Sherlock and The Woman

The Duel of Adler And Holmes

She smiled bravely up at the tall man and raised her shields up high. The smile was genuine, yet weak, as she said, "It's fine. Really. …Now I really ought to go, Sherlock. It's late, after all. Keep the equipment. I'm glad it helped. I hope your girlfriend recovers fully. You know you can call me anytime if you need me."

The detective smiled down at his friend and stepped forward to say his farewell but the young scientist raised a hand and took a definite step back. Sherlock stopped and John remained silently to the side, trying not to disturb the awkward peace.

"Goodbye," was Molly's last word as she turned on her heel and walked out from Baker Street without further ado.

As the front door closed, Sherlock stood, somewhat dumb-founded, in the center of the living room while John gazed at him from the sidelines.

"You… " the blond man cleared his throat and drew attention to himself. "…alright?"

The detective recovered smoothly as he turned to his friend with an unreadable look on his face. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

John smiled up at his friend. "Do you want to see her? She's not awake, of course, but I figure you want to inspect my stitch work before Mary covers it with bandages."

"I do."

--

Irene awoke with a start. She was for a brief second disoriented and lost, until her eyes got used to the dark room lit by a smaller lamp on a nightstand by her head. This was Sherlock's bedroom, this was home.

The woman tried to remember how she had gotten there, but found her memory failed her in that respect. She remembered being at the bell tower and Moriarty's mad plan. The last thing she remembered in detail was the knife the mad man had plunged into her body. As if on cue, pain flashed through her abdomen and she groaned.

She lifted the covers and gazed down at her stomach, but stopped short. She was surprised to find she was suddenly wearing pajamas and the wound was dressed and stitched.

"Mary changed your clothes," spoke a dulcet voice and the woman lowered the covers and gazed up. Over by the window, stood Sherlock himself, illuminated by the street lights below. The man, too, was dressed in his pj's and wine-colored robe.

"You were there…" she said as the mist in her memories cleared slowly. "And John."

Sherlock nodded and the woman asked, "What happened? I remember… Fires. Or was that just a side-effect of the MDMA?"

"No. Moriarty blew up Big Ben. London will never be quite the same," the detective said grimly. "He escaped, of course. I'm surprised you managed to get out, too. And I mean despite the fact that I noticed the escape path of footprints from your stilettos running down the right stair case, which was hardly touched by the explosions, or the drops of blood smeared across the soot on the walls."

The brunette smiled and winked up at the handsome man. "Yes, well, despite that… I'm surprised I can still surprise you."

"Oh, I doubt you'll ever stop," Sherlock smiled back and this time it was a genuine expression. Before Irene's tired mind could deduce anything from it, the man swirled around to gaze out at the night once more. "John and Mary performed surgery on you right here after your miraculous escape. You've been out five hours since. John said the knife missed all vital organs, but you did lose some blood. Thankfully, Molly brought not only equipment but snatched blood bags, too. You look dreadful, either way."

The woman chuckled silently. "'Dread' is still better than 'dead'."

"That it is," Sherlock's low mutter was almost too low to hear and he still refused to turn back to her . "John says I… owe you a thank you."