GIVE ME WORK !

                                      ever the clever detective.    of course that bit is easy,   but if there is one person that can simultaneously find themselves gifted with her mercy as equally as her heartlessness,   it would be sherlock.    it’s all rather situational,  as changing as the weather;   and never as simple as it appears to be,   no matter what view she presents.     here she watches as intently as she is watched,  taking in everything from the faint marks of stress and tiredness,   to the upkeepings of her hair   —-    always curly,   and a bit wild.    but ruffled in a way that makes the tips of her fingers twitch with unbidden familiarity.     it wasn’t so long ago that those dark strands were well within reach,  after all.

“   i do like to spoil you.        ”    not quite an answer,   and murmured with a ghost of a sigh,  but telling all the same;   even if it is partially jamie thinking aloud,   more than directly addressing sherlock.     for that is one of her vices,    isn’t it?     they’re more than puzzles,    they’re games,   and she’s never had a more worthy opponent.      not in murder,   and not in   —-    whatever else remains.     this unspoken thing that they dare not name,    though neither are oblivious to it.     much as sherlock may deny it   (   and oh,   she will;   for her sanity,   and whatever meager scraps of decent she pretends to have   )   it’s there right now    :    in between each breath,    in the way jamie cannot help but linger.     the self awareness doesn’t stop the frustration it brings,   of course,   but it makes it easier to manipulate to what she needs.     

reclined,     at ease.     unhurried,   the calm amidst the storm of sherlock’s never ending hurricane.    but even that is ever deceitful,   knowing the peace there is ever temporary,   and surrounded by destruction all the same.     she smooths her fingers over the armrest,   the leather soft and pliant.    excellent quality,    but well used;    sherlock’s partial to this one,   she knows.    which is precisely why she chose it,    rather than taking up the space usually occupied by the good doctor.       “    i might have a case for you.      something that is a bit too sensitive to entrust to any of my lieutenants.     one of them is a bit too … ambitious,     you see.      that recent kidnapping?    that’s just the beginning.   it’s so difficult to find good help these days   :    you leave for a few months and suddenly they forget the way the world works.   but i thought . .  what better way to show them the error of their ways,    then by putting them in your path?     i’ve practically gift wrapped them for you.      isn’t that sweet of me?      ”  

The Kensington kidnapping. Of course, obvious, why hadn’t she caught on to that? Because it had seemed boring. Pedestrian. Barely a four. Watson had been up in arms about it, of course, trying to unsuccessfully appeal to Sherlock’s sense of decency, to the core of humanity the doctor seemed so certain of. The case had been discarded even so ; they had to give Lestrade and his lackeys something to do, after all. Something about people paying taxes... And now here Jamie was, so willingly offering one of her own up for the slaughter. It was almost bordering on touching.

------------ Almost.

“ Oh, I see. ” The words rolled lazily off her tongue. Sherlock languished in them for a moment, corner of her mouth curving as she observed the woman opposite her with poorly disguised satisfaction. Got you. “ You’ve made a miscalculation, and now you’re expecting me to tidy up the mess you made. Not much cop as far as romantic gestures go, is it? ”

She had long ago given up trying to define what this was between the pair of them. Defining them would be defining part of herself, giving it a name, an identity. No. It was better this way, this nameless shape that was continuously in flux. Safer. As long as she kept sidestepping Jamie, as long as she didn’t truly give everything, there would always be a way back. A way out. She leaned forward even so, too ensnared already by the delicious promise of being right. Of being smarter.

“ Unless, of course, you’re simply trying to keep me occupied whilst simultaneously getting rid of someone who might pose a threat to you and your precious network. In the meantime, you have something else going on, something bigger, and you don’t want me to interfere. So you toss me one of your dogs to play with. How am I doing? ”

There was no time given for an answer to be shaped ; Sherlock’s arrogance wouldn’t allow it. Of course she was right. She was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. A scoff as she sat back, certainty radiating off of her.

                              perhaps better than anyone,   she knows.    the way boredom can kill as effectively as any poison,    and twice as lethal.     jamie feels the same slow crawl of death on the corners of her mind when things have gone dreadfully,   painfully quiet.    despite knowing how to exist day by day   (   and in this she most assuredly excels far more easily than sherlock   )    the itch is ever present.       she can manage to not shoot up her own flat in those trying times,    but is it any better than committing a string of elaborate murderers as soon as the chance presents itself?    possibly even more eagerly now,   because she knows exactly who will sniff them out?    sherlock had been right,   of course:    you’re enjoying yourself too much.     but the caveat remains that she is hardly the only one.

“   yet my preferred company seems insistent on rejecting me.      ”     her smile is so blood red it may as well be dripping from her maw,    yet with all the sweet tartness of a lush peach   (   ever laced in venom  ).    comfortable as always,    she takes up residence where she likes   :    and in this case,   it’s sherlock’s own chair.    the very same one where she pondered the many puzzles jamie had sent her way,   wanting to watch her think,    like so many fail spectacularly to do.       “     perhaps i should invite your friend then,    shall i?    i’ve been meaning to have a proper chat with your blogger for some time.    i wonder,    does dear watson know you as well as they think?     or,     is that privilege still reserved for me?      ”  

Sherlock can feel a muscle tense in her jawline at the mention of the good old doctor. It’s a bait, and an obvious one at that. What remains a mystery is what exactly is drawing out the tendril of displeasure in her chest ; the idea of Watson with Jamie, to be sure. But who exactly would be the unlucky recipient of Sherlock’s envy in this extremely undesirable scenario? She keeps her eyes fixed downward, peering through her microscope even as she hears the other woman moving out of the kitchen and into the sitting room.

“ Do as you like, ” she finally answers, putting as much bored disinterest in her voice as she can. “ It’s nothing to me. Though I would strongly advise against underestimating Doctor Watson. ” 

She suddenly rises from the kitchen chair with great ( unnecessary ) theatricality, her dressing gown whipping around her as she turns to look into the sitting room --------- only to find her own chair rather occupied. She blinks rapidly for a beat or two before composing herself. ( No matter. It’s just a chair. It doesn’t mean anything. )

                             “       of course you do.     ”       perhaps sherlock is currently occupied,    but only until something far more engaging comes along.     such is the nature of the addict,       chasing after one fix and then the next.     but,   really,   does she have any room to talk?    her footsteps are light on the stairs,    with only the faintest hint of heel on wood,   before crossing the threshold into sherlock’s domain.     

“    the door was unlocked.      ”       although for jamie,   that hardly would have been a deterrent.    it is,   however,    telling all the same    :    the distraction of the game is always welcomed,    with the proper stakes involved.    it’s not the first time she’s been in this flat,     but it is one of the few times she’s been here as herself entirely,  and not as irene adler,    regardless of the few facets of that persona that were genuine.     “     we never did get dinner.      i feel rather cheated.       ”  

“ Please. I would think dinner is rather easy to come by for someone with your means. ” 

Which is precisely the problem, isn’t it? The ease of things has never been the appeal for either one of them. A quick glance up presents Sherlock with the image of a woman disinterested. Aloof. Bored. Casting off the identity of The Woman to reveal the criminal mastermind beneath has done something to the way Jamie moves and holds herself, however subtle it may be. A pale viper, languid and seemingly indifferent, but always ready to strike. Without a doubt, she’s much more compelling this way. And infinitely more dangerous. 

And just like that, the object on the microscope slide is not at all interesting anymore. Jamie must know. Three days. Three long, tedious days without anything promising walking through that door. It’s hateful. As though the entirety of London has conspired against Sherlock, keeping all its secrets well away from Baker Street and her ravenous, restless mind.

( Oh, Jamie definitely knows. )

A memory, the phantom sensation of Irene’s Jamie’s pulse against her fingertips. Useless data, should’ve deleted it. Why hasn’t she?

“ I’m moderately flattered. ”

She almost laughs at how Sherlock makes it sound as if she’s doing her favour, but settles on biting her lip instead, arms folding across herself as she looks up at the Detective, eyes still reflecting as much curiosity and scrutiny as the day she met her. 

“ —But I’m sure a second opinion won’t go amiss. Even the great Sherlock Holmes misses things sometimes. ”

The words are met with a loud scoff, Sherlock lifting her chin as she regards Irene like one might regard an ignorant child. 

“Oh so you’re giving me the silent treatment, correct? Just so we’re on the same page. Because for some reason I wasn’t aware we were thirteen again.”

“ Hmmm, no. Not now. " 

The fair-haired woman has only barely stepped foot inside the flat before Sherlock speaks from behind her microscope, not even deigning to look up from her most recent kitchen table experiment ( which is most definitely not Watson-approved ).