Work Text:
Sherlock hangs up with a deep feeling of satisfaction. According to his interlocutor – a reliable Pakistani ex-soldier who, thanks to the detective, avoided life imprisonment a few years ago –, his part of the plan is running smoothly. In fact, the whole thing is going surprisingly well, given that 1) Mycroft Holmes has not manifested himself since the beginning of the operation, which proves that he is still completely unaware of it; 2) the remainder of the terrorist cell that is responsible for Irene Adler’s capture is currently threatened with extinction; and 3) said Irene Adler has been successfully rescued by Sherlock himself and is, at the moment, resting in the hotel room’s large bed, curled up in the clean white sheets and shifting slightly in her sleep.
Sherlock leaves his spot on the narrow balcony and comes back into the room, closing the patio door behind him so that the sleeping woman does not feel the chill of the night. The sounds coming from the outside immediately vanishes, and Sherlock finds the room deadly silent, apart from Irene’s restless breathing and her minuscule, unconscious jolts.
He figures out that she is dreaming, or most likely having a nightmare, if her agitated state is to be believed, and he silently comes closer to the side of the bed where she is huddled up, sitting down on the edge of the bed to watch her. He feels curious and, he must admit, a little fascinated – as he always is when the Woman is concerned. A few damp locks of hair are stuck to her forehead by her perspiration, concealing some of her features, and Sherlock reaches out to move them aside, but then he changes his mind and his hand draws back to rest upon his thigh. She might not sleep very peacefully, but at least she does sleep, and she certainly needs it. He can only imagine how exhausting these long days of captivity have been for her. He must not wake her up.
He is about to stand up and get back to work – he needs to make sure that his alibi in Moscow is still watertight – when he hears a low sound coming from the sleeping figure next to him. He tilts his head and gazes at the Woman, noticing her increasing perspiration and her tense muscles. She lets out another sound, a plaintive moan that reminds Sherlock the painful look in her eyes as she was drawn by two dark-clad men into the dimly lit warehouse where she was to be executed. That makes his heart clench unpleasantly inside his chest.
Sherlock leans above her to look at her half-hidden face in the faint yellow light of the bedside lamp. He can see how her muscles contract around her mouth and along her neck, how her jaw fails to relax with each passing of her erratic breath, how her hand rifles through the sheet as though seeking a hold to which she could hang on. Another moan comes out of her throat, hoarse and aching, and he changes his mind. He needs to wake her right away.
His fingers are gentle against her cheek and hand as he endeavors to rescue her from the depths of her sleep. Her skin is hot and clammy beneath his fingertips. “Miss Adler”, he whispers, and the solemnity of him calling her by her last name sounds awkward in view of the situation.
The Woman shifts slightly and opens her mouth to produce a handful of unintelligible sounds, her voice still low and throbbing. Sherlock finally moves her sweaty locks of hair away from her face, his touch light and hesitant. “Irene”, he says, just a little louder than before, while his fingertips trace an invisible line onto her pale skin. He squeezes her hand carefully, and her eyes snap open.
Sherlock removes both hands as she struggles against exhaustion and tries to sit up despite her limbs’ own volition. She looks positively aghast, her eyes wide open and her whole body shaking like a leaf.
“Irene”, he repeats softly. “Calm down. You’re fine.”
She looks up at him, her feverish gaze diving into his, and he can see her features relax just the slightest as she recognizes him.
“Mr Holmes”, she stutters as she makes a perceptible effort to remember the events that brought her into this bed. She quickly glances around her, then her eyes are back on Sherlock. She tries to slow her breathing down, soothes her traits as if trying to look impassive; but she cannot hide her trembling hands from him, nor the look of pure terror that darkens her pales irises like the veil of a ghost. She swallows with difficulty, then: “It’s fine”, she affirms – and it somehow hurts to see how much effort she makes to keep her voice steady. “I was just having a bad dream. Don’t worry about me.”
He knows it is painful for her, to appear so vulnerable in front of him, to admit that she needs his help; she is hurt in her pride, and her pride is all she has now that he has beaten her and she has lost her wealth and influence. So she holds her head as high as she can, even when her body is damaged and her mind is faltering and her heart has been left in tatters on the cold floor of Mycroft Holmes’ office.
Yet she does need his help, and he is more than ready to offer it to her, as some stupid remorse has been gnawing on him since the moment he passed the doorstep of the 221B Baker Street after condemning her to an inevitable death. She needs his help and he refuses to make the same mistake as before. He will make sure she is safe – and she won’t have to beg him for that. He is repaying his debt to her and he will not change his mind, so she better resign herself to it.
“I’m not worried”, Sherlock replies. “You’re safe now. Nobody will get to you here.” She closes her eyes tightly and pinches her lips together, then nods. He carefully places his hand on hers, where it rests on the damp sheet, and continues with his most gentle voice: “You can sleep. I’m not leaving you.” He finds himself lacking of inspiration – he has never been good at reassuring people –, so he just adds: “You’re safe.”
She opens her eyes and gives him a look that appears both skeptical and hopeful – at any rate she is clearly surprised –, and Sherlock curses for he does not know what to say anymore; but then he finds himself completely caught out as she unexpectedly bursts into tears.
For a few seconds that seem to be an eternity, he is unable to do anything else than staring at her as she starts sobbing and heavy tears begin to hurtle down her cheeks. He has already seen Irene Adler’s facade crack, but this is different; this is complete abandon, this is physical and mental exhaustion fighting their way to the surface and nerves finally giving in to pain and distress. This is highly unexpected. And dreadfully heartbreaking.
The next moment his arms are around her, and he holds her tight while she weeps against his chest, her face buried into his neck and her fingers grabbing his shirt. He cradles her as her whole body is shaken by her quiet sobs, strokes her back gently as her tears soak his torso through his clothing. He does not exactly understand what the Woman is feeling at this moment, but he does not have to: all he needs to know is that she is enduring a brutal wave of emotions, because it happens to people sometimes (it would be lying to say that he himself never feels anything, even though he often maintains that he does not), and that he can help her to handle it.
The Woman weeps for a long time. Sherlock remains quiet, because he has no idea of what to say; instead he places his chin upon her head and keeps caressing her back and arms with soft, delicate strokes. Time seems to stretch like the tail of a comet in the nocturnal sky, and the detective becomes increasingly familiar with the weight and warmth of the body that he is firmly holding between his arms. It is strange to think that he is embracing Irene Adler, especially in these circumstances, but, oddly enough, it feels nice and extremely comforting.
Irene’s sobs gradually loose their intensity, and she soon looks like she is merely resting in Sherlock’s arms, having cried her heart out. Then he hears her murmur something into his shoulder, and he turns his face towards her.
“I thought I was going to die”, she breathes.
Even Sherlock can feel the dread that those words carry. His hand begins to stroke her hair as he presses his forehead against hers. “I’m rather glad you didn’t”, he admits before placing a chaste kiss on her temple.
Damn. The general feeling of vulnerability is reaching him now. Time to back out.
She lets out a low chuckle. “I’m rather glad too”, she whispers, and her hand starts describing light circles against his chest. Only now he realizes how fast his heart is beating beneath her fingers, mocking him for the way he used her rapid pulse as an argument against her during their last encounter.
Damn. To late to back out.
He clears his throat: “You should try to sleep again”, he says, unsure if he actually hopes that she will ask him to stay, or the exact opposite. “Your plane takes off early tomorrow.”
He is about to disentangle them when she raises her eyes, giving him a disapproving look. “Don’t”, she says.
“… Sorry?” He offers her his most confused expression.
“Don’t run away again.” Her voice is barely a whisper as she gazes at him with eyes that are still gleaming with the ghost of her tears.
He automatically opens his mouth to retort – and closes it straight away. Behind the Woman’s reproachful tone hides something that looks too much like a plea, a shadow in her eyes that shows how weary she is of their constant fighting, and he finds himself wondering if he could not, just for once, give way to his own tiredness, if he could not remain in the comfortable little bubble of warmth in which they have settled and that nobody will burst this time – not even Mrs Hudson. He could. He might.
He does.
He does because the Woman is lying back on the bed and she is drawing him with her. He lets her because he needs to sleep, because she needs to know he is here, and because it is just so good to feel her body against his, warm and soft and alive. Because he has almost lost her. And now she is safe, and the heat of her skin reminds him so as she snuggles up against him, as he wraps his arms around her and protectively holds her exhausted form against his heart. He can feel her breathing slowing against his neck, as well as his own body starts to yield to fatigue. At this moment, and for the first time, they are not rushing into battle, they are not fighting for power or domination; for now, they just realize that they are also able to soothe each other, to settle a temporary feeling of trust and harmony, forgetting for a few hours about the aftermath. They are both alive, sharing the same bed and the same air and the same heart, and Sherlock falls asleep with a feeling of profound relief, and a stranger feeling of contentment, and his last thought is that all of this feels terribly good.