Melody And Memory (An Adlock Ficlet)
(A/N: After 50 years, I managed to at least go back and write a ficlet. Hahahah. It's been a while so I'm rusty af but I still hope you enjoy it. Adulting is crazyyyyyy so fic writing has been haaaard. Happy New Year, y'all!)
The festivities were over. The Christmas lights and ornaments were put away back to their boxes. The journey to another year was about to begin.
And he was back to being alone. Again.
Sherlock never imagined that he would hate the feeling of being alone. After all, his habit of dismissing people to isolate his thoughts from the noisy reality is one of his proud habits. But after years of being around John, Mary, and now the pattering sounds of his godchild Rosie's footsteps becoming a familiar ambient presence, he can't help but miss company especially during the 'joyous' occasion. Not that he would admit it out loud.
It's even harder when gets started on the mere idea of her. The holidays always remind him of The Woman. She often visits his mind palace on instances like this, her imprinted smile as real as his own breathing. Rarely does she visit in the flesh, to his dismay, ever since Mycroft advised that her frequent returns have caused him constant security conundrums.
"Don't let the nation suffer on the account of your love affair," his brother previously remarked to his annoyance.
Sherlock scoffed at the memory. He was agitated, uneasy, and most importantly, lonely. Simply lonely.
He reached for his violin almost mindlessly, her tune immediately echoing in the room as his fingers reached the strings. He wondered about her, hoping that she wasn't too busy to not at least think of him in passing, too. Hours droned on and he got lost in thought and melody, with her likeness filling in his senses in the most tangible way possible.
As the night got deeper, his fingers started to ache but he still played on. Every note resonated in accordance to a memory, a feature, a sensation.
To the point that he could even smell her perfume.
Wait, he thought, it can't be. It was too real, too strong, too... alluring... to just be his memory -- no matter how much he trusts his memories of her.
He paused playing and opened his eyes, only to be greeted by none other than Irene Adler herself sitting opposite him.
"Don't stop playing on my account," she said smoothly, her red-lipped smile nothing but familiar.
He studied her, analysing every curve and lash and movement to ensure she wasn't just his imagination. And finally, he stood up and went to reach her, sore fingers gently touching her hair like playing a subtle note on the violin. of course, she responded the opposite, all passion, fierceness, and no subtlety. Holding his hand entirely, she gave him a bright smile, a smile she only dedicates for him, as she planted a kiss on his fatigued wrist.
Sherlock felt a huge wave of staggering relief, mixed with something deeper, richer, and undeniably sentimental. And yet he can't help but point out the obvious.
"Does Mycroft know you're here?" he asked despite already having an inkling of her answer.
She stood up to meet him closer, his hand still on hers. With her lips brushing the tip of his chin, she replied, "When have I ever played by the rules, Sherlock Holmes?"
"Happy New Year, Miss Adler," was all he managed to say, a smile playing in his lips as he finally closed in the gap between them.
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