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More than a month had passed since the night Sherlock finally gave in and had dinner with Irene.
He was lying on his side, in once his, now their bed, observing her while she was enthusiastically telling him the story of a divorce of a female movie star she caused a couple of years before. She smiled in honest amusement, telling him about all the nicknames the press gave her, and how they were all better then Boffin Sherlock Holmes. He stopped listening to her at some point, consumed with his analysis of her; his favorite hobby.
Living with her was a true adventure, so different then the peaceful flat sharing he had with John, he realized. She was capricious, stubborn, manipulative half of the time, while she spent the other half playing the role of the woman honestly in love. Playing the role, he thought.
He had got to know her, what she liked and disliked, in bed and out of it; he learned to recognize her moments of small sadness, when she unconsciously wrapped her arms around her torso, to know her mood by the music she listened to and weather she is sleepy by the twitching of her left eye. He knew so much more than before, but he still sometimes had the feeling that he didn't know her at all, and he doubted that would ever change; it was what kept her constantly interesting. Another thing stayed the same; he didn't trust her.
Sherlock smiled absently, realizing what a fool he had been to think that he could resist her efforts to make him completely lose his mind over her. He was intoxicated by her and after a couple of weeks, he just admitted himself the inevitable, deciding to play along, or as long as it lasts.
"You are not listening to me at all." She said, hitting him with a pillow.
"I'm thinking, respect my mind palace time."
"Thinking of what?"
"You." He said, sinking into his chain of thoughts again, analyzing her mimics.
"You're thinking something dirty aren't you? Oh, let's play the game when you find out I killed my husband, and I try to convince you not to report it?" she said, biting her lip.
"I was just analyzing you actually."
"You still didn't give up? You will never understand me completely, and even if you thought you did, you wouldn't believe it."
"Something like that."
She smiled, putting her head on his shoulder. He softly wrapped his arm around her, since he saw a very small sign of sadness in her eyes. It passed in less than a second, but he became better in perceiving them in time.
"You are never going to trust me completely, are you?" she asked.
"Probably not. But that doesn't affect anything. I'm just going to avoid situations in which I depend on you completely."
She remained silent, and he felt bad for hurting her. It was the truth; they were both aware of that.
"I made you sad." He simply stated.
"Is that an apology?" she said, regaining a part of her good mood.
"I was just telling the truth, so no need to apologize." Ha said, which made her blue, so he quickly added "But I don't want you to be upset about it."
"Good enough for me." She said, pulling him in for a kiss.
In general, things were developing quite nicely in the newfound Holmes-Adler home. Irene was certainly pleased with the Sherlock's new found creative side; the game was on. Soon enough, she was the one lying cuffed with her own silk scarf over her eyes; she begged more then once, as did he.
They enjoyed each other in every way, hidden from the world and its problems. Irene proved herself as a more then satisfying replacement for the skull, since she, as well as John knew the value of silence. She was able to observe him for hours, while he was walking through some far corridors of his own mind, completely unaware of her gaze. She had to admit, things were far better then she could ever imagine; he was a human being after all, only his humanity needed a while to emerge to the surface. He even hugged her sometimes, completely spontaneously, gently, just to express he liked having her around.
One day something strange happened; the phone rang. Both Sherlock and Irene looked down to the coffee table away from the books they were reading. It was the mobile Sherlock had to talk to the locals that brought them food, but it never rang; he always called them.
"Well answer it." Irene said when Sherlock remained on his seat.
With an expression of ultimate laziness, he stretched his arm to the table, picking the phone up. He lifted one eyebrow as a sign of surprise.
"Mycroft? What is it?"
Irene felt something heavy in her stomach. It wasn't just that Mycroft believed she was dead and out of the way; this call could also end this illusion, the happy phase in her life since it could be a thing that would return Sherlock to his normal life. A life in London, where she didn't exist. Sherlock caught the anxiousness in her eyes, so he stood up looking at her in a confused manner and started talking only when he was out of her hearing range. Her whole body was tense as she waited the verdict, one part of her naively hoping that Mycroft was just checking up on his younger brother.
After nearly fifteen minutes, Sherlock came back into the room, visibly concerned. He sat in one of the armchairs, forming the well known triangle with his fingers, apparently completely unaware of Irene's piercing look.
"What did he say?" asked Irene, in a phony careless tone.
He answered seriously; his brow frowned, without even looking at her, focusing on some spot in front of him:
"He found Moriarty in Ireland."
Irene sighed. It was nice while it lasted:"So, what's your plan?"
He didn't reply, sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts. She never saw him in such a dark mood; it was a mixture of concern and hatred. It was the final problem once again, and this time, it was personal, since Sherlock already lost everything because of it. Almost everything, he realized, still not looking at the enigmatic woman which became such an important piece of his puzzle.
Several hours later, when Irene fell into shallow sleep, Sherlock jumped on his feet. She shook her head as a reaction to sudden awakening and then quickly followed his lead onto the terrace. He paced up and down, with an excited focus on his face.
"Sherlock? Will you talk to me?" she said, leaning on the doorframe, still sleepy.
"It is the final problem, do you realize?" he grabbed Irene by her shoulders, looking at her significantly.
"I'm not following. What will you do now?"
He lost interest in the rest of the world again, sinking back into his thoughts and continuing his fast walk.
She sighed; this was going to be a long night. Picking up a blanket from the bedroom, she curled on the sofa under the terrace roof, planning to take a nap while Sherlock conducted his ritual.
At some point during the night, he became aware of Irene's presence and the fact that she was probably freezing in her sleep; he naturally didn't even notice that it was suddenly cold. He observed her, awkwardly realizing he should probably move her inside, where it is warm. As slowly as possible, he picked her up to carry her inside, hoping she would not wake up and comment his gentleman like behavior; he would be embarrassed for his entire lifetime in that case.
She opened her eyes and met his in the same moment. He was obviously focused on looking at her, and not through her, as he sometimes did, which was a good thing. The bad thing was that he wouldn't show consideration towards her sleep if the conversation je obviously had in mind wasn't a tricky one.
She hugged her pillow, adjusting herself into a comfortable position. "Start talking." She simply said.
"I have to go."
"I know."
"You can't come with me."
She could have sworn she saw a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, but the mask remained firmly on in such a delicate situation. Since the evening they decided to give themselves a new start without defining it in that way, she didn't have the bitter pleasure of seeing it, she only enjoyed Sherlock Holmes, the real man beneath the hat.
"I don't accept that."
He studied her, knowing that she knew what he thought, but also knowing that she wouldn't back down in any case; perhaps he should drug her now. He took a deep breath and started the battle with no winner:
"First of all, you are dead, that makes your traveling around significantly more difficult than usual, and two dead people attract more attention than one. Second of all, I...I cannot know if you will change your mind in the last moment and slide on to Moriarty's side when I need you the most."
"I will follow you to wherever it is you are going, with or without your permission and I will stop only when I judge that my presence is putting you in danger."
"Why?" he asked, unsure of what he wanted to achieve.
"Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" she joked.
Caring was not an advantage; Mycroft sometimes did say something smart, but Sherlock was just too stubborn to listen to anyone's advice. With that thought, he stood up:
"We need to get you a new ID in that case."
Irene was sweeping the house of anything incriminating while Sherlock spoke on the phone to Mycroft:
"Yes, a woman. No, she is not a local. She is a colleague, an expert in the field; she even worked undercover for some time..."
Irene had to cover her mouth up to smother the laughter. Sherlock gave her a reproaching look and then continued speaking. After a few minutes he hung up, with his cheeks a bit pinker then when he started talking.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Yasim Anwar Ezard."
Irene almost fell to her knees since she laughed so hard. Wiping the tear out of her eye, she spoke between laughing:
"If I had only known that marriage was what it took to get you to have dinner, I would have proposed a long time ago. Funny though, I never considered you as the marrying type." She continued laughing.
He looked deadly at her: "It was Mycroft's idea, to make it simpler. Besides, it's only on paper."
She held him under the arm: "But no, darling, this is just lovely. We should live in the suburbs and have eleven sons which you could coach as a football team." She could barely control herself since she was so amused.
Sherlock was not amused. "I'm filing for divorce as soon as possible."
The next day, The Ezards were on the airport, waiting to board in a jumbo headed to London. Sherlock pulled Irene to the side, taking a small box out of his pocket.
"In your words, if that is what I think it is, I have seen it all."
"It's just to keep up appearance, don't get excited." He said, putting a wedding ring on her finger as discretely as possible.
"I do." She said, mocking him with the dreamy expression.
Fourteen hours later, they were on beloved English soil again. The mathematician wore his characteristic clothes and a cap in the matching colors, while his not-at-all glamorous wife walked besides him in loosened, sport's clothes. Her hair was up in a ponytail and she wore glasses; they looked like an ordinary, a bit geek couple.
A man in an expensive suit approached them:
"Mr. and Mrs. Ezard. Come with me."
And so they got in a black car, on its way to the residence of the elderly Holmes brother.
Mycroft waited for Sherlock on his feet, which was a surprise for the detective; the feeling of guilt was still there, Sherlock deduced, which was good, since he needed all the manipulation material for what was going to happen next.
Mycroft smiled awkwardly, looking down: "Sherlock. I'm glad you are alright."
"Thank you Mycroft, I successfully survived your gossip meetings with Moriarty." Not giving Mycroft a chance to defend himself, he added with an evil smirk: "Oh and by the way, have you met my wife?"
Yasim Anwar Ezard entered the room and Mycroft Holmes's mouth opened in complete, consuming shock.
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