The Emotional Children

I

Yes, she would make him say it.

"Why?"

There, she had said it. Blurted it. It was out now; she'd spoken her mind. She would hear it from him. Why should Sherlock Holmes care if she lived or died? Why had he saved her life?

"Because it was making me sweat, that's why," Sherlock said, rubbing the sides of his head and ruffling his hair. He was about to open his mobile but Irene seized his sleeve.

"No. I mean...why?" she repeated. He looked at her, then at the sleeve she had in an iron grip.

He didn't say anything for a moment, until, as if thinking out loud, he said, "People always want to know why; and I think I'm the chief of sinners among them. Trying to explain reasons, motives of revenge, sentiment, violence, greed, jealousy...love. Why?" he broke off, as if thinking. Then he continued, barely above a whisper, "Forgive me, brother dear."

"Tell me. I will know," Irene declared, letting a look of cunning spread over her face.

"I thought it was fairly obvious as to why," he answered curtly.

There was a moment of silence. Neither one of them said a word.

Irene cleared her throat. "Well then," she said, sauntering closer, "I want to hear you say it."

She was only an arm's length from him, looking up into his eyes with mischief in her own. He was in her grip—she had him now. He had to say it; that thought was so delicious that a triumphant smirk crept onto her lips.

"Say what?" he retorted.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, let's not be vapid."

"If we're not going to be vapid, then answer me this."

"Answer you what?"

"How did I ever guess the four letters that opened your mobile phone?"

She swallowed, then shrugged—a feeble attempt to appear unaffected.

"Lucky guess."

"Sure?" Sherlock asked, taking a step closer.

"If we're not going to be vapid, we might as well use reason. I chose those four letters for I understood the reason you had: you love me—" She sucked in her breath. "—and I knew it from the elevation of your pulse and the dilation of your pupils as you sat with me by the fire in Baker Street.

"If you care to be rational, then it is a fairly obvious conclusion that the present circumstances illustrate the same, yet you're not taking my pulse or watching my pupils at the moment, are you? I think it obvious: a well-planned attack on a terrorist base in Karachi, Pakistan, all to rescue a woman who thought she cared for no one and thought no one cared for her. If that were true, why is she still alive?"

"Tell me if you're such a clever boy," she cajoled, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'd rather hear you use your brain," he replied, seemingly impervious to her charms.

Irene let go of his sleeve, took another step closer—close enough that her breath ruffled his hair—and gasped, "Oh, Mr. Holmes...." Taking his hands in her own, she whispered, "Say it—just say it. I'll say it, too, if it makes you feel better." Her voice was full of deep earnestness.

She whispered into his ear, "I love you."

He reddened, probably against his will. He looked at her, looked away, then back at her.

He was so determined not to say it, wasn't he? But still, his face was only inches from hers and there was something like magnetic energy between them.