Good afternoon to my friends back home – it is 10 p.m. over here! I’m getting ready to go to bed. Today was my first day at the Oxford summer school, and I am quite tired. I will get those vacation snippets uploaded soon enough, cross my heart, but for now, I thought I’d upload a little bit of content I’ve been planning for a while.
A few of you have shown interest when I presented this little idea to you…I’m looking at you, Mama, Eva, and Ashley.
Please, guys, check out the below.
I’m going to archive this on the stories/fanfics page, so it can always be viewed there, but for now, here’s the first “chapter” of my Adlock fanfiction, which is still untitled. I’d enjoy some feedback in the comments.
TO THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE ALREADY READ THE SNIPPETS I’VE GIVEN YOU: I have revised it quite a lot, so it’s much different than what I originally let you read. I’ve kind of erased the more sentimental bits and altered it. It’ll still be sentimental, but I felt like Irene was wayyyy out of character in my first draft. ***she would never breakdown (at least not so early into the story), and Sherlock would never say that (again, at least not that soon into the story).
DISCLAIMER: I want this to be as true as possible to the characters from the show. While I know Irene was a domina (as the Germans would say) in the BBC show, I don’t have her doing that rubbish in my story. I do reference her behavior (cause you can’t deny it), and while Irene is still very much her naughty self, this story is not a bunch of erotic or explicitly sexual fluff. Now, she is Irene, so she tries to seduce Sherlock (notably in upcoming chapters), but there’s never anything like a…scene. You know what kind I’m getting at, so don’t expect one. Nevertheless, I am using circumstances and events to shape her character that in a way that *hopefully* sounds very compelling.
We might even see a baby Hamish. That idea’s still cookin’ 😉 .
And lastly, I do not own any of the BBC Sherlock show, and no copyright infringement is intended. I just enjoy a good fanfic.
“When I say run, run.”
Irene looked up at the tall, stately figure of her supposed executioner. His voice was warm, refined, and English through and through. The eyes were all that were visible, but they and the familiarity of the voice said enough.
It was him.
The relief was more than she could bear. One tear took a path down her thin face. He came, and she was saved. She had not the slightest hope, the faintest idea, and yet, here he was. She was free. Sentiment had gotten the better of them both before, but she was grateful for it this time.
The men at the firing positions in the large, sandy tanks were all shot simultaneously, sniped from behind. The other jihadists were panicking now, drawing their swords, and some their machine guns. Sherlock, his sword already raised, gave the others an impression that he was about to sever her head from her shoulders, but instead, he severed the head of the man standing behind him. The head fell beside her on the floor, and she raised an eyebrow, eyeing it with an impressed expression.
With that act accomplished, his cover was blown.
When he said run, the woman ran: ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Passing the decapitated man, she seized his sword from his still warm hands and carried it with her.
The word “run” was undoubtedly a code as well, for as soon as Sherlock had yelled it, shots began firing at the terrorists from unidentified allies on the rooftops. Her captors were falling to the ground left and right. This had obviously been well-planned.
She could hear the clanging of swords behind her as she sprinted off. She heard the grunting of men and the slicing of flesh. She knew they would be after her soon: she was a wanted criminal.
She was only thinking of one thing: Sherlock Holmes. As soon as she was out of the range of fire, and had rounded a few deserted corners, she stopped suddenly, and looked about her. Looking for a place to conceal herself, she scrambled into a patch of nearby bushes, for which she was oddly thankful, and hoped the dark colors of her burqa would hide her.
After what seemed to be an eternity, the far-off noise subsided, and she dared to look up. A few men came walking down the alley. Fear slid its dry, cracking fingers across her stomach as she wondered if they were on her side or that of the terrorists. Searching their figures, she sighed inwardly as she recognized the inexplicable figure of her own clever detective…without his funny hat. He walked briskly, looking this way and that. The others disbanded, following the orders of their leader, whose sword was still drawn. Instead of bursting out upon him, she pulled out her mobile phone and sent a text: “bushes.”
Sherlock stopped, read the text, deleted it, walked a few paces, then squinted in her direction.
“Do people really hide in bushes like the idiots in stories?” he mused, spying her after a few moments of squinting.
“Sometimes,” she spat, trying to sound annoyed.
Her burqa was quite caught on the branches. Trying to break free, she struggled fruitlessly to stand. Sherlock was smirking underneath his garbs. The bush had ripped her head covering off, but the rest of her garments were still intact. The thick, brown tresses of her hair fell over her shoulders, giving her a soft, refined appearance. Standing upright and looking at him, Irene Adler never looked so resolved.
“There’s really no use in wearing this anymore, I suppose—it’s horribly irritating,” he complained, aggressively jerking the covering from his head, exposing his face and nest of unruly raven black hair.
She was supposed to be his enemy now, and he was supposed to be in London. Why was he here? She longed to know, and so did he, for it would be true to say that he wasn’t sure of what he was doing there either. She had a sneaking suspicion that she knew his motive for saving her, but if she were being honest, she wanted to hear him say it.
Yes, she would make him say it.
There, she had said it. Blurted it. It was out now; her mind had been spoken. She would hear it from him. Why should Sherlock Holmes care if she lived or died? Why had he just decided to save her life?
“Because it was making me sweat, that’s why,” Sherlock retaliated, rubbing the sides of his head and ruffling his hair. He was about to open his mobile before Irene seized his sleeve.
“No. I mean, why?” she asked again. He looked at her, then at the sleeve she had in an iron grip.
Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment, but, 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 continued, barely above a whisper, “Forgive me, brother dear.”
“Tell me. I will know,” Irene declared, wearing a look of cunning on her face.
“I thought it was fairly obvious as to why,” he answered, curtly emphasizing the last word.
There was a moment of silence. Neither one of them said a word.
Irene cleared her throat.
“Well then,” she coaxed, 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; and that thought was so delicious to her that a triumphant smirk played on her lips.
“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—trying to look unaffected.
“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 whispered, cajolingly.
“I’d rather hear you use your brain,” he replied, impervious to her charms.
Irene let go of his sleeve, took another step closer—her breath tickling his cheek—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 earnest.
She whispered into his ear, “I love you.”
He might have reddened against his will.
Sherlock looked at her, looked away, then back at her.
He didn’t want to say it. He wasn’t even sure it was true. How could it be true? He was determined not to let the words pass his lips. But still, his face was only inches from hers and there was something like magnetic energy between them.
She stared into his eyes with silent yearning, and his stiff, rigid face bent slightly towards hers. Her lips parted. He was wary. Her eyes closed. He was very wary. She most certainly would have kissed him had not the sound of voices shouting in Arabic interrupted the moment.
“Too late…again,” Irene breathed, excruciatingly disappointed.
“That’s not the end of the world…but it’s not Mrs. Hudson either,” he quipped, grinning roguishly and taking her hand.
Sprinting off into the night, Sherlock led the way, the woman gripping his hand and keeping up with astonishing speed. The voices were still confused behind them, so they knew they had not been found out. Sherlock led her down darkened alleyways and deserted streets. What an odd pair they made, the detective and the woman, each one grasping the other’s hand tight, running through the deserted, midnight streets of Karachi, Pakistan.
The market was in their path. A few vendors still remained open, although most had retired for the night. Scurrying by the few buyers and sellers still awake, Sherlock led Irene through the dwindling crowd.
A jeweler burst out in front of them holding up a necklace. Sherlock sputtered angrily, came to a halt, and Irene slammed into him in the process.
“A lovely necklace, for your wife,” the man advertised, leering at Irene.
“No, no—sorry,” Sherlock spat, as he shoved the merchant aside and dragged Irene along with him.
They dashed past darkened buildings and retreated into the darkness of an alley. Irene opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock put his finger to his lips and listened for the raucous sound of raised voices. He and Irene could hear a commotion afar off and knew the terrorists were searching the bazaar.
“Your wife…mmm…I confess, I rather enjoyed the way that sounded,” she mused, looking up at him with dancing eyes. She still managed to maintain that rather coaxing tone of voice even though she was badly out of breath. He, however, managed to act completely preoccupied, to her dismay.
“I easily could get used to being called ‘Mrs. Holmes.’ ‘Mrs. Holmes…’ Oh, God, that does sound good, doesn’t it? Will I get to wear my own hat?”
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock scolded, scowling at Irene’s flirtatious expression. She smirked.
Sherlock opened his mobile phone and texted a few words to a number Irene could not make out. She wondered who he was communicating with and what the next plan of their escape was.
A black car pulled up beside them, and a British gentleman in a dark coat opened the backseat, motioning for them both to enter the car. Sherlock smiled, took Irene’s hand, and ushered her inside.
The driver took off at a ferocious speed. They came to the edge of the city; they were driving on the M-9 now, the “Hyderabad” motorway. There were no cars behind them, nor any ahead, and peace settled gently over Irene. She wondered where they were going…and what they would do when they got there. She laid her head on Sherlock’s breast and closed her eyes, letting tranquility wash over her weary little body.
Ah, but wait. This was a good opportunity.
Before letting herself laze, she straightened up and pressed her lips to her savior’s sweaty cheek.
The savior in question said nothing as she settled back down onto his breast.
But she didn’t sleep.
Sherlock was smiling. The car was dark, so she couldn’t see the amusement dancing frivolously on his face. He had done it. He had saved the woman. Why should he care? What did it matter? As Mycroft had indeed told him, “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” It wasn’t an advantage. Surely his brother was correct in saying so. And yet, if all lives end and all hearts are broken, why did he bother saving this nasty little woman’s life? Maybe he did love her. Maybe he did love this quiet creature resting on his chest…this small and yet incredibly vile soul taking breaths in and out restfully in his arms. He did care. He would always care. No matter where he was in the end, he would always have a place in his heart (and his mind palace) for Irene Adler.
Two hours later, the car stopped.
They were now in the outskirts of Hyderabad, another of Pakistan’s large cities.
The door was opened by the driver, and bright lights poured into the darkened car. Holding her hands over her eyes as she stepped out, Irene coughed as air beat into her face mercilessly. Dust was flying around in clouds outside, and Irene squinted in the bright Arabian moonlight. A helicopter had just landed near the car, and she saw what was to happen.
“Kiss a girl, why don’t you?” she asked, batting her eyelashes and accentuating her lips.
Sherlock stared at her with a simultaneously amused and ridiculing expression. He huffed a laugh and dismissed the idea. She frowned and tutted once, but looked him square in the eyes before leaving his side.
“I will not forget, Mr. Holmes,” she stated blatantly, looking into his face and stroking his cheek with an outstretched forefinger. “Thank you,” she breathed, letting go and gazing into his face triumphantly. She was still a wild little woman, but Sherlock sensed genuine gratitude in her demeanor.
She added, before walking away, “But we’re not done, are we?”
Sherlock smirked, and his eyes seemed to smirk also. His expression silently replied, “not by a long shot.”
And with that, Irene’s mouth broke into a smile.
As the door shut behind her, Sherlock turned away towards the car. He needed to be back in Hyderabad to catch his flight to London. He had told John he would be back the next day, and the flight he intended to board would help him do just that.
Irene laid back against the peeling, leather seats of the helicopter. She shut her eyes, hoping for some sleep to shave off time. Her eyes opened as an idea split the fibers of her crafty mind. Cleverly, as she often did, she pulled out her mobile phone and texted Sherlock one last time.
As the cab drove away, Sherlock’s mobile sensually “sighed” as it was inclined to do whenever she texted him, and he smiled inwardly. He read the new message, which read, “I love you Mr Holmes” and to which he flirtatiously did not respond for quite some time. In fact, before stepping through the door of 221b Baker Street, he deleted it for fear of John or Mycroft discovering it.
So, what do you think? I have more, but only if you guys want more. I’ll keep writing it for myself of course, but if I get positive feedback from you lovelies, then I’ll upload the next bit in a week or so for you all to devour.
I do love the next chapter so much more, so if you want to read more, I’ll be so happy to post the next bit. That was a random bit, but that’s okay. 😉
ALSO: I accept criticism, just no bad language.
Before I sign off: I will be in the UK for this week and next week, then I go home after that…so I’m going to be quite busy for the rest of the month.
I will try to work on an Europe blog post (we did end up going to Paris, which was amazing!!), but if I can’t, then I’ll upload some more of my fanfic. Only if you guys gimme the thumbs up. 😉
Danke für Lesen! (thanks for reading)