#adlock fic

Irene examined the stone: horribly plain, not at all what he deserved. Flowers were placed in front of it, god he’d hate that. Smirking to herself, she twirled the single deep red rose between her finger. He’d hate that the most, especially when he decoded what it meant.

“I know when we met, I purposefully made it near impossible for you to deduce anything on sight. Now, I’d love nothing more…” Irene inhaled sharply, choking down those threatening tears, that pesky sentiment.

Oh what the hell! She’d given into that sentiment the second she changed her password. Amazingly, he’d returned it when he flew miles to save her life in Karachi, then stayed the night as they bandaged each other up and probably confessed and did more than they should.

“I’d love for you to deduce every little detail about me...just to hear your voice, to listen to that brain of yours work just once more.”

PING

With a scoff, Irene whipped out her phone, ready to send an irritated dismissal text to whoever it was. She didn’t recognise the number, but what the text read made her throat close up and heart leap inside her mouth:

‘I’m not dead.

Let’s have dinner.

SH’

“Interesting choice of flower,” a cool voice came from behind her, making Irene nearly jump out of her skin and face the voice.

She didn’t even attempt to hide her slack jaw or wide, hopeful eyes; she just soaked him in. He stood with his usual confidence, his famed coat on his shoulders and scarf on his neck. His eyes held a guilty, yet pleading look, clearly feeling sorry for the pain he was putting people through. His light smile held something she’d only ever seen in the dim lighting of their room in Karachi: uncertainty.

“A single, dark red rose,” he stepped closer, silently asking for permission to continue.

She shuffled ever so slightly towards him; she wanted a deduction, after all.

“The rose typically shows affection and passion. A dark shade of red represents a kind of unconscious beauty as well as holding an aura of mystery...yet they leave nothing unsaid.” He took another step closer; she could hear his breathing now. “A single rose can mean a number of things: utmost devotion, thank you, love at first sight,” with each accusation he took another step closer, and she now had to tilt her head to sustain eye contact. He was so close, she could reach out and touch him, grab his wrist, perhaps. Yet she was frozen in place, eyes following his as he continued: “A single rose could be a sign that you will never cease to think about the recipient, it is a sign of unwavering affection…” They are almost pressed against each other now, and there is no doubt in her mind that he’s real. His arm manoeuvres through the little space between them, tilting up her chin and cupping her jaw. He leant in, whispering in her ear, “It is a sign of forever.”

At last, she reacted, running her hands along his chest, gathering his attention. She drowned in the sharp eyes she thought she’d never see again before scanning every inch of his face and finding not a scratch, until her gaze found his lips.

She had a million questions she should ask first: who, what, when, why, how...but they all got lost as she finally kissed him again.

It was softer than in Karachi, less fumbling and desperate and adrenaline-fueled, more calm and reassuring and, daresay, tender.

***

She broke it off, letting their foreheads rest against each other. His eyes remained closed as he let himself have the first moment of peace since he jumped off St. Barts. Startled, he jerked them open when he felt something against his lips - just Irene’s thumb removing her favoured colour from his own lips.

Questions lingered behind her eyes, but he couldn’t answer them now; didn’t have the time or energy. Instead, he offered up, “I need to disappear for a while and there’s a woman I know who seems particularly good at being dead. I don’t suppose she’d be willing to help me take down one of history’s finest criminal networks?”

Slipping her hands back to her sides, letting the rose fall to the ground, she stepped back and hissed, “He’s going to be mad and hurt when he finds out, Sherlock. You could do some irreparable damage.”

“I don’t have a choice, Woman,” he croaked, his exhaustion seeping through. “Now, I’ve been dead five days and I’m already struggling. Mycroft suggests that whilst Mrs. Hudson is out and John is incapable of returning to the flat now is the time to gather some necessities and leave the country. Start hitting some of Moriarty’s stations. Care to join?”

Irene stepped back, considering him, appearing almost sorry for him. “Is Paris on your list?”

“A place like Paris? That’s almost certainly on Moriarty’s list,” he replied.

“Fancy going there first?” He nodded, relieved that she seemed fine to help him - he loathed to admit that he could use it. “Then, Mr Holmes, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Leaning down, she moved the dropped rose from the mud to sit with the other flowers that were of crude, violently upbeat colours compared to her rose.

That’s The Woman: always standing out, even in death.

He was dead too now, God that would take some getting used to.