Chapter Text
I originally intended to write nearly this whole fic from Irene’s perspective, but decided if I wanted to a) write it more episode-y and b) draw out the mystery of Irene’s injuries and c) keep things moving, I should switch it up as needed. But this is how I originally began chapter 2 before I decided to write it in John’s/Sherlock’s.
Irene Adler clamped her mouth shut, trying to do nothing but wince as she pushed herself through the open window and fell into Sherlock Holmes’ laundry. A pile of mud covered trousers broke her landing, while clothes scattered in slumping piles all around her muffled her fall. Irene crinkled her nose at more than just the sight of them. Something like sulphur permeated the air too.
Irene pulled her right leg through the window and got to her feet. Straightening herself up with a groan she was barely able to stifle, she took a few moments to catch her breath. They were coming in quick gasping bursts that weren’t so much from the effort of running, but the unfortunate symptom of the pain that felt like a fists attempting to drag the bones of her ribs from their place in her torso.
But if she was being forced to face Sherlock Holmes she would not do so like this.
Surrounded by Sherlock’s apparently long forgotten laundry, Irene wiped the sweat from her forehead, pulled the gloves she had pick pocketed out of her own pocket and pulled them over her hands.
Moran had been so careful, as long as she was wearing the gloves her injuries would be invisible. The last thing she was here for was Mr Holmes’ ‘I told you so’, or worse, his pity. Biting her tongue, Irene bent down to pick up the box she had been clutching. It had fallen into a pile of Sherlock’s shirts, two of which, she noticed, were bloodstained-
“I DON’T KNOW!”
The sound of his shout almost made her scream as the box slipped through her gloved fingers back onto the pile of clothes and she whirled around, half expecting him to be glowering in the laundry’s narrow doorway. Heart hammering in her ears, Irene moved slowly towards the sound of his voice. Her footfall was so quiet she might have been a ghost.
“What do you want me to say, John?” Sherlock’s voice was a scratch down glass, “Want me to tell you how I infiltrated a terrorist cell alone and saved her after months of letting everyone, including her, believe that I hated her?!”
Irene felt her bones turn to ice. Was he-?
“Or perhaps how it was me that told her never to contact me under any circumstances?”
He was. He was talking about her.
Irene swallowed, reaching the living room just as Doctor Watson responded, “Sherlock, I-”
“Or that if anyone stupid enough finds that out now they will draw the conclusion that Moriarty’s resurrection is my doing as well?” Sherlock’s voice cut through Doctor Watson’s without mercy. From her place in the hallway she could see Doctor Watson’s jaw moving soundlessly as Sherlock reached her line of vision, dragging his slender fingers through his curls. Irene bit her lip.
The last time she had seen him was less than a year ago. His eyes had barely been open and there had been a rather impressive puddle of drool beside his mouth as he lay against the pillows of his hospital bed. His skin had been so pale from the blood loss, it had made those curls look black rather than brown and they had been the only thing that prevented him from blending right into those white hospital sheets. As she watched him now, she wondered whether he remembered he had woken up and asked her, in a voice as quiet as a memory, to please be careful. A piece of advice her bruised and fractured ribs attested she did not follow.
Still, as Sherlock paced wildly round the room, Irene thought he looked just as pale now as he did then. Her stomach twisted with something other than the week long absence of food as Sherlock continued shouting,
“Or perhaps how I did all that in a pathetic,” he spat the word, “pitiful effort to keep one other person safe from Jim Moriarty. But as per usual, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock’s voice oozed with loathing, “has made sure that that is irrelevant!” Without warning, Sherlock flung the contents of his desk to the floor. Irene jumped, but before Doctor Watson could even get a word in, Sherlock was standing directly in front of him. Irene’s lungs went as still as the rest of her though neither of the two men had yet noticed her presence barely 6 feet from them in 221b’s living room.
“You want to know if she’s alive.” Sherlock growled at Dr Watson, “You want to know,” Sherlock chuckled but there was no humour behind it and Irene’s recent thought of being ghostlike suddenly seemed considerably less amusing. “You want to know.” He repeated, his voice fading. Doctor Watson had asked about her? Why? “Tell Mary I appreciate her concern.” Sherlock said. Irene was frowning.
“How did you-?” Doctor Watson asked.
“You didn’t know I was lying before and I know she’s been reading your blog.” Sherlock's voice was robotic, “You should probably return to your family, I have work to do.”
The concern etched across Doctor Watson’s face as Sherlock turned away from him to shuffle around some papers on the floor might have been an exact replica of her own, if Sherlock hadn’t turned to look directly at her.
Since she had made the decision to come here, Irene had resisted the temptation to imagine what this moment would be like when it happened. The moment when he saw her, when their eyes met properly for the first time in 5 years. But whatever she may or may not have imagined, the last thing she expected was for him look away, shaking his head as if she was a film he’d seen too many times. Hell, as Doctor Watson reached the door, it was almost as if Sherlock was trying not to look at her.
A splintered sort of anger pooled in the back of her chest, non-specific to who or what she was angry at. Sherlock looked at her again, but the way his eye twitched she might have been a fly buzzing against a window that had disturbed his train of thought.
Then, she realised and her questions regarding Sherlock’s memory were answered.
Her heart did something akin to a backflip in her chest as he looked at her again. All those powers of observation, yet it was as if he no longer saw her. Irene’s empty stomach tangled itself into a knot. Because he was used to seeing her. Despite it all, she almost giggled at the word ‘daydream’ as it danced at the edge of her thoughts.
But Sherlock’s days of daydreaming her presence had reached their bittersweet end.
Irene took a breath, cleared her throat and, “That was touching.” She teased as Doctor Watson froze in the doorway.
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This is an alternate scene from Chapter 12. Chapter 12 was tricky. There were lots of people involved and in my original plan John was with Irene when she woke, not Mary. I couldn’t decide which so I wrote both scenes, but decided to go with Mary being there because it just felt nicer and I feel very strongly about the lack of female/female interaction in Sherlock. But here’s John’s scene anyway. The Adler/Watson relationship (I use the term very generally) is always something I like to play with.
John Watson was applying a band-aid to Irene’s incision wound when she started to stir. Her eyes darting about behind their closed lids as her breaths became a little less even. A small groan escaped her lips and she moved restlessly. John leaned back in the chair he was sat in beside Sherlock’s bed,
“Miss Adler?”
A sharp intake of breath through her nose told John Miss Adler had heard him, but her ability to respond had not yet returned from sleep. Irene’s eyes fluttered open, her eyes darting around in bemusement, but soon narrowed mutinously against the afternoon sunlight pouring into Sherlock’s bedroom. As a Doctor, John had always found it amusing how childlike people became when they were waking up. Irene tried to sit up. Instinctively, John rested his hands on her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up and forward with a groan,
“Easy.” He muttered, glancing behind him at Sherlock’s bedroom door, before returning his attention to her, “You’ve been asleep for a long while.” Removing his hands from her shoulders, John reached behind him and picked up the glass of water he’d placed on Sherlock’s nightstand and handed it to her, just as the colour practically sprinted away from her cheeks,
“You’re going to feel a little off. Here-” He placed the cup in her hands, “You lost a lot of blood.” Irene squeezed her eyes shut as a green twinge mixed with the paleness of her face.
“Is that your professional observation, Doctor?” She muttered with the faintest hint of her old sarcasm, keeping her eyes shut.
John felt the corners of his lips twitch, “Yep.” He nodded. “Drink up.”
Irene scowled at him before bringing the cup to her lips. After a minute or so she drained the glass, her cheeks already lacking in green as she handed the cup back to him. When John turned back from placing the cup back on Sherlock’s night stand, Irene was plucking absently at the bandaid on her wrist,
“Lost a lot of blood.” She echoed his words.
“At least 2 pints, I’d say. We gave you a transfusion.” John answered, “Lucky Molly got your blood type.”
“Oddly enough ‘lucky’ isn’t the phrase that comes to mind at the moment.” Her voice was raspy, but there was nothing unsteady in it. John suddenly felt sheepish as her pale eyes settled on his.
“I can imagine.” He muttered.
“Is Moran dead?” she asked.
John nodded.
Irene’s shoulders relaxed, “How long have I been asleep?” she said, looking around with practiced interest before her eyes found her own torso and frowned.
“A day and a half.” John replied as Irene’s forehead continued to crease at the sight of Sherlock’s grey pyjama shirt they had clothed her naked torso in, “You needed a proper rest.” John added, but it was his turn to frown as the faintest of laughs escaped Miss Adler’s lips.
“What’s funny?” He asked. Blinking, Irene looked up from Sherlock’s shirt as if she’d forgotten John was there.
“Nothing. Just-” She was looking at him, but her pale eyes were anywhere but here, “History doesn’t repeat itself alone.” She said.
“No.” replied John with a sigh after a moment, answering the question she hadn’t asked, “I mean, there is no history without people to make it in the first place, is there?” He said.
Irene’s laugh was benign, “So, nothing really changes.” She mused, tugging absently at Sherlock’s shirt.
“Oh,” said John, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning, “I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes retracing your steps, coming back to somewhere-” He trailed off, “Makes you realise how much things change.” He took a breath, “And how stupid you were trying to convince yourself they don’t.”
Irene shot him a smile, “I suppose we’ll find out.” She sighed. John bit his lip, looking away from her.
“Doctor Watson?”
He looked up, “Yes,” He cleared his throat, “Miss Adler?”
“You’re a good man. That’s a rare thing and you have far more important things to do than blame yourself for the actions of ones as vile as Sebastian Moran.” She almost spat his name.
“I know-” He said, “Thank you.” Irene smiled at him again before looking away from him and the question came out of his mouth before he could think better of it, “Sherlock said you saw Jim.”
It was strange. Nothing about her changed. Her body didn’t shift from its slumped position. Her face remained almost entirely neutral, all but her eyes. Her eyes seemed to shrink and for a moment, John thought he could see through them to the swirling dark thoughts he had brought forth with his question.
“Among other things.” She answered, in a voice that might have been acid drawn from her lips. Pressing his own lips together and frowning, John leaned forward. He had the strange urge to reassure her. She seemed so frightened, she always had underneath all that bravado. But what could he say? He had no idea what. Jim Moriarty insured their world was the furthest thing from reassuring. John tried not to think about his own baby daughter, resisting the urge to pointlessly check for the sound of Mary’s returning footfall again.
“Hey,” John sighed, breaking the silence between them, “You don’t have to tell me, alright? I shouldn’t have asked. It’s between you and Sherlock, you just want to tell him, its fine.” He meant it too.
Irene laughed mirthlessly, “Wouldn’t that be nice?” she muttered, fixing her pale eyes on him. The look of pity she gave him was striking. As if her eyes were fingers twisting his insides. John clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He knew that look. That look said, it wasn’t fine. Why weren’t Mary, or Sherlock back yet? Then, as if she had heard his thoughts,
“Where is he?”
John didn’t want to say that he didn’t know, “He won’t be long.” He said. Irene raised an eyebrow at him while John silently cursed himself for lying to someone far more skilled in the art than himself. She adjusted herself in Sherlock’s bed and John had a feeling she was going to try and get up.
“So, he isn’t here?” Irene asked with a kind of casual interest that suggested to John that she perhaps wasn’t as good a liar as he credited her for. But she was good. Once again, her features were neutral, but she stopped tugging absently at Sherlock’s shirt for the first time in minutes.
“He’s in bad shape too, you know.” John wasn’t sure if he was defending Sherlock’s absence, or reassuring her despite it, “The pair of you- fractured ribs, bruising both external and internal, stab wounds, multiple stitchings – Moran hurt you both badly.” John decided to leave out Sherlock’s nightmares and the mental breakdown at Bart’s, he cleared his throat, “Lucky you’re both here, really. Relieved you aren’t actually dead, again.” He added. Unsure if he was trying to be funny.
“You mean that do you?” Her voice had an edge to it John couldn’t help but think was childish. As if she was trying to get him to say something else.
He rubbed his eyes, “Yes.”
“And I thought you said I was just a client.” Her voice was almost icy, but John could hear something humorous behind it.
“Look around, Miss Adler.” John sighed, “You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re just Sherlock’s client.” Her eyes flickered to the blood bag Molly had provided, down to Sherlock’s shirt and over himself. Though she looked away from him, John saw a splash of pink creep into her pale cheeks.
“Yes,” she said, looking pointedly at him, “Sherlock is certainly lucky.”
He smiled back at her, “Do you want to get up?” John asked after a moment.
“Thank you.” She replied, giving him something quite close to a grateful smile as he stood up and took the chair away from the bedside to give her some room.
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There were aspects of this fic I made up as I went along. I knew I wanted the pain of Irene’s injuries to eventually escalate to something she wasn’t able to bare unnoticed quite quickly and so I thought I wanted to reveal the exact nature of these injuries when she passes out in Chapter 4. However, I decided half-way through writing Chp 4 that I wanted the explanation of her injuries to be heard (first and only) by Sherlock. Nonetheless, this is (part of) Mycroft’s arrest as perceived by a very unstable Irene Adler (another reason why I decided not to write this scene from her POV in the final draft).
Irene’s breath was a rattle she was straining to drag through her lungs. Her weak breaths might have been a flame, her blood gasoline, burning through her as she fought to stay with them all. She focused on the pinching pain of the elastic bonds twisting her arms behind her back and willed her vision to clear as she glowered up at Mycroft Holmes.
“Don’t just stand there.” He drawled, “Take her away!” Before Irene could retrieve the words from her burning lungs, Sherlock pinned Mycroft against the wall of the stairwell.
“If one more of your men lays a finger on her, know that the fact my hands are tied behind my back will only make your suffering more creative on my part, Mycroft.”
The hammering of Irene’s heart only made it harder to keep her vision in focus. To keep him in focus as the room spun and spun and spun. Sherlock glared his brother down. But their voices were becoming muffled as if she was moving further away from them. Irene found herself clutching at words, but she might as well have been trying to cup water in her hands until a voice right next to her said,
“Sherlock, what’s going-oh-!”
“Hello, Doctor Watson.” Irene’s voice was barely above a slur. But something that felt oddly like relief tingling through her veins as Sherlock’s best friend swam in and out of focus by her side.
“If you think,” Sherlock’s whisper came more like a growl, “that Moriarty’s survival is as much my doing as Miss Adler’s, your deduction skills have reached their lowest point, brother.”
Irene wasn’t sure if it was the pain radiating from every single bone in her body as each of them screamed with Moran’s engineered exhaustion, but she had no idea what was happening until her vision came into focus. Mrs Watson was coming down the stairs behind Mycroft and Sherlock.
“Watch out boys.” Irene muttered. From what Irene could discern through her fog, they both looked quite puzzled before Mrs Watson pressed a gun to Mycroft’s forehead and asked him ever so politely to release ‘Sherlock and Miss Adler’. Mycroft only scowled and replied,
“Or what, Mrs Watson? You’ll shoot me?”
Mary shrugged, “I’d prefer not to, but everyone here knows I have a slight tendency to shoot the Holmes boys.”
Something clicked in a distant corner of Irene’s mind that cast her wary mind back to a rose she’d left by Sherlock’s hospital bed. But gravity was clawing at her mind and it would pull her exhausted body down with it. No. No. No. He can’t know.
Irene hauled her mind back to the present. Her body rocked with the effort of it and she tried her best to focus on the glint of the barrel of the gun Mrs Watson had pointed at Mycroft’s head, “Let them go.” She said.
“Thank you, Mrs Watson.” Irene breathed. Partly because she did indeed admire Mrs Watson’s allegiances, but mostly because her vision was tunnelling and speaking was her last life line to the conscious world.
“For God’s sake, Mycroft!” Doctor Watson shouted, “Don’t be an idiot!”
“Do you understand the position you put yourself in, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was getting further and further away and it almost seemed several hours before Sherlock responded, in a growl as certain as nightfall,
“Right here. Between you and Miss Adler.”
Mycroft chuckled at him, “All this for a dominatrix?”
“No. Not a dominatrix. The Woman.”
His words might have been thunder for the room was silent. All bar from Irene’s erratic heart as it threw itself against her bones and bounded against her ears. She could feel herself fading, the edges of everything she was, becoming less and less as Mycroft continued,
“Whatever information she is feeding you on Moriarty, little brother. I hope for all our sakes you are not so distracted that you can’t do what will be necessary.”
For a brief moment, Irene Adler’s thoughts hung between two urges so strong they could almost have been instincts. The first was the urge to slap Sherlock’s older brother in the face so hard that the mark of her thin fingers would be on show to the world. The second felt stranger.
The second was the urge to run to Sherlock and tell him everything. Everything Moran had done to her so she hardly had the energy to keep herself standing, let alone defend herself or tell him the truth. Moran even insured she hardly had blood to spare to blush at his defense in her stead.
“Get out.” said Sherlock, “Take your thugs with you. If I so much as hear your voice in my vicinity in the next three days, you’ll be hunting Moriarty alone.”
Mycroft waved his hand lazily at the men, “Release her.”
Irene heard her sigh rather than felt it as the solid suited fellow standing over her ungracefully unleashed her hands from their plastic bonds. Despite her relief, the absence of his hold on her meant she was now standing unsupported. Not for long. Waves of numbness punctuated by stabs of pain that endeavoured to split her spinning head in two and Irene was unsure which sensation she would give into first. Whether she would scream or just stop.
“Be careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s drawl of pure righteousness broke through her fog, “You do remember what happened the last time you didn’t listen to me regarding Miss Adler. There is a rumor among the intelligence community that Sebastian Moran is in London.” Mycroft continued, “But she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that.”
And the urge to hit Mycroft Holmes was extinguished as quickly burned through Irene Adler by a wave of numbness that swallowed her, and everything else, into black. The last thing she was aware of was something stopped her from hitting the floor.
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This was a little scene from Chapter 12 I cut because I thought it disrupted the tone I was trying to give the chapter. Anyone whose read this fic or follows me on tumblr knows I adore baby Watson and cannot wait for season 4 to see everyone interact with this little bundle of hope. Unfortunately, this scene didn’t quite fit with Chp 12. It’s set just after Sherlock wakes up and leaves at the beginning of the chapter.
Mrs Hudson was bouncing baby Ella Watson gently in her arms around her apartment. The midday sun poured in through the small kitchen window between the buildings next door as they walked passed it. Mrs Hudson was making tea with one hand. While little Ella’s fingers dripped with the drool from her tiny toothless mouth. Smiling quizzically up at her and giggling with the motion of it all.
“Yes. It’s exciting to be awake when you’re that age, isn’t it, dear?” Mrs Hudson mused as she gave up on pouring the tea one handed and continued to walk Ella around her apartment.
There was a thud above them.
Looking up, Mrs Hudson frowned as the banging moved to her right. As her eyes followed the sound to the direction of the hallway, she saw the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes whip past her apartment door.
“Wonder where he’s gallivanting off to. I thought he had a guest. I really must have a chat to that boy about manners.” She said, settling into one of her kitchen chairs with Ella on her lap. Ella made a noise in agreement and a few minutes passed this way. Quiet punctuated only by Ella’s incoherent attempts at chatting. Until the door opened and John entered the apartment.
“Ah,” sighed John with a tired smile, “She’s awake.” John walked over to them, holding out his arms, reaching for his daughter, “There she is,” he whispered excitedly, smiling down at Ella as Mrs Hudson stood up and passed her carefully over to him. Unable not to grin at the pair of them, she clapped her hands together silently beneath her chin.
“Thanks for looking after her over these last few days, Mrs Hudson. You really are a lifesaver.” He let out a sigh, “Sorry to spring her on you. Just we needed quiet in 221b for a bit and Ella was bit reluctant to agree.”
Mrs Hudson waved away his apology, “It’s my pleasure, dear,” she said, but after a moment of watching the shadows crinkle under John’s eyes, she asked, “Is Sherlock okay? You all seem exhausted.” She rested a hand on his cheek briefly before lowering it and frowning, “I just heard him leave- Sherlock, I mean - I thought he had a friend over. That woman who fainted just outside the other day when Mycroft was making all that fuss.” Mrs Hudson saw John’s eyes widen before he blinked at her and responded,
“She’s not uh-” Pausing, John shook his head with his brow furrowed, “Everyone’s fine, Mrs Hudson.” He settled on, “Sherlock just ducked out for a bit.” He finished. Mrs Hudson cocked her head to the side,
“Alright, lovey.” She smiled, “Have Mary or you even eaten anything?”
“No- But it’s-”
“I’ll bring some tea and things up soon, then.” She turned away from him and fetched a tea tray from the cupboard behind her.
“Mrs Hudson please you don’t need to- Sherlock doesn’t want anyon-”
“Oh hush dear. I’m the land lady. If I want bring up some tea, I will.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw John smile at her as he tickled Ella’s chest.
“You always said you weren’t our housekeeper.” He said.
“Well, I’m certainly not yours anymore, dear,” She laughed, putting the kettle on and turning back to face him. John raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued, “Don’t worry about Sherlock, he can have some tea when he gets back.”
John opened his mouth to respond, but instead he just yawned. Followed quickly by baby Ella doing the same in his arms, “I better get back up there.” He said, “Mind if I leave Ella with you for a little longer?”
“Not at all!” Mrs Hudson stopped bustling around her kitchen and held out her arms to take Ella off of him. John giving Ella’s forehead a quick kiss before passing her over, “It’s alright, dear,” she said, trying to sound reassuring “try not to worry too much about Sherlock.”
“I think we can both agree that’s easier said than done.” He called after her as he headed back upstairs.
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Chapter 4 featured a conversation between Mary and Irene while they drive back to Baker Street after Molly takes Irene’s blood at St Bart’s. Mary and Irene are in Mary’s car, while Sherlock and John are in the cab in front of them. The following deleted scene is Sherlock and John’s chat that I ended up leaving out in the final draft because I didn’t want it to become sort of a ‘girls talk vs boys talk’ thing and remove the focus from Irene’s unspoken plight.
Sherlock was already seated and silent as the grave when John hopped into the cab beside him. Glancing behind him out the cab’s summer dust ridden window, he gave Mary a quick nod before the cabbie pulled away.
They drove for quite a few minutes in horrendous silence. Sherlock stared determinately out of the window. Even his body was turned away from John. Strange how a silence in the back of a stuffy cab in the middle of summer could be so cold. John cleared his throat.
“Sherlock-” he cleared his throat again, “Sherlock?”
“Can I help you, John?” The question dripped with so much disdain, John had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
“Actually, I’m fine thanks,” He matched Sherlock’s sarcasm, “Can I help you? Anything new in your life you wanna talk about?”
“Help me?” Sherlock mocked, turning his head to glare at him, “Is that what you call coming to my home and harassing me about my personal life,” His voice was nearly a growl, “for fifty quid.”
John blinked at him, his jaw hanging open. But he closed it, resisting the urge to bite his lip from guilt as Sherlock turned away from him again.
“Do you and Mary bet on Moriarty too?” Sherlock snarled, still not looking at John and glaring out his window, “How long it will take me to find him?”
“No. Of course we don-”
“Why-?” Sherlock barked, “Because you know the game is rigged?”
“Sherlock-” John started, “Sherlock, I was just as shocked to see her as you were – more actually, considering you never told me she was still alive in the first place!”
“I wonder why,” Sherlock muttered, irritable.
“You are being ridiculous-” John had to fight the urge to raise his voice as the cab jolted to a halt at a red light, “I know in the last few months you’ve turned your asshole setting right up because of everything that’s happened - and I’ve enabled it - But Sherlock,” The cab was moving again. John tried to keep his voice calm, “This is huge- whatever the real reason she’s come back - it’s dangerous.”
“Oh, is it?” Sherlock’s voice was soaked in sarcasm once more as he turned his head to glare at John, “Thank you so much for making me aware.” he almost sounded offended, “I was laboring under the impression that women turning up in my living room insisting on sanctuary, carrying lethal intel and the blood covered weapons of deadly assassins was a new form of social courtship I was not aware of.”
John dragged his hand down his face, “For God’s sake, Sherlock- In the very least, she’s your client. Dial it down a notch. Try and be civil, if not calm.”
The look on Sherlock’s face, John might have hit him, “I am being civil. Completely civil.” Sherlock hissed.
“Look, Sherlock. Whatever happened or didn’t happen between you and Irene Adler is your business.” Sherlock looked like he was going to protest at this, “I didn’t ask you about her because I wanted to win 50 quid!” John snapped before he could, “I asked you because I thought you might want to talk about her, given everything that’s happened since you killed Magnessun.” Sherlock almost seemed to flinch at his name, as if recoiling in disgust.
“Well, you were wrong. Nothing unusual,” Sherlock said. John had nothing to say to that.
“Irene Adler is here because she needs you, however she, or you, tries to dress it up.” John said as rain started pattering against the roof of the cab, “And maybe. Just maybe,” John continued as Sherlock remained still and unresponsive, “you need her.”
Sherlock twitched, “I need to find Sebastian Moran,” was all he managed to say.
A few fine sprinkles of rain trickled down the windows as the cab crawled through central London.
“My daughter is almost 6 months old, Sherlock.” John said after a while, “I don’t want to lose her,” he sucked in his breath, “or Mary, or even you, because you won’t tell me what’s really happening.” John saw Sherlock swallow, “Like it or not, whatever happens now, I’m not leaving you to solve this on your own.”
“Wow. You really are doing a wonderful job,” Sherlock muttered. John’s brow furrowed before Sherlock finished, “of convincing me you aren’t an idiot.”
John sighed, “Yeah,” he said, glaring at Sherlock and matching his sarcastic tone, “Probably about as good a job as you’re doing right now,” Sherlock was staring out the window again, “of convincing the world you don’t care.”