Sherlock never spoke on the phone when he was able to text, but Irene Adler was a notable exemption to that practice. He often found that when he was in the grips of post-case euphoria, there was nothing he would rather do than phone her and tell her everything. Recounting each detail with someone he knew could actually follow his thought process and even anticipate some of his breakthroughs allowed him to relive the excitement of the solution, as well as helped him to ease out of that manic frame of mind without the abrupt crash back into boredom he often experienced otherwise. And perhaps part of him always savoured showing off for her, just a bit.
He had procured for her a quad-band phone with GSM and UMTS that she had half-playfully, half-derisively termed 'The Batphone', and which she deigned to answer roughly a third of the times he rang.
Fortunately on this occasion he had apparently caught her in a generous mood, though she did seem a touch inattentive as he explained to her how he was able to track down the lead designer in one of the UK's largest forgery and money laundering rings using the analysis of poly-cotton fibres, a disguise as a Central St. Martins art student, and CCTV footage from a Chalk Farm laundrette.
Despite her lack of active participation he felt himself winding down, and by the time the conversation was coming to a natural end his stomach was rumbling and his eyelids were growing heavy. But instead of simply ending the call as usual, The Woman did something she had never done, and that Sherlock never could have anticipated.
"I love you," she said in an off-hand sort of way, then hung up.
Sherlock was paralysed for the duration of a heartbeat, and then he reacted to those words the way he would respond to the sound of a gun being cocked against the back of his skull. His entire body felt as if it had been plunged into ice and every sense honed into high-alert. Not because of the conventional meaning of the phrase, because it didn't even occur to him as an expression of sentiment. She had never said that before, and it was so completely out of character that he couldn't imagine that she ever would state such a thing, especially not so casually and out of context.
That left only one other explanation, which he had grasped almost at once: she was in danger. Someone, some threat, had been present when he had called, and she'd wanted to tip off Sherlock without alerting the threat.
The sanguine, calm feeling he'd achieved after speaking with Irene receded like a tide before an oncoming tsunami, and he felt his mind rev into high gear once more.
He didn't know where she was—he almost never did when they were apart—but he'd be damned if he wouldn't act on whatever evidence he could to locate her, particularly when she had actually reached out for his help as much as she could.
Six hours later he arrived at the door of the Baroque-style flat in Ljubljana, his heart pounding at what he might find on the other side. He didn't give potential attackers the chance to prepare; he aimed a sharp, strong kick at the lock then shouldered his way through, blood thrumming through his veins and adrenaline slowing down time.
Inside, Irene Adler sat alone in the middle of a button tufted sofa, wearing a scrap of a lace-trimmed dressing gown and a sharp smile, and holding a glass of some rich amber liquid. There was a corresponding glass on the coffee table in front of her, with ice cubes that hadn't lost their sharp edges, and without a trace of condensation. The Woman was safe, that was... good, but did the other glass belong to the suggested threat, and did its evident freshness indicate that that person still here?
"Right on time," Irene announced.
He ignored her, scanning his eyes around the flat as his chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing.
"What happened, are they gone?" he asked in a demanding rush.
"Are who gone?" she asked, and took a sip from her drink.
"The—your attackers, the person or persons threatening you," he all but shouted, although he was beginning to suspect that he had somehow misjudged the situation.
"It's just me, Sherlock. No attackers, no threats."
He stared at her. If the statement hadn't been code, then that meant...
"But on the phone. You said—" He trailed off, closed his mouth, then opened it again, but he couldn't complete the sentence.
"Yes, and now here you are knocking down doors to see me. Most girls might take that for reciprocation."
"No, I—that's not—" He closed his eyes lightly, feeling disorientated in the way only The Woman could trigger.
When he opened them again he saw that her innocent expression had morphed into a sharp smile, and a look of mischief was dancing in her eyes.
"Oh let me guess. You thought it was so out of character that I must be trying to convey that I was in danger, and it was imperative that you get over to me as soon as possible, which you did. I take it you tracked me through the background noise of the market?" She gave a mild smirk. "I stood on my terrace so that you would better hear it."
"I was just able to discern the Ljubljana accent from some of the shouting vendors," he confirmed, though distractedly.
"I figured you could, after the time you spent here last year," she cut in, and he gave a short nod.
"I looked up which market was held on Sundays, and where. Then I scanned the doorbell nameplates of buildings in the immediate vicinity for a recognisable alias. That part took less than twenty minutes."
"And just six hours in total. Impressive—that's probably the best time possible." She crossed her legs, and the hem of the peignoir rode even further up her thighs.
"Not that I expected anything less," she added. She tipped her head towards the glass with its fresh ice, and he realised belatedly that it was intended for him.
He flushed, though a small part of it was from arousal at the way she had set up the game, and how perfectly she had predicted his arrival.
"It was a baited line."
She was completely impenitent, and just gave a flippant shrug, her eyes still sparkling. "I wanted to see you, and here you are..."
"That's not—that isn't fair," he said with some reproach.
"Since when do I play fair?" she asked, setting the scotch down, then rising from the couch and walking towards him. "Besides, you know what Francis Smedley said."
He shook his head at her, furrowing his brow. "Who?"
At that her smile widened to reveal glinting white teeth. "Oh, then let me take the credit: 'All's fair in love and war.'"
She watched her hands as they slid up the lengths of his jacket lapels, and then she flicked her eyes up to meet his.
"And I like to think that what we have is a little bit of both..."
At that she grasped the fabric in her hands and leaned up on her toes to press her mouth onto his. Before he could even react, she had drawn back to murmur against his lips, "Plus I've seen your wall. I know you get bored, too..."
"Is that what this was - a cure for boredom," he asked, and there was recrimination in his voice, though he had been going for indifference.
She leaned back, her face alight with amusement, which Sherlock found it condescending and enticing in equal measure.
"Perhaps not only that. But if it were, it wouldn't just be mine. You're welcome."
"I didn't thank you," he snapped, though the low breathiness that had started to creep into his voice lessened the effect.
She just continued to look up at him, apparently delighted with his struggle to remain detached-seeming.
"Not yet," she said. "But you will."
He straightened his shoulders, though she didn't let go of his lapels. "This won't work again, you realise."
Her smile deepened again, so that he could see the suggestion of a dimple in her left cheek.
"Yes, but that doesn't matter," she answered. "Surely you realise that I'll always have something else that will."
His lips tightened but the tic was as good as an outright admission.
"Besides. Maybe I just felt like saying it. Just the once; just to see how you would react. Now I know."
Something about her insinuating tone made Sherlock want to swallow hard, though he resisted the urge.
Instead he narrowed his eyes at her and said sharply, "I haven't said anything to—"
"Actions speak louder than words, dear."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was compensation for the anxiety he felt at how close they were veering to a certain taboo subject.
"If you're just going to talk to me in clichés, I'm leaving," he growled.
"Oh, so that one you do know," she said teasingly.
He made as if he were heading to the door, but she called his bluff.
"You've come all this way, at least have a drink with me before you go."
He paused, then turned back towards her. "I prefer not t—"
"You've just finished a case, an important one from what you told me."
She closed the distance between them and ran her hand down his forearm before taking his hand, and his heart predictably sped up at the sensation of her fingers entwining with his.
"Let's celebrate."
"I don't—" he started, sounding hoarse as he looked down into her gleaming blue eyes.
"Besides," she spoke over him again, obviously sensing that her victory was near, if not already won. "It's the Macallan 1939, 40 years old, and I can't think of anyone who could understand and appreciate all that went into producing it as much as you. The precise selection of ingredients, determining the perfect balance and ratio of those ingredients, perfecting the distillation procedure, all the chemical and aging processes that resulted in this liquor, which had already reached initial maturity by the time we were born..."
He couldn't look away from her lips as she spoke, and the rich timbre of her voice held just as much appeal as the attractive way she described the production of the Scotch.
"One drink," he allowed stiffly, and her lips curved into an exultant smile as she led him back to the sofa.
He returned to London four days later.