Walls Down

Irene Adler is Here

As soon as sleep faded and consciousness slowly crawled in, Sherlock felt a weight lying next to him that wasn't there last night. Lying on his side, he couldn't remember when, in his light sleep, did he move to make room for her. He is Sherlock Holmes, even the most careful burglar breaking in into his flat could have woken him up. And she is Irene Adler, even the slightest hint of the scent of her could have woken him up. She shifted, and he froze. He couldn't, with the fear of waking her, dare to move. Hell, he was holding his breath! The nearness of her was enough for him to fear that it was all a dream. It had been years since he last saw her. And it was exactly a week ago when he had decided to reply to her happy birthday. So soon, he thought. But like him, she must have waited long before taking the risk of having others know she is in fact, alive.

He exhaled slowly. Behind him, she remained still. Behind her, the world remained distant. In this very room, where he first had her as a client, nothing else mattered. Everything beyond the edges of his bed were but tiny details in the background that were there to forget. She and her slow, steady breathing was all there was to remember. The woman gently worked her arms around the detective's body and had him on an embrace. Her right arm ran across his body, with her hand lightly placed over his chest. His heart was pounding, and he wondered if she could feel his heartbeat under the white cotton shirt he was wearing. She managed to place her left arm in what little space was left between Sherlock's neck and the pillow he was resting it on.

Sherlock held the hand that was over his chest. He could feel the bones beneath her skin. She got thinner, he thought. The warmth of her hand, he could feel over where his heart is. Irene Adler buried her face into Sherlock's back. And every breath she took, she took deeply. She is awake.

"Irene," he whispered. And she shifted behind her so that her forehead rested on the curvature of his thoracic spine.

"Shhh," was all she said. He closed his eyes to let his other senses help him draw in his mind the situation he was pinned onto. Her scent, her skin, her voice. The woman is here.

In what seemed like a few moments, she spoke, so lightly he wouldn't have caught hadn't she been this close to him. "I wish you'd let us stay on this bed the whole day, but that would bore you to death." And Irene slowly freed him from her embrace.

He turned to face her but she was already facing the window, her back on him. The light outlined the shape of her: the mess of her wavy hair, the perfectly chiseled bones that make her shoulders, and the curve running from the base of her ribs to her hips. Her figure was the way he remembered it.

"Let's not play games this time," he suggested, and he brushed her bare arms with the tip of his fingers. She, too was wearing a shirt. No wait, she was wearing his shirt! It was large for her, still she looked no less than the Irene Adler he had been keeping in his mind palace. He moved swiftly that in a blink, he was hugging her tight: face buried on her hair, breathing her in, arms around her, his whole body pressed against her. She welcomed him by pressing herself more unto him, and holding the arms that were tightly wrapped around her.

She turned her head to one side, giving him access to the side of her neck and her shoulders. As if told what he was supposed to do, Sherlock planted a trail of lightest kisses from the back of her ear to the tip of her shoulders. She was responding from the sensation of his lips on her skin with apparent heaviness of breathing through her slightly departed lips.

"Good," she said, in between the deep breaths she took, "I'm done playing games."