tensed in anticipation. He knew that his phone was in his pocket, he wouldn't have time to collect his items before they fled. Any second now…
He felt it vibrate in his trouser pocket and heard it emit a moan.
He saw her lift her head and whip around staring. A small smile graced her lips and a relived tear slipped down her cheek.
She knew.
He had come for her. But where was he?
She heard the whisper come from behind her. Of course.
It was the perfect cover up. The one holding the knife. Now the only one who had the power to set her free.
His voice sounded like music to her ears. "When I say run, run!"
Like a dancer, he brought down the knife, hitting the person behind him. Only to injure, not kill. He grabbed the warden's gun and ran.
She got up hastily, realising that she had been staring at him all this time. Together they ran through the gate, down the dusty tracks and out onto the road.
It felt so good to be free.
He didn't say anything while they ran, he simply expected her to follow him. He moved like a panther, grace combined with speed.
At one point he could see she was falling behind, and reached out a hand. He didn't know whether or not she would take it. But she did and he let out a sigh of relief when he felt her inter join her fingers with his. The feel of her soft skin calmed him.
They ran for a long time, eventually slowing down to a jog until they reached a small harbour. Sherlock still didn't say anything, but he dropped her hand. Irene did her best to hide her disappointment.
She couldn't clarify her feelings for this man. Like him, she was a stranger to love. True love was something she had never properly experienced.
Sex was different. Sex was a purely physical act for her, an act where she dominated. She had nothing against sex, but it was a simple act for her, with no emotions attached.
But with Sherlock it was all different.
And new.
Just looking at him, being in his presence, sent shivers down her spine and made her pulse race. She didn't dominate by him, they were even. Same intelligence, same thoughts, same feelings. Love was an inconvenient disadvantage for both of them. How funny that the two people who both regarded love with scorn should fall in love with each other.
But did he love her? She had hurt him, she knew. Disappointed him; angered him even.
She had used him.
She felt horrible now. Because she realised that he was the one man she needed. No man (or woman) had ever fascinated her so much before.
He led her on a small boat, a ferry by the looks of it. He had peeled off his headband, so as not to arouse suspicion, but the rest of his body was covered. Irene made good use of the sheet across her head and covered her face. The captain nodded as they passed and Irene breathed a sigh of relief.
Sherlock still said nothing, even though he desperately wanted to. What was there to say?
He led her down small corridors, all the way to their cabin. It had just one bed (for Irene, Sherlock didn't feel like sleeping, sleeping was boring.)
Irene remained standing in the doorway, watching Sherlock walk around to the small suitcase in the room and flipping it open.
"Why?" she asked simply. Usually she was witty and had the last word, but not today. 'Why' was all she could think of. Why did the man, whom she had hurt and taunted save her?
Sherlock turned around, but didn't reply, instead giving her a look of such intensity that it stunned her.
"Thank you" said Irene quietly, when it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything.
Sherlock finally smiled at her, and Irene knew now, beyond doubt that she was forgiven. His smile was suddenly so happy, that she had the impression that he had been holding back.
"You're quite welcome" Sherlock answered, walking over to her. He pointed to the suitcase. "I imagine you might want different clothes, I packed some for you".
Irene couldn't hide her surprise at his consideration and accepted the clothes he was holding out to her. She walked over to the bed, and Sherlock noticed her slight limp. "What happened to your foot?" he asked sharply. "It was fine when you were working today".
Irene sat on the bed and raised her foot to inspect the wound. It was worse than she thought. "They never gave me shoes" she said simply. "I was barefoot".
"And I made you run" Sherlock said, cursing his behaviour. He should have at least asked her if she was alright.
"We couldn't have escaped otherwise" Irene said, and attempted to clean the gash with a small towel she found in Sherlock's suitcase. Sherlock covered her hand with his own, stopping her.
"Let me" he said quietly, spraying some disinfectant on the towel. He felt Irene flinch.
"Sorry" he said gently, surprised at his own behaviour. He generally didn't tolerate it when people were fussy during these simple medical procedures, but with Irene it was different. He didn't want to see her hurt.
He finished cleaning the wound and gave her some simple clothes to use as pyjamas. "Are you tired?" he asked. With all the work she had had to do and all the running he wouldn't be surprised.
She nodded. "A little bit. Do you mind if I sleep?"
He shook his head, tugging the sheet he had been wearing over his head, revealing his naked chest. Irene had to admire it. Athletic and muscular, but smooth and white like a Greek statue.
He walked over to his case and pulled on a simple black shirt. "I need to go and talk to the captain. He owes me a favour. We might need to set off a little earlier than planned, so that the wardens won't follow us."
Irene nodded and inspected the clothes he gave her.
"Mr Holmes" she said suddenly, just as he was about to exit the room.
He turned around, noting that she was using her usual flirtatious tone. She smiled saucily at him. But it was different this time. There was a hint of shyness in her eyes, and something else he couldn't quite determine.
"Can I hope that you'll still have dinner with me sometime?"
Sherlock knew that this was her usual innuendo and had to hold back a smile. But he also knew that this question went further. It was her apologising and asking if she was forgiven. He kept his face smooth as he gave his usual answer.
"I'm not hungry."
She smiled slightly. It had only been a little over a month, but those conversations seemed so far away. She had missed them.
"Good" she said simply, and saw Sherlock raise an eyebrow in amusement. "Will you have dinner with me?" she repeated, holding her breath. She expected a no, but flirting with Sherlock Holmes was something she thoroughly enjoyed doing. And it wasn't a one sided act.
He finally allowed himself to smile, and walked forward until they were inches apart. He felt her breathing quicken slightly.
"We'll see" he whispered, and left the room.
.
.
.
Thank you very much for reading!
Most of you probably noticed that Irene was a little different in this one, much more hesitant and non-flirtatious compared to her usual behaviour. I wasn't completely sure how to write her reactions, but I decided that she would have to be hesitant. She's been on the run from all her enemies for months, has been forced to work all day in a small prison cell in Karachi, probably beaten when she did something they didn't like and about to be beheaded. I think it makes sense to make her quieter, because she would be in shock, at least a little bit?
What do you think?
Please review. Laura x