Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He felt like he had slept for a very long time, and his head still felt very heavy. The light was too strong, he taught. John must have opened the curtains as a subtle sign for him to stand up. He decided to ignore this invasion to his lazy sleep routine so he covered his head with a pillow and rotated himself to a more comfortable position. And that's when he remembered.
Not too long after they exited the club building, its second floor went out with a bang. It wasn't a big explosion, more of a warning firework. The police arrived shortly after, along with the firemen who extinguished the fire in less than half an hour. Nobody died in what was later diagnosed as a gas leak in an already old building. The majority of the people that were inside the building not long before the explosion discretely vanished into thin air, perhaps because of the shock, more likely because they didn't want their rich, influential faces on the photos from the fire report. Those not so worried of their public reputation, reported of a young woman which was the manager of the club activating the fire alarm and swiftly disappearing the scene accompanied by a tall man with black curly hair.
One wouldn't expect to see Sherlock Holmes biking in his long coat with his cold and distant attitude, but it was the fastest way around town and more important, it was the way everybody moved around, so it didn't attract attention. One could be even more surprised to see the former dominatrix on a bicycle, in high heels and an evening dress, but there wasn't any sign of discomfort on her face. She was clearly accustomed to this way of traveling around. She made no effort to hide her laugh while she observed Sherlock's displeased face while he tried to dodge the other bicycles on the pavement.
They stopped in front of an apartment building in one of the main streets. They chained their bicycles to a fence above the canal and Irene showed to the building behind them:
"This is where I live. I'm sure dear Jim knows that already, but I'm counting on his common decency" she rolled her eyes "to let us be until the end of his precious deadline. Or we will just be blown up when we enter, but that would really be too much for one day, so I'm counting on option number one. God, I hate that man."
"Sentiment is a chemical defect, even negative sentiment." Sherlock reminded her while they climbed up the stairs. "Getting emotionally involved in a case never brings anything good. It clouds your ability to think and to deduce in a proper way..."
"Oh just shut up." Irene cut his brainy monologue. "We're here. I forgot my bag there in all the mess, it's a good thing I keep a spare one in here." she said as she extended her arm towards a lamp on the wall. She moved the lamp with one arm as she unhooked the key from a small hook behind it, completely invisible to someone who didn't know it was there. She unlocked the big, wooden door and they entered a very roomy hallway.
"Wow." Sherlock was honestly impressed. "You have an apartment this big in this part of town? I'll consider changing jobs with you."
"Yes...I look forward to seeing your battle dress in that case." she said with a seductive smile. "I need a bath after all this running. You could make tea, I haven't had a good English tea in ages...or you could just join me if you like."
"Oh I would, believe me, but earlier this evening you threatened to drug me, so I'd rather stay here, where it's safe." He made the most sincere puppy dog face, to which she rolled her eyes.
"I knew you were a coward deep down. Will you at least help me with unzipping my dress? I am so clumsy with this things, I'm rarely dressed so fancy." Her puppy dog face wasn't convincing either.
"Or dressed at all." He added while slowly pulling the zipper down her back. He tried very hard to prevent his eyes following the path his hands took and to keep them very focused on the back of Miss Alder's head.
"Thank you. I hope you were at least observant, selflessly helping without even a peak is quite foolish."
"I have a photographic memory in case you have any more safes to be opened, no need to look again."
"Your loss. Make yourself comfortable, I'll need a while."
She let the dress slowly fall of her to the floor and then, without looking back she proceeded to the bathroom.
Sherlock's curiosity was very grateful for this solitary moment in Irene's apartment. He always had a hard time analyzing her and her actions, so snooping around her nest was a rare treat he would not pass.
The living room he was in was roomy, with a lot of light. It was completely different then her house in Belgravia which had a high stylish but sterile atmosphere. No, this room was dominated by warm, earth tones combined with wood and steel decorations. It wasn't a place where she received clients; it was her home. Next to the living room were the kitchen and the dining room, also very roomy. The table had ten chairs around it, but the floor had small marks only under one of them, which meant she regularly ate alone there. He found the kettle and tea, fulfilling her tea request.
While the water was heating, he could look around a bit more. He opened a door from the hallway which was, as he saw, her bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, wondering whether entering here would be an over breach of her privacy. Since he was mildly said socially unadjusted, he didn't have a custom to be in the house of somebody he knew, a friend, so he wasn't sure if Irene would mind him looking around. He knew she would gladly have him in her bedroom, but in that case, he'd be too tide up to touch anything.
The books on her nightstand and the framed photos on the wall voted in favor of entering and the little decent voice (John's again) was sent back to a far corner of his mind. He approached the wall where a teenage girl he recognized as Irene sat on a bench next to a woman with the same bright blue eyes, almost certainly her mother. Irene looked so innocent and childish. What path she took from this sweet, shy looking girl to the self confident woman biting a whip on the home page of a web-site was a mystery he planned to reveal.
A book was open on her nightstand, and some words were underlined which drew Sherlock's attention. She was currently reading "The Bad Girl" by Mario Vargas Llosa. Nobel Prize winner was written on the cover, which didn't cause a sudden wave or respect or interest in Sherlock. But the title suited her. He sat next to the window and turned the pages until he fell into deep thoughts.
Less than a day ago he was in London, talking to John and Lestrade and things seemed perfectly ordinary. Now he was sitting in the bedroom of The Woman, holding her possessions. Strange chain of events, he thought. Moriarty's death threat seemed unreal to him as everything else. He needed some time alone to plan his next move. And a cigarette. Many cigarettes. But, just as he was passing through the gate of his mind palace, a voice made him jump:
"Are you familiar with the book you're holding?" said the woman leaning on the doorstep of her room with one eyebrow raised. She was obviously watching him for a while.
"No. It was open, so I gave it a quick look and then I started thinking about the newly made threats to our lives."
"I noticed that, I was standing there for a couple of minutes and you didn't give any life signs so I decided to check up on you." she laughed briefly, and then continued. "The book is about, as the title sais, a girl who is misbehaving her whole life and getting in and out of trouble because of her life style. She is never satisfied with what she has and she is always looking for more, using whatever it takes and whoever it takes to get what she wants..."
She sat next to him, which caused a chill to go down his back.
"So you are getting ideas from her? She must be the ultimate misbehaver when she got a book written in her honor, you could probably learn something from a more experienced colleague."
"...and a man hopelessly in love with her. She returns to him every once in a while and he always takes her back, because to him she is The Wo...sorry, The Bad Girl. Getting any ideas from him?"
"Don't be absurd. From a man who dedicated his whole life to sentimental slavery? I'd rather move in with Mycroft and you know what that means. But maybe we should give this book to John as a gift; he would know how to appreciate it."
"Oh I'm sure about that. How do you think he would react if he got it with the dedication: I thought you might enjoy it? Kisses from The Woman to Hamish."
They laughed so hard that Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. He usually didn't find other people besides John hilarious. It felt nice, familiar in a way, but also terrifying.
The moment they stopped laughing they looked at each other gently with small smiles, enjoying the situation. But as soon as they realized that they were enjoying themselves too much, their professional, uninterested masks came in place. And after that, a flash of the danger they were in made them both seem anxious and concerned.
"What are we going to do, Sherlock?" He swallowed. It was the first time she called him by his first name. He knew she was honestly scared when she forgot her flirtatious way of speaking to him.
"I need to think. It might be strange to ask but could you not talk to me at all for the next couple of hours?"
"If it helps, I'm sure I'll manage with great effort."
"Good. Oh, and, do you have any cigarettes?"
She smiled. "Top drawer, night stand."
Irene drank her tea, then she paced around nervously; after that she read the book but then threw it on the night stand when she couldn't focus anymore. In the end, she fell asleep hugging her pillow. During all this time, Sherlock didn't make a move. He sat motionless, smoking cigarette after cigarette, looking in the distance through the window.
She woke up coughing. She half covered her eyes with her arm to shield herself from the sun coming through the windows and the thick smoke that filled up the room. Her eyes caught sight of Sherlock sitting on top of a bunch of pillows, his shirt's sleeves rolled up, his fingers forming a triangle. His silhouette was barely visible to her just awoken eyes, bothered by the smoke. He looked at her, noticing that her breathing pattern changed.
"You're awake."
"Yes. Did I sleep long?" She straightened up in her bed, rubbing her eyes. "And did you light a fire in here? It seems the oxygen vanished a long time ago."
"Only for a few hours. I needed to think." He showed to the empty cigarette box next to him.
"I just opened it the other day, it was almost full! Did you stop smoking at all while I slept?"
"As I said, I needed to think. Besides, I'm on holiday from John, the smoking policeman."
"You know he does it for your own good."
He said nothing. He knew.
"So, did your prospective lung cancer pay off? Did you think of a way to get us out of this bloody mess?"
"We'll see. You did some thinking too, while you were asleep. Judging by what you were mumbling in your sleep, I wouldn't like to be in Moriarty's place."
She smiled. She liked how naturally he behaved to her. He probably felt free to do so, because she already showed her sentiment a long time ago, so he knew she wasn't faking anything to manipulate him. Whatever the reason might be, she hoped it will last.
"Breakfast?"
"I perceive a change in your approach."
"I'm just testing if you're paying attention. I'll fix us something up in the kitchen."
As it turns out, The Woman was a woman of many talents, among which was cooking. The smell coming from the kitchen awoke even the appetite of the never eating detective.
"Hungry? No, don't answer. Just sit and eat."
And so they ate. It's funny how one could forget he is hungry when a maniacal criminal is threatening him.
"So, what did you think of?" said Irene with her mouth half fool.
"I have a theory. If he wanted anyone of us dead at any time so far, he could have killed has whenever he wanted. He knew where you were before I did, but he made you part of the game when I found you, which means it's about me, not you."
"Egocentric."
"But he doesn't want me dead. He wants to play with the sentiment he imagines I have for you using the sentiment he knows you have for me."
"And there is the answer why Moriarty's nickname for you will stay permanent; you're the perfect gentleman."
"We need to hide you somewhere; you should leave the country if possible, and then I'll deal with him."
"You really are the perfect gentleman. But it's out of the question."
"Why? An ex dominatrix doesn't run away when facing danger? Or you have developed loyalty so you want to watch my back?"
"Darling, I always want to watch your back. And if nothing else, I owe you my life. I'm willing to pay that debt back by assisting you. After all, every magician needs a pretty assistant."
"It will be dangerous, you know."
"In that case, I'll bring the riding crop."
Do you think Sherlock&Irene are in character enough? Thank you for the reviews, again, and please continue reviewing, it makes me happy to see you're reading the story :)