Walls Down

Old Tricks

"Wherever have you been?" Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing her forehead as he spoke.

"I died, remember?" She teased.

"Twice." Sherlock smiled.

"The trick is getting old, I say." Irene tried to free herself from Sherlock's arms, but was surprised at how tight he was holding her. "Sherlock," she protested, and tried to push him away again. Her arms folded in front of her in awkward angles, but he wouldn't let her go. "Sherlock, please." Without flinching, he tightened his embrace even more. He rested his chin on the top of her head with, his smile spreading ear to ear. With Irene that skinny, it was easy for Sherlock to hold her close.

"Don't you think I know—," he started, trying hard not to untie his arms despite the force she was giving, "that when I wake up again tomorrow morning, tired from the night before which I spent with you in this very bed— you'd be gone?" His eyebrows dancing as he tells her how he foresees his next day. "Back out there again, to places I don't know. And I'll be left in here, with the sheets neat beside me, like you haven't been here at all."

Irene surrendered the fight. She stayed still, wrapped tight. "Don't you think I never wished you'd come and find me yourself; barging in on an old flat I'm hiding in, and hold me like this the moment you see me?" The fight she just gave up of trying to free herself from him was more than just that. Tired of hiding, and of being away from him, she gave up because finally he had made it clear, after these years, that she came in his mind, and he gave seeing her a thought or two. The sign, maybe, that he wanted to reunite was all that she was waiting for, not to come running on his arms just like any other, boring woman who was swept off of her feet by romance. But to simply make herself visible, even just for Sherlock. "A woman could hope, and you could be disappointed to see me wishing. But I was on the edge all the time," she explained, "of calling you, leaving a text. It took everything in me not to mess up the elaborate act of faking death." Sherlock was listening keenly, even his breath he took silently. "I was growing to accept that this situation is what was safe. Until, you died."

"Old tricks—" he said, trying to lighten up the blue that has become their reunion's mood.

"I wasn't there, but the news was everywhere that no one in London could have missed it." Her breathing was measured, her words were exact. "I stayed close but I never got any closer, not enough to make you realize I'm near. Apparently not enough to make you miss. I was regretting everything," she paused and smiled a little, "until I watched you watch John ask you for one more miracle." She let out a little laugh. "You'd do everything for him, even bring yourself back from the dead. It makes me jealous."

"Not gay for John," he said, matter-of-factly, and tired of the whole ship that had been cruising, "but he's family."

"So what he said, too."

"That was just about the right time to tap my shoulder, don't you think?" He sounded pissed.

"You had to kill yourself to go in hiding, that's just about the worst time to let you know you screwed the trick." Sherlock pressed himself against Irene even more. She let out a small cry and he let go a little. Catching her breath, she continued, "if anything, I thought you were cooking up some grand entrance to the living world. We both know that's part of it."

Sherlock was silent and still, his mind was filled of images of what could've been had Irene opted to let him know she was around. "You should've went to see me, then."

She sighed. "You're missing my point, brainy. What I was saying was that you could've looked for me."

"I didn't know you'd be such a girl. Another chase could be boring. We've played enough."

"And you're such a boy, keeping me like this," she snapped. "It wouldn't have been much of a chase, actually. I would've stayed in plain sight had you ever tried." Irene rolled her eyes. "I have always been in an arm's length, Sherlock. I am saying you never reached out. Always right under your fingertips, a text message away." Out her emotions went, years and years of keeping herself close by, but never enough. 

"You tricked me once," he accusingly said, "I wouldn't have been able to find you."

"But they found me, anyway."

Worry got him. He let go of her enough, so he could look at her in the eyes. He placed his hand on the side of her face that she was forced to look straight back at him. His brows furrowed in confusion. "Even if Mycroft knew—"

"Not Mycroft," she cut him off "to him I'm a closed case." Irene tried to not sound like she was accusing Sherlock for putting her in the predicament she was in; all for solving her lock code at the very last minute of the game she was winning. After all, he made up for it by showing up in Karachi to save her. "Mycroft got all he needed from me, he wouldn't chase me dead." 

"Then who?"

She studied his face. "She went away, and she found me. Then, you went and you found her." They both held each other's gaze, unconsciously, both held their own breaths. "Tell me Mr. Holmes, how can Mary Watson find me, and you can't?"