It's all about Sherlock & Adlock

ADLOCK AU

As observant as her brainy consulting detective is, there is a significant part of her that Irene has successfully kept from Sherlock.

She dances between the two worlds as she pleases, sending glows of energy with a slight flick of her wand, or weaving power networks via a few taps of keyboard on an intricate muggle device. She misbehaves with grace, taking joy in the best of both sides. Skilfully she keeps her worlds separate, a task proved increasingly difficult by the minute ever since the arrival of their son.

Nero has demonstrated signs of exceptional magical abilities from a very early age. Throw in the unquenchable curiosity, endless ideas for various forms of experimentation, plus a generous sprinkle of irrepressible mischief, and it’s the perfect recipe for mishaps to occur on a regular basis in their two-member household.

Despite what Sherlock has been led to believe, and aside from Irene’s own inclination to steer away from sentiment and domesticity, herein lies the principal reason why she’d declined his subtle and carefully worded suggestions for her and Nero to return to England, to London, with him.

Little did she know that a critical premise, one upon which she’d based her interactions with and decisions regarding the consulting detective, was on the verge of shattering. Or rather, it had been an erroneous assumption to begin with, and she was just about to uncover certain.. enlightening facts.

It didn’t exactly come as a surprise when her beaming 11-year-old boy showed her his second acceptance letter that summer, from the prestigious wizarding school across the Atlantic, a few centuries older than her own alma mater. (She was very pleased of course, even as Nero ended up choosing Hogwarts over Ilvermorny.)

Their shopping trip through Diagon Alley, however, did give her an inkling, when several strangers (around Sherlock’s age or a few years older) strode over to greet them with delight and enthusiasm. (“The youngest Holmes! Off to learn to become a brilliant wizard, now aren’t you? Excellent, excellent.” They said.)

What confirmed her suspicion with absolute certainty was the sight of a familiar impeccably cloaked and umbrella-wielding figure (the Minister, apparently, according to the whispers around her) on Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross.

(Prompted by the lovely @i-am-benedict-cumberbatched who trusted me enough with such amazing ideas. I know you said fluffy but… hahaha. Hope you like this, dear. xx)

With the howling wind and the pouring rain fogging up the windows, what was supposed to be a quick visit inevitably extended deep into the night. Everything turned quiet, the sound of the flickering flame the only one to be heard, and Sherlock could feel himself slipping unable to handle the calling from within the halls of his mind palace. 

There were whispers contrasting the jeering voices, varying from Mycroft to John to Mary, all of which were telling in him degrees that being alone with The Woman in such an ambiance spelt nothing but trouble. 

But he didn’t need any reminding. 

She sat across him, occupying John’s chair in her usual elegant gait, her hair hanging loosely on her shoulders, body robed in her favourite dressing gown of his. Arriving fresh from the tropics led her skin to be warmer in colour than usual, her cheeks flushed naturally, and lips unrouged. He was careful to steal glances of her to avoid any conversation that could lead elsewhere, glad that she was occupied with the book she was reading. 

Or that was until she looked up at him and caught his eye did he regret he was glimpsing. 

“Something on my face, Sherlock?” she asked with a smirk, knowing exactly that she caught him in a vulnerable position. 

He shifted, trying to look nonchalant. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

“That’s not my question.” Irene quipped, still smiling. 

“I’d rather you go back to what you’re reading.” Sherlock commented, eyeing the book. 

Irene put the book to a close and tucked it at her side, relaxing her back at chair with her eyes not leaving the detective. “Why do you always have to lie to me?”

“I’m not.” he replied curtly. 

She looked at him intriguingly, a glint visible in her stormy eyes. And finally, for what felt like an eternity, she spoke again. 

“Prove it.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in curiosity, unable to decipher anything from Irene’s knowing expression. Not that this was something new. 

“I… I don’t understand.” Sherlock admitted. 

“Let’s play a game.” Irene offered. 

He considered her for a moment, but she gave nothing else away, leaving him to sigh. “Isn’t that always the case with you?”

“A little too late for honesty, darling. It’s just a game.” Irene replied haughtily. 

Sherlock surrendered into his chair, giving her a resigned shrug. “Of what?”

“Truth or dare.” she said. 

“Are we nine-year olds in a sleepover? Should I expect a pillow fight before midnight?” he retorted, only to be surprised with her mischievous expression. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re expecting much more. But let’s try to keep it innocent if we can.” she replied smugly, causing him to feel heat rise up to his neck. 

Clearing his throat, he gave her a nod. “Well? Seeing that we have nothing else to do…Truth.”

“All right. What are you thinking of right now?” Irene asked, eyes boring deep into his. 

He figured that the essence of the game was to say the thing that was at the top of his head. “That having you here, especially in this time and with this weather, makes me extremely… pleased.”

Irene’s eyes slightly widened at his response, making her shift in her seat. It made him feel slightly triumphant, yet internally bashful all the same. 

“My turn. Dare.” Irene said, trying to look unwavered. 

Sherlock scanned her, eyes landing on the tips of her hair, still slightly damping the fabric of the dressing gown just above her breasts. He felt his fingers clench against the armrest of his chair. 

“Put your hair behind you.” he mused, voice slightly cracking. 

Irene was struck for a moment, unconvinced that Sherlock was getting the point of the game, but upon realising what it was about, a smirk grew across her face. 

“Feeling the heat too soon, Mr Holmes?” she commented as she did what she was told. 

He ignored her. “Dare.”

Irene’s smile grew wider. “Are you sure?”

“Well?”

“Show me something you haven’t shown anyone before.” she said. 

Sherlock hesitated for a minute, considering if he could veto the rules of the game. But then again, this was Irene Adler – the very person who made him decide to let go of the his own inhibitions and go against his personal limits; having to cheat his way into a silly game seemed pathetic. 

With everything he had shared with her, he figured that this was a minor thing to even begin with. Walking over to the dusty table with files and stacks of books on its surface, he reached for a small filer box and opened the first drawer. He gestured for Irene to come see the contents for herself, averting to meet her eyes as she approached him. 

“What is…” A pause. “Oh.” he heard her say, his heart suddenly much more alive in his chest than a few seconds past. She was looking at the contents intently, and he couldn’t blame her as it was an exposure of such sentimentality that he aimed to hide against all odds;  it wasn’t just the Vertu that was there –plane tickets, the flimsy blue candle that was in the cupcake they shared for one of his birthdays, the rings they had worn when they pretended to be a married couple once in Venice – it was everything that led back to her, crammed in the small box that expanded into the depths of his mind palace. 

“Truth.” she murmured just that and nothing more as she stood next to him, eyes still on the box. 

Looking out the window and watching the trickling rain misting the glass of the windows, he asked, “What are you thinking of, right now?”

He felt her look up at him, her voice soft. “Can you really not tell?”

Sherlock turned to face her. “As I’ve said many times before, you’re not the easiest person to read.”

“In all honesty, I’m overwhelmed. You never fail to surprise me.” she admitted, voice quieter than usual.

It was then that he wanted to touch her, right at that moment, with the heat from the fireplace leaving him and the coldness of the night tingling every fibre of his being. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, and cup her glowing cheeks with his fingers, but he figured the game is still not over. 

“Truth.” he stated, voice barely a whisper. 

He figured that the look in her eyes mirrored the hunger in his, her lips quivering as her mind reeled for the most fitting question to ask. 

“What am I exactly to you, Sherlock Holmes?” it sounded more like a challenge than a question, an air of ownership and pride all rolled into a simple sentence. She knew exactly what she was asking him, and it was evident that she had an answer in mind, but Sherlock still read a hint of uncertainty and yearning as his name escaped her lips. And it was simple enough to understand that she, too, was also eager for an answer, once and for all. 

He looked at her, really looked at her, racking his mind for a sensible answer. People have told him he had a way with words, that he was blunt when needed and profound all the same, but with her – The Woman – it was never just words, or actions, or… or feelings. 

“I see you, feel you, hear you, taste you, and think of you even if I try to dismiss it with every chance I get. You distract me, yet I crave for you. I want to unravel your mind piece by piece to get the challenge and mystery over with, but I also want to explore you – all of you – for the rest of my life. You claimed me when I opted to be unclaimable, and yet still make me be as I am. You drive me ridiculously insane.” he  was breathless, feeling that every word was still lacking and inappropriate. “You are everything… everywhere.”

He didn’t need to look into the mirror to know that the blackness in his eyes might have swallowed the blue completely, for every part of him was drinking in her image in its entirety. Her eyes held promise upon hearing his every word, and he was afraid that he bore too much of his heart in one night.

Still, she whispered, “Ask me. Truth.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “I ask you the same.”

To his surprise, Irene gave a soft smile. “Oh, forgive me for the lack of fancy words, but to put it simply, you are both my reckoning and my refuge, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock breathed upon hearing her answer, closing in the gap between them, eyes falling hazily into Irene Adler’s similarly drunken expression. He could feel that their thoughts were in harmony at that moment, satisfied at what they had accomplished with what started out as a taunting game. 

“I think one last dare deems necessary.” Sherlock murmured as he let his fingers skim down her shoulders.

Oooh Dear Anon! I don’t request prompts….but if someone wants to drop some  in my Ask, I’ll do my best to fulfill their wishes ^^

As for your prompt, i gotta say, i couldn’t resist!!! Sorry if it is a bit late or if it has any mistake. Enjoy :3

Since John began to run his blog again, he had received plenty of new comments full with new and elaborate theories on how his friend could have survived the fall. As a side note, a few of them were creepy or weird, he blames Anderson and his fan-detective club for those. Every fan theory he received was very thoroughly thought and John enjoyed reading every of them.

One day, the comments began to appear on Irene Adler’s case. Some of them inquiring if she ever appeared again, or if Sherlock ever found her under the witness protection. Despite John insistence on her total disappearing, people didn’t let go on the matter.

“Witness protection? Never see her again? That’s bullsh*t!! For what you write on this blog, Sherlock Holmes would’ve never let that woman go. I’m very sure he went after her. I mean, what about those two years he went missing? I’m sure he went to find Irene Adler.”

It was this comment that triggered a rain of speculations on her whereabouts and current situation. The theories escalated from simple visit from Sherlock to more elaborated scenarios relating the government or the MI6, going to uncover missions for the Russians or dropping the mischief and living a happy life with a lawyer. After two weeks of continuous comments about it, the fans seemed to finally conceived one single theory who gathered all the others. During his two years away, Sherlock  found Irene Adler, they spent those two years together and beared a child, but Sherlock had to return from this  life to defend London. After reading this, John laughed, closed the laptop and went to sleep.

Days passed and for an unexplainable reason, John couldn’t take that final theory out of his head. He didn’t believe it of course. It was ridiculous, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler? Well, John knew they kept in contact, Sherlock still receive text messages from Ms Adler, also he admitted they text each other occasionally. But a child? That was too much, too much speculation from Anderson’s crazy detectives club.

Another week went by and the theory settled its roots deeper and deeper on John’s mind. On a restless night his mind began to wander about it. The two years disappearing, finding her, living together, that could accidentally lead to a pregnancy… maybe, and then? Sherlock and Irene raising a child together? No, no, impossible. It was just silly, absurd. With that final thought, John rested.

“I’ve been receiving new feedbacks in the blog.” Comments John one afternoon in Baker street. Sherlock doesn’t answers as he is concentrate on a experiment on the kitchen table.

“Theories on how you survived the jump from Bart’s.”

“Any of them interesting?” Asks Sherlock with low interest.

“There was one about… Irene Adler.” This catches Sherlock attention, but he tries to hide it and pretends he didn’t heard. “I said, there was a theory about Irene Adler.” John repeats louder this time.

“Mh, what was that?” Asks Sherlock. In John’s opinion, he is playing the fool.

“Irene Adler, someone thinks she- well, she and you… er… had something during the two years you were supposedly dead.” At John’s words, Sherlock laughs nervously but pays no further attention. “So? Nothing to say?” Insists John.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Well, you still text each other. Are you going to tell me you both met during your absence?”

“Fine!” Exclaims Sherlock annoyed. “Yes, John, we met, some… few times.” Answers Sherlock uncomfortable.

“Oh, so… a few times…” Sherlock ignores him and focus again on his experiment. “Because, the theory doesn’t ends there. These people thinks you and her had a child.” As soon as this words reach Sherlock’s ear he drops the flask he is holding and it crashes on the floor. Standing quickly, the detective begins to gather the glass pieces and clean the mess. John is astonished by this reaction. “You ok?”

“Yes, yes, I just… drop it.”

“You seem nervous.”

“I am not.” Answers Sherlock, running his fingers through his hair.

“You sure?” John insists.

“I said I’m fine!” He yells this time.

Slowly, John stands from his position and walks towards Sherlock, sharpening his gaze, John starts to notice subtle details on his friend. Clumsy moves, altered breathing pattern, sweating, the sly shake on his hands, darting eyes. That’s when John starts to remember situations who seemed odd back then, but now are suspicious. Taking a deep breath, John gets close to Sherlock who is now standing.

“You knew about the diapers… How they worked.” Comments John.

“Well, that was a basic understanding for a case-”

“And that technique with words,” Interrupts John. “You taught Rosie to talk… faster.” Says John bewildered.

“Um well,” Says Sherlock in a mocking tone with a sly smile. “Nero talked even faster.” The words escapes from Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop himself and regrets it immediately.

“Nero!” Yells John with rage. “His name is- You had- Sherlock! You have a son and never told me about it?” Exclaims John in a mixture of shock and anger.

“Well John, I think you are making a big fuss about it.”

“I am?” Taking a moment to study the situation, John gives is. It is not the first time Sherlock hides this kind of information from him, and probably won’t be the last. Regaining his calm again, John laughs. “So, Nero then?”

“Yep.” Sherlock nods.

This time, John considers carefully his words. Because, he realises, Sherlock has been plotting this revelation for a while now, the first step was Irene Adler’s text.

“When are you seeing him again?”

“Sorry, What?” Asks Sherlock in confusion.

“Your son, you have to see him from time to time.”

“Well, yes but-”

“When?” Insists John.

“I was supposed to take a flight to Montenegro next week.” Answers Sherlock a bit shy.

“Why don’t you… Invite them over?” Sherlock frowns at the suggestion. “You know,” John continue. “Moriarty is dead, so is Magnusen. Your sister under surveillance.”

“I… Um… “ Sherlock looks away and frowns meditating on John’s suggestion. “Fine… I’ll have to make a call but… yes. They could come and…” Sherlock sighs leaving the sentence unfinished. “John, I never said anything ‘cause-”

Before Sherlock could finish his sentence, John brings him close into a tight embrace. Releasing a joyful laugh, John taps his friend on the back.

“Congratulations, daddy.” Says John with a broad smile after the hugh.

“He doesn’t call me dad.” mumbles Sherlock bending his head.

“How does he calls you then?”

“Irene calls me Sherlock when I’m around so…”

“He calls you Sherlock…” Laughs John eagerly and a bit impress. “Do you have any pictures of him?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Says Sherlock reaching for his phone. 

As observant as her brainy consulting detective is, there is a significant part of her that Irene has successfully kept from Sherlock.

She dances between the two worlds as she pleases, sending glows of energy with a slight flick of her wand, or weaving power networks via a few taps of keyboard on an intricate muggle device. She misbehaves with grace, taking joy in the best of both sides. Skilfully she keeps her worlds separate, a task proved increasingly difficult by the minute ever since the arrival of their son.

Nero has demonstrated signs of exceptional magical abilities from a very early age. Throw in the unquenchable curiosity, endless ideas for various forms of experimentation, plus a generous sprinkle of irrepressible mischief, and it’s the perfect recipe for mishaps to occur on a regular basis in their two-member household.

Despite what Sherlock has been led to believe, and aside from Irene’s own inclination to steer away from sentiment and domesticity, herein lies the principal reason why she’d declined his subtle and carefully worded suggestions for her and Nero to return to England, to London, with him.

Little did she know that a critical premise, one upon which she’d based her interactions with and decisions regarding the consulting detective, was on the verge of shattering. Or rather, it had been an erroneous assumption to begin with, and she was just about to uncover certain.. enlightening facts.

It didn’t exactly come as a surprise when her beaming 11-year-old boy showed her his second acceptance letter that summer, from the prestigious wizarding school across the Atlantic, a few centuries older than her own alma mater. (She was very pleased of course, even as Nero ended up choosing Hogwarts over Ilvermorny.)

Their shopping trip through Diagon Alley, however, did give her an inkling, when several strangers (around Sherlock’s age or a few years older) strode over to greet them with delight and enthusiasm. (“The youngest Holmes! Off to learn to become a brilliant wizard, now aren’t you? Excellent, excellent.” They said.)

What confirmed her suspicion with absolute certainty was the sight of a familiar impeccably cloaked and umbrella-wielding figure (the Minister, apparently, according to the whispers around her) on Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross.

(As I am cleansing my soul against the past few toxic things that has been going on in the tags of this fandom, I decided to write more fanfiction. I honestly enjoyed writing the two involving Mary, and as I love her so much, I decided to have her as the center (sort of) of this fic. Warning though, this can get really sad as this is based on my own experience of grief so…. erm…. Still, hope you enjoy, loves! xx)

Sherlock could still hear the gunshot echoing in his ears. 

Every step felt cold and numb, his mind replaying how the light left Mary Watson’s blue eyes. 

“I so like you. Did I ever say?”

There was so much pain in her voice. So much suffering. And she never deserved any of it. She was supposed to grow old and happy, from taking her daughter to school to taking photographs of Rosie before her wedding day. 

She was supposed to spend her years teasing John about how his hair had gone grey before her, or how he always forgets to buy some milk when he shops.

So how could Sherlock not feel responsible?

He remembered the first time he met her, ever so calm and accepting. With her genuine smile, she told him that she would help him have the only friend he ever had back, and he felt so foolish to have never thanked her. 

But now it’s already too late. 

How could she have given value to him – a sociopath who cares for no one – whose heart was cold and whose brain was fixated on people’s flaws than triumphs?  

Him, who is an addict, whose fix was to be exhilarated by other people’s demise and death?

Baker Street felt hollow. Upon hearing the news of her passing, everyone rushed to give John the comfort he could not provide. He was shut out by the man who used to believe in the best of him, and he had every right to do so. 

He didn’t even dare open the lights. As soon as he reached his flat, he felt his knees fall to the ground, hysterical sobs inevitably escaping his lips. 

His lungs felt like they were losing air, his entire body trembling. Before he could lose his tether to reality, he reached for his phone, calling the one person he had ever addressed the familiar emotion of grief to. 

Irene Adler. 

After three rings, the other line on the phone opened. 

“Mr. Holmes, I wasn’t –” Irene started off with a playful greeting, but once she heard the uncontrolled despair from Sherlock’s breathing, she was filled with alarm. “Sherlock, what happened?”

Sherlock could feel himself trembling more violently now, the image of blood and water filling in his senses. “I – I killed her. Mary… I killed her.”

“Oh my goodness! That can’t… No, darling. You couldn’t have…. Tell me what happened.” Irene replied, her voice filled with confusion and concern.

“For someone who claims to be smart, I can’t even comprehend that she’s gone… How can she be gone?” his voice was full of spite and poison.

Tears continuously fell down the his cheeks, one of his hands balled into a fist and the other holding the phone rather harshly. 

“I was just talking to her earlier. I was just standing next to her. And she merited value in my life by taking a bullet in my place… A bullet I was so arrogantly asking for…”

“Sherlock, please don’t say that. Please…” Irene was at a loss, her voice also breaking. 

“She is… she is my friend… And I made a vow to her… and John…” Sherlock continued, unable to even hold the phone right in his anguish. It fell to the floor, the light coming from its screen casting more haunting shadows against the dim walls. 

Sherlock gripped his hair, anger towards himself filling him completely. His sobs echoed through the halls, tired eyes unforgiving. Irene Adler stayed on the line the entire night, patiently waiting for him to pick the phone back up. 

Alas, when he did, she had five words ready for him: “Expect me in the morning.”

But she arrived much earlier, just a couple of hours shy from their last conversation, much too early for the light to seep into the windows. Sherlock had his face buried in his hands as he sat on his chair, face pale from exhaustion and eyes red from crying. Irene saw a couple of boxes in front of him, and a syringe, obvious implications of why he managed to calm himself down despite the earlier outburst of emotions. 

She knelt in front of him, much like how that exciting exchange in Coventry happened so many years ago in front of the same fireplace, knowing how much has changed since then. 

This was Sherlock’s first ever experience of grief – grief that he understood and accepted – which in contrast to what he felt for her fake death before, is much more pronounced and amplified. Irene completely believed that he called her for this very reason, for although the impact of the two instances are obviously approached differently, it is of the same nature. 

Her hand touched his, warm and gentle, causing him to look down to meet her eyes. 

She simply gave him a kind smile, and he could tell she also spent some time crying for Mary, whom despite having only met once, had she learned to loved instantly. Still, he appreciated how she was holding up considerably for his sake. 

He read into her expression that she was not rushing him to talk, and was merely offering her company. Taking her hand in his, he felt himself losing control of his emotions once more, his hold on her tightening as if it was the only thing keeping him upright in his seat. 

Irene’s other hand reached for Sherlock’s shoulder, her fingers squeezing it softly, holding him together. The detective felt frail and broken against her touch, and she was trying hard not to let her own tears fall even if her mind, she could also picture Mary Watson’s lifeless body. 

“This… hurts… so much.” Sherlock breathed against her hair, and Irene simply gave a nod, stroking his hair gently.

“I know… I know… But you should never blame yourself. Don’t.” Irene whispered, her hands cupping the sides of Sherlock’s face.

The detective’s head hung low, his agony evident in all his features. “It was much more easier when I didn’t know that what I was feeling was grief.”

Irene gave a soft laugh. “Some things are much easier when you don’t know much about them. That’s why it’s so easy to simply not get involved.You always win. You always overcome. You said it yourself… Sentiment. But feeling… and loving very deeply… Would you really say that you lost?” 

Another tear fell from Sherlock’s eye. “She wasn’t supposed to die.”

Irene nodded. “I know.”

And just like that, Sherlock fell into a fit of tears once more, breathing growing heavy. “It should’ve been… me…” 

He choked out the last word, heaving loudly as he tried to control his trembling body. Irene was shaking her head, wiping away Sherlock’s tears with her thumb. 

“Look at me.” she asked firmly. “Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock could barely see her, his eyes clouded with his own tears, but he could feel her warm touch against his skin. 

“Grief, sadness, love – these things can be painful, but you have to endure. Understand?” Irene breathed, her forehead touching his, eyes close. “It can be quite amusing, coming from me, I imagine. But you and I know that everyone, even you and me, are capable of these things.”

Sherlock could tell that she was holding in her own tears for his sake, and he closed his eyes as well, holding on to his fondest memories of Mary. 

“You said you made a vow, yes?” he heard Irene say, to which he nodded. 

“Then go on with it. In memory of Mary, save John… and their daughter.” Irene’s voice was cracking, but she held herself with conviction when she continued. 

“And most importantly, Sherlock, save yourself. Because if you don’t, it’s like letting Mary die in vain.”

“I do not know how to return the value she bestowed on my life.” Sherlock whispered, voice trembling in harmony with his tears. 

“Live…” the word escaped her lips like a plea. “Every time you feel like you’re lost, think of her. Think of how much she means to you and that she gave her life for you to live your own.” she continued, her arms wrapping around him as she didn’t want him to see that the tears had already escaped her eyes. 

John’s forgiveness did not lift the burden he was carrying in his heart. 

But he did feel a little lighter, knowing that this forgiveness meant he could go back to fulfilling his vow.  

He never got a chance to reply to Irene’s birthday greeting immediately, for John’s eyes were ever so attentive everytime he reached for his phone. But as soon as he gets the chance, he knows exactly what to reply to The Woman. 

I never got the chance to thank you. Expect me in the morning. SH.

You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything but the point is, you did not kill her.

Hello, my dears. Against all the hate in the tag I want to cheer us up, because there is no reason to let them get us down. We are doing nothing wrong. So, I will post everyday, as much as I can, a little Adlock thing, just because I will not let them spot the Adlock name, I needed Adlock too much in my life to let them tore it apart.

This is our tag, this is our ship. Is our fandom too, we can ship whaterver we want.

So, I invite everyone of you, my dears adlockers, to fight against the hate with peace, with lovely adlock things that will, I thought, have 2 consecuences: 1) We will be more cheerful because Adlock is Adlock and, to me, always helps to get me up. And 2) maybe, just maybe, the haters got tired of us and go away to do whatever they do when they’re not hating us.

The baby cry could be heard two blocks away. That small creature really had strong lungs. 

“Would you take him, please?” 

Please. 

She was tired, he could saw that because of the black shadows under her eyes, in every action she made. 

“Are you sure, Woman?”

Yes, she was sure, but he was’t. It was the first time he visited them since the creature born, and he didn’t even know him properly. He hadn’t saw him more than in the pictures she had sent. 

Sherlock stood up in the bed and trying to convince himself that it was the proper thing to do, the thing that fathers use to do, he walked till the baby room. It wasn’t a full nursery, it was just the spare room in Irene’s new apartment, blue walls, an empty bed and, by the window, a bassinet and a rocking chair. 

The baby, five months  old, was different from Rosie. He could remember when Rosie was the same age than him. Baby Watson was big for her age, with a lot of blond hair and the same eyes as her father. But the baby in front of him was smaller, the same size than a newborn baby - complications at birth, he could tell -, he also had a lot of hair, but black hair, not long enough to be curly, and his eyes were also like his father, he got a blue smart gaze. 

The creature, Nero, seemed to be more fragile than Rosie in his arms, and he wasn’t sure how to take care of him. He took the baby, assuring that he was comfortable in his arms and sat in the rocking chair. The baby had, in fact, shut up, like if he was aware of whom was rocking him, though -of course- he couldn’t, or maybe he could (and he was, then, far more intelligent than his parents had thought he was). 

One tiny hand was moving in the air as if Nero was trying to grab his father’s finger. Sherlock allowed him, feeling the soft skin of the boy’s hand against his index finger. 

The baby cry again, a joyfull cry that made him smile. 

“Yes, hello Nero.”

Irene was at the door the next time he loocked, it had already dawned. She was wearing a green dressing gown with with skilful transparencies he knew too well. She was smiling - not smirking, just a smile that he was sure not many people had seen ever -. 

“There is a saying that when a baby catches his father by the finger, he has it for life. Did you know?”

“He… He is intelligent.”

“Yes, of course he is. Do you expect anything different?”

No, he was expecting less than he found. 

“I’m glad you came, Sherlock. You needed to know him.”

Sherlock looked at The Woman, with all her pride, leaning against the door.

It’s been rough days with all the hate in the tag so, i’ll hope to cheer up the spirits a bit with these, to all adlock fans out there. Thanks to @thestorywelovebest @annieanhworld and @fireloom for their ideas and support. :D

When Sherlock entered the flat, the sun was already rising on the horizon. With lazy steps, he approached to the table and drop the documents he carried. Documents ripped of from the dead hands of the leader of Moriarty’s web on Boston. It had been a long struggle that began three days back. He and The Woman followed the informants and escalated through positions until they reached the head of the operation, with a crossfire, he was down and they could take the documents regarding the next target. After three intense day, Sherlock collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

A few hours passed when loud music coming from the flat next door woke him up. He groaned as he rolled to rest on his back when he felt a soft movement next to him. With wide opened eyes he stared at the woman resting next to him. He was about to speak but she did it first.

“You took my keys.” Irene said with a sleepy voice and closed eyes.

“I confiscate them.” He clarified. “You deprive me from a proper sleep.” Irene smirked at the statement.

“So you decided to cast me out?” She asked rhetorically. “Do i have to remind you? Because of you, I had to flee from my place in New Jersey. You attracted the terrorists right into my door. Now we have to share. It would be nice of you to return my keys, so i won’t have to climb by the window ever again.” Sherlock groaned again, this time in frustration.

“Ridiculous construction! Why are the walls so thin?. He complained.

“Cheer up, dear. At least they have good taste in music.”

“Cheer up? I want to sleep woman.” He spat out.

“I like that song actually.” She said softly opening her eyes finally. She stood there and hummed the song, much to Sherlock’s disdain.

More songs came and go, and Sherlock was beginning to renounce his efforts to sleep. This only caused him a bad mood, and adding the occasional humming from Irene, all the positiveness buried Sherlock in his despair. Another song began and he took his chance to ruin the woman’s good mood.

“Listen to that, it happens i know that song. It totally fits you.” He said in a bitter tone. Irene listened carefully to the lyrics.

“…This bed is on fire with passionate love, the neighbors complain about the noises above,  but she only comes when she’s on top…”

She was about to speak but Sherlock did first. “Wait till the next verse.” He said in a mix of mockery and scorn.

“…The therapist said not to see you no more, she said you’re like a disease without any cure, she said I’m so obsessed that I’m becoming a bore, ah you think you’re so pretty…”

Irene glared at him. In return, Sherlock gave her a glance of victory. The feeling of humiliating her freshened him, bringing back his good mood.

“Well, it’s not my fault.” Said Irene distracted.

“Excuse me?” Asked Sherlock in honest confusion.

“It is not my fault that your lack of experience on the bed makes you unable to make me come when you are on top.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped as the words pierce his pride like spears. He let out a nervous laugh before retort.

“I can make you come when I’m on top. I have actually.”

“Yes, twice.” She stated bluntly.

Sherlock sat up on the bed and scoffed. He was notoriously offended and looked away from The Woman. She, on the other hand, was peacefully resting on the bed, without any disregard of what she had just said and the way it had hurt his companion’s male pride.  

“Let’s make a bet.” Said Sherlock after thinking a while. This took Irene’s attention and she gave Sherlock a sign to continue. “Here, now, I can make you come, me being on top.” He said decided.

“What’s the catch?” Asked Irene stoical.

“If I win, which I will by the way, you’ll ask the neighbors to turn off the music.”

“Just that?” Asked Irene at which Sherlock nodded. “Fine. But if i win, you’ll send your dear brother a photo of us both, nudes.” Sherlock frowned at the request but end up agreeing anyway. “Feeling confident, Mr Holmes?” Sherlock smiled and began to traces kisses down her neck.

“It took you a while.” Said Sherlock sleepy.

“They complained we were loud as well. So I went to the basement and cut the electric power.” Said Irene lying on the bed next to him.

“Those were not the terms of the bet.” Sherlock smirked. “I’ll have to punish you, Ms Adler.”

“I’d like to see you try.” She defied him. Brushing away his sleepiness, Sherlock incorporated in bed and went to her with hungry eyes.

“You’ll beg me to stop.” He warned.

“On the contrary, Mr Holmes. I bet you’ll be the one to beg twice.”

(Before I start, I just wanted to say that I didn’t expect I will write a second part to this, nor will I have people asking me to, so thanks so much for loving PART ONE. Thanks to battledress, themissadventurer, and thestorywelovebest for the extra motivation!)

There was no point in arguing. 

Sherlock found himself staring out an airplane window, bound for almost a twelve-hour trip to Phuket. Beside him, Mary was reading Restless by William Boyd, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose to see under the passengers’ designated reading light. 

The detective could recall the controlled protests of John when Mary called to asked that before the wedding, it’ll be best to pay Harry a visit and stay the night. Mary passed it off as a weird, cleansing and soul-healing tradition thing that Sherlock found quite absurd, and yet his friend had bought it and agreed. 

Giving them at least two days to spare, it simply felt like an exhausting excursion, or, as Mary puts it, her preferred pre-wedding celebration in place of a bridal shower. 

Still, he could feel his entire body tingling, a disturbing sense of nervousness and excitement that sends an aching sensation at the pit of his stomach. Excusing himself from his seat, he headed to the loo to give his face a quick wash, and to replenish the nicotine patches he has in his arm since the night before. Tapping three new ones firmly over his skin, he headed back, trying hard not to picture Irene Adler’s smirk when he explains why he and Mary decided to pay a visit. 

Taking off his coat and scarf as the heat of the tropics hit him, Sherlock looked over to Mary’s grinning face with a sigh. 

“Well, go on. Give her a call.” Mary instructed, plainly going by her tone that it was an immediate order. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing that there was nothing more that he could do. He took out his phone and pressed on Irene’s number, hoping that she was still in the country and that his silent anticipation was not wasted. 

He knows that it was plain stupid for him to agree to this trip without letting Irene know firsthand that he was flying over, but all rationality was thrown to the side as he realised he would need time to prepare what is to be said regarding the matter. 

After several rings and his patience almost at the brink of expiring, Irene Adler finally answered. 

“I’m assuming that you’re calling to let me know you have arrived. I had arranged for someone to pick you and Mary up and bring you to my hotel. He should be carrying a sign. Code names in place, as usual.” Irene simply said before ending the call, and Sherlock was sure she had a smile playing on her lips as she did. 

He looked aside to Mary, whose eyes were scanning the room as if she was in sync with Irene said, and her eyes stopped at a kind-looking man holding up a sign saying William Scott and Maria Watson. 

“Come now, dear. There’s our ride.” Mary mused casually, tugging on the bewildered detective. 

“For Ms. Norton.” Mary greeted, and the driver nodded, gladly assisting them with their luggage. 

The soon-to-be Mrs. Watson rolled her eyes playfully at Sherlock’s continuous glare, and simply gestured that they should start occupying the backseat of the car. 

When the wheels started rolling, Sherlock couldn’t help but cuss under his breath. 

“Something the matter, dear?” Mary asked teasingly, tapping Sherlock on the arm. 

“When did both of you have the time to plan this? You didn’t even tell me you knew her already!” Sherlock hissed. 

“Oh, calm down, will you? I got her number from your easily-crackable phone, told her I was John’s fiancee, that I knew she was alive, and that you wouldn’t talk much about your relationship, making me all the more curious to meet her. She was delighted and slightly intrigued by the situation that she obliged. To be fair, Sherlock, I like her already.” Mary proclaimed, raising her eyebrows at the detective as if to say well, what would you expect.

They arrived at Phulay Bay, the hotel resort having the delightful view of the beach, and was escorted by the bellhop to one of the suites. 

Sherlock could feel his fingers twitching for an unknown reason, his mind trying hard to keep the current thoughts whirling in his mind under control. 

When the door opened, he was greeted by her, The Woman, whose skin is slightly pink than pale from the sun, wearing a sheer black cover up and a bikini of the same colour underneath. It was lost for a moment that Irene had her eyes on Mary, for the detective was still in the midst of assessing whether there had been any changes in her measurements. 

“You’ve lost weight.” Sherlock mentioned, whether it was intentional or not, even he himself was unsure. He could see Mary’s amused look from his periphery, obviously holding back a smile. 

“Is that the proper way to introduce me to your friend?” Irene mused, smirking. 

“I take it you already got acquainted before we got here.” Sherlock simply replied. 

“And seeing that he really won’t introduce us, hi, I’m Mary Morstan, John’s fiancee.” Mary interjected, reaching a hand out to Irene, which The Woman took.

“Pleasure. I’m Irene Adler… Sherlock’s… friend.” Irene greeted with a smile, the last word sounding more like a teasing purr. “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes, which made both women laugh. 

“He is quite a handful, isn’t he?” Irene mused. 

“Yes, he is… And yes, to the tea, I mean.” Mary replied with a grin, helping herself to one of the chairs. “So tell me, Irene, why is it that my soon-to-be husband thinks your dead and you seem… well, very much alive?”

Mary then nodded towards Sherlock. “Apart from the obvious explanation.”

Irene eyed Sherlock upon hearing the new information, but the detective averted his eyes. She gave a quick call to room service for the tea before addressing Mary.

“Well, now. I wasn’t aware that the good Doctor Watson doesn’t know. But it’s not much of a surprise that he didn’t tell him. Your fiance can be a little jealous at times, if I recall.” Irene teased, sitting by the bed with her legs crossed. 

“Sherlock can be, too. They have some attachment issues, but they’re both too manly to admit it. But Sherlock likes me too much to even be jealous of me, right dear?” Mary added, to which Sherlock gave a groan. 

“We made a 12-hour trip just to make fun of me, how wonderful.” he said flatly, finding himself a seat. 

Mary giggled. “If my research serves me right, London to Karachi takes about 8 hours, plus the transfers. Now, there are no terrorists to hack with a mighty sword, but this is still very exciting.” 

Irene was trying very hard to wipe the smile of her face. Sherlock, on the other hand, glared at The Woman. 

“What else did you tell her?” Sherlock hissed. 

Irene rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I spared all the passionate details that happened AFTER we got rid of your bloodstained clothes.”

Mary’s eyes widened, her lips forming an amused ‘O’ as she heard what Irene has to say. “You know what? I really don’t mind you telling me.”

Sherlock turned to shot his glare at Mary, but she simply gave him a cheeky smile. To the detective’s relief, room service arrived with the tea, but the feeling was easily replaced  with annoyance when he saw the bellhop eyeing Irene. 

He stood up, cutting in between Irene and the bellhop as he handed him a bill, sending the service man away with a clipped “Thank you for your service.”

Mary had her chin propped on her fingers as she watched the scene, giving Irene a small smile. Sherlock must’ve caught himself and had been aware once more of Mary’s amused look that he hurried back to his seat moodily, his expression enough to convey “Not a word”.

Irene handed each of them a cup and took her own, claiming their previous positions. 

“So tell me, Mary, what is it about me that piqued your interest?” Irene inquired as she took as sip. 

Sherlock was simply watching, tapping his finger on the rim of the cup, knowing that wherever the conversation will go, he will not have control over it. The very reason why he found himself surprised when Mary gave him the liberty to explain the situation. 

“I think it’s best if it comes from Sherlock. That’ll be fair considering I dragged him here almost forcefully.” Mary quipped. 

“Almost forcefully?” Sherlock raised. 

“Yes, dear. Almost. Because truth be told, I honestly think you would’ve taken this trip even without me to ease your nerves before the wedding.” Mary said as-a-matter-of-factly, to which Sherlock had nothing to reply. He figured that fibbing against these two women only leads to embarrassing himself. 

“Well?” Irene cut in, raising her eyebrows at Sherlock. 

As soon as their eyes locked in, Sherlock could almost feel Mary disappearing. It was a typical case with The Woman that he wasn’t even surprised. 

“I forgot to put my phone on vibrate and she heard your specialised text alert. The series of events that followed are as you expect them to be.” Sherlock explained, almost biting his tongue as he realised what he just said. 

“Text alert? You don’t mean… Oh my goodness, Sherlock. You still haven’t changed it?” Irene was grinning now, her body unconsciously leaning towards his direction. 

“Can’t be bothered.” Sherlock replied trying to sound nonchalant about the matter. 

“Oh, please! You did bother a lot considering that you obviously went through a lot of phones from when you met.” Mary teased, making Irene’s smile grow wider. 

“Is this sentiment, Mr. Holmes?” Irene purred. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Both of you are having so much fun, aren’t you?”

Irene nodded. “It can’t be helped.”

“The usual, Sherlock?” Irene asked as if on habit, looking up the dessert menu as they were finishing their dinner.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, watching her. 

He was aware that he was constantly watching Irene, and also that Mary was observing him in amusement. But after a couple of hours, Sherlock didn’t even bother to stop himself from habits he developed when around The Woman. He believes that Mary is smart enough to draw her own conclusions and that most likely, she will validate it with him as soon as they are alone. 

“You’ve been here before, too?” Mary asked, surprised. 

“I believe it was in another hotel.” Sherlock simply replied. 

“The other hotel where we’re both banned because Sherlock insulted the manager.” Irene added. 

“He was gawking at her like a vulture.” the detective replied in defense, his voice almost too quiet for everyone else to hear. “Not to mention the idiotic words that came out of his mouth.”

Mary placed her fork down and leaned in, much more interested. “Awww, that’s sweet.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Sherlock breathed. 

“How so?” Mary’s eyebrows raised. 

“I gave the guy a good punch.” Irene announced before continuing with a joke. “Sherlock was about to get hit, but I couldn’t get to have those beautiful cheekbones cut so I was the one who got physical.” 

“She dealt with a broken hand after.” Sherlock sounded nostalgic as he said the words, and as he judged by Mary’s expression, it was obvious that she read into his meaning. 

“I enjoyed the nursing I got, to be honest.” says Irene, eyeing Sherlock. 

Mary smiled. “Now, it makes me quite curious how Sherlock slips in and out of Baker Street. None of us honestly suspects it.”

“Dear Martha knows.” Irene replied casually. Sherlock’s eyebrows suddenly knit, surprised that he’s hearing about the information for the first time.

“Mrs. Hudson?!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“Yes, dear. That lovely woman has been covering up for you. For someone who claims to be smart, you can be naive at times. How do you imagine your brother not being able to check in your flat when you’ve gone silent for a couple of days or so?” Irene confirmed incredulously. 

“When did you even meet Mrs. Hudson?” Mary asked. 

“A couple of years ago when she went up to complain about how much noise her ceiling was making the night before, and found me in Sherlock’s bedroom. We had tea before Sherlock and John came home from a case. She was lovely to talk to.” Irene confessed, smiling. 

Sherlock sighed. “Now I know why she insisted on keeping some of her old clothes under the bed.”

Mary looked confused. “And that means…?”

Irene laughed, sipping on some champagne before replying. “Let’s just say that when Martha found me, my dress was… not wearable anymore. Kind of her to lend me some of her old clothes.”

“Scandalous.” Mary commented with a smile, taking a sip of wine. 

“You are such a joy to talk to. It’s quite disappointing that you can’t be at the wedding.” Mary sighed. 

“We’ll still have time to catch up in the future… just without your husband knowing.” Irene replied with a smirk, which made Mary grin. 

Mary was eyeing Sherlock, the detective being silent the entire time they were walking back to their rooms. She was about to make a comment when there was a sudden shift in the way Sherlock was standing, clearing his throat as he was about to make his proposal. 

“We’re leaving early tomorrow morning. Best to have some rest.” he commented, not meeting any of the women’s eyes. 

“Ah, yes. I should leave you, then. Good night, Mary, Sherlock.” Irene acknowledged, her voice having a clipped edge to it. 

Mary was about to chide in when Sherlock added, “I’ll be right back, Mary. I’ll just walk Miss Adler to her room.”

The other woman smiled at Irene, then to Sherlock, giving a nod and an expression of pure expectation and amusement. “That’s a brilliant idea. Good night, Irene.” 

The Woman nodded in acknowledgement.

As Mary closed the door, Sherlock, whose eyes are not meeting Irene’s, muttered, “Shall we?”

The tension was felt at their every step, and Sherlock could feel his own chest thrumming as they drew close to Irene’s suite. He wanted to say something to her, but was unsure what, for as usual he was unaware how she felt about this sudden visit. 

He could feel his frustration growing as he imagined every tick of the clock drawing close to when he has to say goodbye to her once more and greet his life back in London, but what else is to expect? He was used to feeling this way every time he finds himself alone with The Woman. 

He was woken from his reverie at the sound of Irene’s keycard unlocking the door, The Woman looking at his somber expression. 

“Would you like to come in?” she asked, hand already reaching for the pins on her hair. 

He wanted to say no – to retain a sense of control as Mary was expecting him to come back – but just like all of their past escapades, he found himself succumbing to his impulses.

“Yes.” he muttered, voice almost just to himself. 

He watched as Irene walked over to her bed, continuously taking the pins off her hair and letting them fall loose on her shoulders. Taking the seat opposite her, he folded his fingers together, waiting if she has anything to say. 

“She’s lovely. I can see why you like her.” he heard her as she reached for a hairbrush and started combing her dark locks. 

Sherlock nodded. “She helped me reconcile with John. Plus, she’s incredibly brilliant.”

“I can tell.” Irene replied. “But was it really that urgent that you have to fly in here to meet me?”

Carefully choosing his next words, Sherlock said, “She was curious to meet you after a certain incident.” 

Irene’s brows knit in confusion. “The one about the text alert?” 

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was now quiet, his blue eyes studying Irene’s expression closely. “My passcode.”

“And why would that pique her interest this much?” Irene asked. 

Sherlock handed her his phone. “Give it a try.”

Irene looked at him as if he was making such a ridiculous request, but she never backed down in any of their past games, and counted this as one of those. She took the phone with her eyes on him, evident that her mind was calculating the possibilities. 

Sherlock simply gave her a nod, as if he read her mind that they were both thinking of that fateful night when she almost brought the nation to its knees. Irene’s eyes narrowed as she came to an epiphany, the words “this is your heart” echoing in her mind.

Being playful as usual, a smile grew on her red lips as she stroked the phone with her finger, punching the numbers slowly. The phone unlocked. 

“One. Zero. One. Three.” Irene announced with a smirk, her eyes boring deep into the detective’s. “Karachi.”

Silence passed between them, as if one was carefully thinking their next move. It was then that Sherlock figured that just like the past, it has become tradition to consider every night as their last night.

Drawing in closer, with his eyes never leaving hers as he moved, Sherlock breathed, “Do you think Mary will mind?”

And as expected, Irene met him halfway, her voice a sweet whisper when she replied, “Not at all.”

Once all checked in and settled, everything was in full circle as Sherlock sat on his designated seat in the plane. Noticing Mary’s lack of curiosity as to how he spent the night, he simply said, “Sorry if I kept you waiting last night. Did you wait long?”

To his surprise, Mary replied with a grin, “I went straight to bed after you left, to be honest.”

Sherlock looked at her curiously. “Why?”

“Please refrain from expressing terms such as ‘Like father, like son’ or some other sentimental nonsense like that.”

(Hey y’all! The other day, I had this epiphany that I wanted to make a fic with references to John trying to flirt with Irene in ASiB. Thanks to @i-am-benedict-cumberbatched‘s amazing prompt on Mary learning about Irene waaaaaay back, my plans have been culminated into this so hope y’all enjoy!)

There’s a huge distinction between lilacs and purples, and it is important to know which is which – or so Sherlock convinces himself to believe. 

221B has been filled with clutter, or at least more clutter than usual, ever since the preparations for John and Mary’s wedding started. He couldn’t hide his nervousness, despite trying to be his level-headed self, waiting for the event to happen making him uneasy. 

The obvious thing that occurred in his mind is the disturbing sentimentality that comes along his camaraderie with John Watson. To be fair, it is quite manageable considering the fact that having Mary in his life now is one to be grateful for. In fact, if he believed in a higher power, he would probably consider it a blessing.

“Are you looking up bridesmaid dresses?” Mary asked, taking him by surprise as she popped up behind him. 

He abruptly closed his laptop, playing it cool, and simply replied, “Just doing my research.”

Mary giggled, rolling her eyes playfully at him. In her hands were a bunch of invitations. 

“Anyone else you’d like to include, Sherlock? Probably a date? John mentioned a crazy mad one from before.” she asked teasingly. Behind her, John gave a not-so-subtle scoff. 

Mary raised her eyebrow and turned to face her soon-to-be husband. “Her name’s Irene Adler, right John?”

John pursed his lips, probably remembering the lie Mycroft told him. The Woman was supposed to be dead, right? 

“Ah, yes. Erm…” John simply muttered. “Probably not the best idea to invite her to our wedding.”

Mary looked amused. “Why not? Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind.”

Sherlock looked at Mary with a protesting expression. “I didn’t–”

“Ooooh! I think I struck a nerve here!” Mary quipped delightfully, resting her chin on her fingers. “Now, I really want to invite her.”

John sighed. “That bloody woman is a walking chaos. Talk about…”

Sherlock found himself irritated, John’s words sounding muddled against his ears. He finds his patience more tolerating when it comes to John and Mary, but this time, the doctor’s words against The Woman gave his head a buzz. A similar feeling occurred years ago, when John was deliberately turning on the charm, or what people call tried to flirt, with Irene Adler back when all three of them first met. 

And so, he couldn’t quite stop his own tongue at spilling the following words: “If I remember correctly, you didn’t initially think she was a chaotic woman. She was actually your type before she deliberately turned you down.”

John stopped talking, brows knitting together in confusion. 

“Oh, this is the first time I am hearing about this.” Mary grinned, nodding at Sherlock to continue. 

Sherlock sighed. “No, I–”

John, still obviously irritated, leaned towards their direction. “I want to hear about this as well. What in the world are you talking about?”

The detective realised that John must have forgotten about the incident already, but even with the protests of his logical self, his mouth started to recount the story.

“When we asked her about the case of the hiker and the backfire, and how she knew about it, she said she knew what one of the policemen… liked.” Sherlock almost spat the word. “And so you immediately offered, or more appropriately, tried to offer that you are not just a policeman, but a former soldier, considering that you asked her if she likes policemen with a leaning stance and a lingering stare, suggesting pride, attraction, and interest. Not to mention the small smile you have as you asked the question, suggesting that you did, in fact, have the soldier card up your sleeve. I’m assuming that her dismissing your advances might have caused your… hostility towards her.”

To his surprise, as soon as he ended, John and Mary are both smiling knowingly. 

“So, I was right. You were jealous that’s why you tried to impress her.” John replied, smirking. The doctor turned to his fiancee, and added, “Sherlock forgot to mention that to ‘dismiss’ me, Irene Adler’s exact words were ‘I like detectives, and detective stories. Brainy is the new sexy.’ So now you probably know why Sherlock’s practically smitten with her.”

Mary’s smile grew wider, shrugging. “To be fair, you really got dumped.”

“I wasn’t… I’m not… smitten… with her.” Sherlock muttered through his teeth.

“Whatever you say, dear.” Mary replied, piling up the invitations she was holding. 

And if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, she may have deliberately left a blank one just above the drawer where he kept the Vertu. 

“Sherlock, dear, can you come here for a moment?” Mary called from the top of the stairs, as he and John were discussing something with Lestrade by the doorway. The detective gave her a nod and followed. 

“What is it?” he asked casually, oblivious of what is about to happen. 

There was something about Mary’s smile that made his senses tingle, heart thrumming as she gestured him to sit. His brow raised in curiosity when she showed him his own mobile phone. 

“You shouldn’t leave your phone lying around, especially when you have a very naughty text alert.” she teased. 

It was evident that surprise was spread across his face, Mary simply enjoying the moment. Then she read, “Pregnant lady, bronze babies, cloaked man, and Kafka… Guess where I am? IA. IA— I wonder who this is?”

So Irene is in Prague. Safe. Good to know. Still, he wouldn’t say that out loud. Not when the cat’s out of the bag.

Sherlock walked over to Mary, without making eye contact, and asked for his phone with an extended hand. She willingly gave it back to him, crossing her legs as if waiting for an explanation. 

“Oh please, I didn’t do it on purpose! It was displayed on your screen, inviting prying eyes. I didn’t even have to crack your passcode. But I tried it and it was quite easy.” she smugly said, grinning at him. 

“Is it now?” he replied, deadpan, missing a point.

“John told me she was dead, and that you didn’t know because Mycroft wanted to keep it a secret. But you knew they were lying because you saved her, didn’t you?” Mary asked curiously, but Sherlock knew she already had it all figured out. 

“I think the answer to that is quite… obvious.” Sherlock replied. He noticed Mary’s questioning look that made him roll his eyes. 

“What?” 

Mary was obviously trying to restrain herself from smiling. “You still see each other.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t understand why you’ve taken intere–”

“When are you going to text her back?” she asked again, grinning. 

“I don’t.” 

“Stop fibbing.”

“I’m not.”

“I know when you’re fibbing.”

Sherlock can’t help but run his fingers through his hair, agitated. Why is Mary pressing on about her?

“One. Zero. One. Three.” Mary mused, playfully rocking back and forth on her seat. 

The detective was suddenly back to being attentive, unsure of what he’s heard. Mary raised her eyebrows at him. “You seem surprised.”

“How did you–?” Sherlock started, but he was interrupted by John entering the flat. 

Sherlock took every opportunity to talk to Mary about the matter at hand, but she dismisses him immediately as soon as he rejects her request to talk about Irene Adler. 

Days passed, then weeks, and every time he’s on his phone, she keeps on whispering, “Make sure you have it on vibrate.” accompanied by a cheeky wink. 

But it was when John went to fix some papers for their clinic that he found himself alone again with Mary’s inquiring eyes. 

“Mary, please, it’s a simple question.” Sherlock hissed. 

“So was mine. I just wanted to know… how things are.” Mary smiled. 

“The passcode…”

“…is the date when you saved her from that terrorist cell. October 13, yes?” she said, an air of pride in her voice. 

“Yes.” Sherlock replied shortly. 

“And… we’ll just leave it at that?” Mary groaned. 

“It’s just a passcode.” he asserted unconvincingly. 

Mary theatrically tapped her pointer finger near her lips as if to exaggerate that she was thinking. “John told me that, to Mycroft’s hesitance in telling the story if I might add, the only reason why you beat Irene Adler was because her passcode was your name.”

Sherlock tried to focus on the wall behind Mary instead of directly looking at her. “I didn’t beat her.” 

Mary nodded. “Because you went out of your way to save her, thus making you feel like you lost.”

The detective didn’t reply. Instead, he handed Mary his phone. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” Mary asked. 

“Any observations?” he asked, voice too quiet that it would seem like he was talking to himself. 

Mary looked at the phone and her smile grew wider. “iPhone 5. So after all these years, you still backup all her messages, and even her text alert, and put it in whichever phone you’re using. The question is, why?”

Sherlock sighed as Mary handed him the phone back. “Everything I will say is a secret. Our secret.”

“Of course, dear.” Mary replied sincerely. 

“I believe John feels very strongly about my relationship with The Woman, so I’d rather he not know.” Sherlock grumbled. 

“I don’t think he hates her, really, he just told me that when you thought she died, he was very worried about… your emotional state. And he couldn’t understand you, her, and you and her. Plus, you did say Irene dumped him easily. Maybe it hurt his ego.” she joked. 

“Even I don’t understand her… And myself when with her.” Sherlock confessed, not meeting Mary in the eyes. 

“Why did you save her?” Mary asked directly, narrowing down the conversation into the most obvious foundation. 

Sherlock’s mind reeled, words and expressions flying through his usually above average train of thought. 

Mary smiled and reached out to touch his folded hands. “Sherlock, admitting that you feel something for her will not make you a lesser being. I hope you know that.”

“It’s never simple with her.” he sighed. “She’s too clever, too cunning, too dangerous, too inviting, too… just too much everything. And I can’t get her out of my head. It can be irritating at times. Prancing into my Mind Palace even in the middle of cases. And what’s more frustrating is I don’t want to… stop thinking about her, I mean… Oh, will you stop looking so happy? It’s not like I just confessed a murder, or a solution to a decade-long case.”

“But you did speak out your heart. Look, Sherlock, I’m not asking you to try and have what John I and have with her. I know that’s what you’re worried about. I can see that you feel restrained by the idea of ‘settling down with The Woman’ and that’s not what I’m telling you.” Mary explained. 

“Then what exactly are you telling me?” Sherlock asked. 

“I’m simply letting you know that it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. Live out the adventure. Play the game. Gamble. Fall.” 

Sherlock studied every word that escaped Mary’s lips. “You can be difficult at times, Mary Morstan.”

She grinned. “Made you think, didn’t it?”

For the first time since they started the conversation, Sherlock smiled. “I believe you and her will get along very well.”

Mary’s smile grew. “So you’ll let me meet her?”

The smile on Sherlock’s face disappeared quickly. “No.”

Pouting, she playfully punched him in the arm. “Why not?”

“It’ll be too chaotic.” 

“Oh, please! It’ll be fun!” Mary insisted. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No. And besides, she’s… she’s currently halfway across the world so contain yourself… Last night, she told me she’s in Phuket.”

A scheming glint was evident on Mary’s eyes. “You’ll go, wouldn’t you? Oh, just take me. We won’t take long.”

“Your wedding is in a week.” 

“John wouldn’t know! We’ll plan it out. We can do it right now!” 

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, a sudden realisation hitting him. “Wait, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?” Mary asked. 

“The passcode. How did you know?” 

Mary chuckled, fumbling with her phone before giving a reply. “John said that you found out she wasn’t really dead around New Year. Then met her again, here, 6 months later. She stayed for a day, had you crack the code, then basically causing chaos and you saving the day within those 24 hours. 

Then John said Mycroft went to meet him during the wettest season of the year, so I assumed mid-November to December, and the claim was that Irene Adler was captured and ‘killed’ in Karachi a couple of months before that. Can be September or October but I chose the latter because the chances are slightly higher. 

After that I figured it was a weekend, considering that John was admittedly on a dating spree during weekends at the time, giving you enough opportunity to sneak out and have your little escapade.”

“I actually asked John to gather evidence for a triple murder in Warwick and even advised that he stayed there overnight in case I need anything else. He seemed pleased with the idea.” Sherlock recalled. “Still, great deduction.”

Mary looked pleased. “Can’t always be too accurate.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. And just when he thought the conversation has come to a close, Mary’s face lit up once more as she looked up to him.  

The detective’s eyes narrowed as he tried to read into Mary’s expression, but she left him no more time to guess as she showed him her phone screen. 

I kinda put a lot on this… so, with all my heart for all Adlock fans. Thanks to @fireloom for her help in this ^_^

Prompt day #14: “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock Holmes.

“Wake up!” Nero says in a playful tone. “Get up.” The boy tries to open his father’s eyes. Sherlock rolls on the bed to avoid the intrusion of his son. This action only causes to Nero burst into laughter. “Get up! I want breakfast! Can we make pancakes? We make pancakes when mom is here,” Nero asks with excitement. Sherlock slowly rolls back to face the boy.

“We made pancakes only once, when your mother left. But, I think we can manage and make for breakfast today anyway,” Answers Sherlock with a sleepy voice, barely opening his eyes.

“When in mommy coming back?” The boy asks, eagerness in his small voice.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock states bluntly.

“Will we have pancakes then?” Sherlock laughs at the question.

“Yes, Nero. We can also have pancakes tomorrow.” The boy cheers and jumps on the bed. Sherlock gets up lazily. “Come on, breakfast first and then…”

“To tend to the bees!” Yells Nero happily.

“Sherlock! Help me! There’s a bee trapped in my jumper!” Nero cries, running to his father. With gently hands, Sherlock untangles the bee from Nero’s jumper and lets it fly away. Nero thanks his father and runs away to keep playing with his dog Titus.

His son is still too young to have any real interest in caring for the bees. Sherlock understands. At the age of six Nero only wants to puzzle and play with Titus, a gift from his aunt Eurus.

A faint noise of a car parking in the front of the house startles Sherlock. Leaving his current activities, he goes to the front yard, followed closely by Nero. A black car just parked. Mycroft step out of the passenger side door and walks towards Sherlock. He inspects his brother’s attitude and knows something is out of place. Sherlock invites him in.

“Go play outside with Titus, Nero.” The boy complains, but does as he is told at Sherlock’s insistence.

“Brother-”

“I’ll go straight to the point,” Mycroft interrupts. “I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, but I prefer you hear it from me than from anybody else.” He avoids eye contact on purpose. Sherlock’s heart begins to race with the thought of the imminent bad news coming, yet, he maintains a calm stance. Sherlock hints Mycroft to continue.

“It’s about Adler. The Woman.”

“To the point, Mycroft.” Sherlock is getting eager.

“She is missing.” Mycroft pauses to study his brother’s features, unreadable. “The mission didn’t go as well as planned. There was a shooting. When my agents made it to the location, everyone had already disappeared. No signs of spies, shooters or Irene Adler.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and turns around, not wanting to face his brother. The Woman is smart, her tells himself, she’ll be fine. Despite his thoughts, he can’t help his accelerating heart rate.  Mycroft speech, on the other hand, has a failure that Sherlock can see through.

“When did this happened?” Sherlock asks with an incredulous tone. Mycroft hesitates.

“Eighteen hours ago. My agents haven’t been able to locate her.” This time, Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He is disconcert and can’t help to show it. “But rest assure, brother dear, my agents will-”

“The same agents that didn’t make it to the shooting on time?” Interrupts Sherlock, visibly upset now. Mycroft goes silent and Sherlock begins to pace in the room.

“Don’t you, by any means, brother, think of going after her,” Mycroft warns.

“Of course not, Mycroft!” Shouts Sherlock. “I can’t leave Nero alone. It is the incompetence of your so called spies that troubles me.” Sherlock sighs and wanders pointlessly around the room until he find Mycroft’s eyes. “You better find her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nods and with solemn attitude, hands him a packet of cigarettes. “Stay focused, Sherlock. For your son.” With a final nod, Mycroft leaves.

Once the door shuts, Sherlock drops on the couch and hides his face in his hands. He is trembling, panting and sweating. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. The cigarettes held tightly in his hand.After so many years of playing their game, they finally had a family, a place to call home. Sherlock does not want to lose that. Home lose its meaning without her. The room spins around him, he can’t remember the last time he felt so much despair. Nero’s voice takes him out of his thoughts.

“What happened?” Asks the boy shyly.

“Hey buddy, come here,” Sherlock calls gently, inviting Nero to sit next to him.

“Is it about mommy?” The boy continues as he sits beside his father.

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock keeps a peaceful tone. “Something arose and… she is not coming home tomorrow.”

“When then?”

“Soon,” Reassures Sherlock. “Not tomorrow, but soon.” Nero nods.