Sherlock and The Woman

Love Is Blindness

"I don't know about you, but I think I've had all the fresh air I need for one day. I have a plane to catch. If I'm not on it, Sherlock will miss me terribly."

--

A few hours later, after the cover of darkness had settled completely over the town of London, Irene stepped out of the Hackney carriage and gazed up at the familiar black door to 221 B Baker Street. Though she had had more than enough time to collect herself, the woman still hadn't managed to suppress the shock entirely. It still bubbled just beneath the surface and she was afraid Sherlock would see it.

The meeting with Hazaar had been a failure and she couldn't confess any of this to the man that awaited her on the other side of the door. She had deleted all her tracks so far and was confident he would never find out unless she or John messed up. Irene drew one last steadying breath as she stood on the top step. Her trembling hand unlocked the door and she stepped inside.

"I said: 'Pass the laptop'," Sherlock spoke from the living room where he was sitting in his armchair, intently gazing into the fire before him.

The woman stopped at the top of the stairs and paused before stepping into the man's peripheral view. "When?"

"Two hours ago," the man explained with a shrug of his eyebrows.

"I was out…" Irene sighed. Perhaps her fears had been misplaced. If he had been so preoccupied with the thoughts which circled in his mind palace, there was a good chance he wouldn't notice anything off about her. Either way, the woman walked over to the desk, grabbed the laptop and carried it over to the detective.

"Thank you," he said as he took it from her hand, opened it up and began typing away.

The woman walked over to the window and gazed out at the beautiful night. On the inside, her chest ached with a shriek that desperately wanted to escape, but had to be forever trapped. She gazed down at her hands and though there was no visible blood on them, they still felt soaked in the heavy liquid.

"That's odd," Sherlock's comment interrupted her thoughts.

Irene inhaled and glanced down at him with an aloof look on her face. "What is?"

The man was gazing intently at her. "You. Your pupils are slightly dilated, your breathing is erratic. What's happened?"

"Maybe it's just seeing your cheekbones that's getting me all warm inside…" she breathed, walked over and climbed into his lap even as he discarded the laptop on the floor beside the armchair. She wrapped her arms around his neck as the man sighed in reluctance.

"Be serious, Irene…"

"I don't do serious," she scolded him. "But I will do you…"

It was plain in the detective's eyes that he wasn't about to let her reaction slide, instead he spent a good minute attempting to read her features. "…This is about Moriarty, isn't it? I suppose it's a natural human response to be had. The man nearly did kill you, after all. To be a little scared of what is to come is simply… human."

The woman felt relief wash over her when he presented her with an alternate version to hide behind. "The man blew up Big Ben, Sherlock. He won't stop at anything to win this time. I know there's no one more brilliant and wise than you. You've seen through Moriarty in the past, but is it enough? He's becoming more desperate to defeat you, and thereby more dangerous. I wish I could help..."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, but before he could say anything, Irene put a hand over his mouth firmly. She figured she might try and make amends for her error by at least giving him some useful information she had acquired during her associations with Moriarty.