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The sky a dark grey, the clouds contrast against it with it’s white cotton-like majesty. Debris flies through the air causing a thick fog visible beyond the hill, where the operation took place.
The air is a crisp cold, sure to get less colder as the night dies. The breeze blows Sherlock’s dark blood smeared elegant curls.
She makes her way to the small cliff overseeing the collapsed buildings, blown cars and bombed land. The ground painted red beneath and around the motionless Austrians' bodies.
She sits down, her legs dangle over the edge.
Irene looks up at the darkened sky looming over her as footsteps follow her.
Something brushes against her back.
Wool comes into contact with her bare arms sending little electric shocks throughout her body.
She allows him to slip the coat on her.
It’s warmth a comfort.
Irish wool tweed.
Exquisite.
He sits down beside her, his eyes trained on a set of vultures, their beaks picking at them, feeding on the dead.
Some creatures feed on the dead. It's part of life.
A shaky sigh escapes Irene, her throat constricts as she stares at the sky. Her vision blurring as the seconds tick by.
The sound of a cigarette lighter.
The flame awakens.
Bright amidst darkness.
Scent of burning tobacco.
The flame extinguishes.
Love doesn’t extinguish, does it? Irene thought. No, it only dims, but it grows again.
She wraps the coat tighter around her, the collar standing at attention, brushing her face.
Sherlock sets the cigarette between his teeth, it’s weight a comfort. His elbow rests on the knee of his right leg, the other leg dangles over the steep edge. His shoes sports dots of red liquid.
An ounce of relief floods him as nicotine enters his system.
One more year. One more year and then I can finally be relieved. And get back to my John, Sherlock supplies himself, huffing out smoke.
He produces another cigarette, lights it, and hands it to The Woman.
She exhales another shaky breath, as a tear falls, and accepts it.
He inhales. Bracing for the inevitable.
“I love her.”
He blows out smoke, his eyes lifting upwards towards the sky. He had suspected there was some sort of personal gain when Irene, having been coincidentally in the country, as she put it, went on with his mission to take down Kate Richards, in command of sector forty-eight of Moriarty’s network.
Love being the motivator? A bit low of her, Sherlock though, his theory confirmed, But then again you succumbed to that yourself.
“There wasn’t any way to save her, she was in far too deep.” He offers.
“I wanted to see her one last time before she. . .wanted to talk to her. Just talk.” She answers the unspoken question. “I’m sure you understand.” She eyes him a side glance, to which he smirks and inhales another nicotine filled breath, his eyes roaming over the battle of wind and clouds, the former winning, as per usual.
“Time heals.” And he speaks from personal experience. He hands her a dirtied handkerchief to which she huffs a laugh at.
She sighs, wiping her tears, “I know it does. But sometimes time is sometimes unbearably long.”
Agreed, he thought. Agreed.
Irene then asked, “He’s what keeps you going, isn’t he?”
Sherlock looks at her, taking her image in. Hoping to god she won't start the Spanish inquisition on him.
“Well, the legwork isn’t bad at all. And the disguise is quite entertaining, having mastered it. You slip into another exterior persona, every sensory input and thinking is yours and only yours, but from the outside, you become somebody else.”
She shakes her head ever so slightly, a smile finds it's way on her. He had evaded the question. Just before she thought he was evading the question, he spoke.
“But yes. I look forward to returning.”
“I bet you keep counting the days till everything is dismantled,” her tone is light-hearted.
Sherlock’s gaze drops to his wrist, looking at his watch, his eyes following the second hand.
Tik, tok, tik, tok.
The time read four twenty six. The first lines of sunlight break through the horizon.
The sun starts to wake up to bathe the battlefield with her warmth.
Something about the wrist watch strikes Irene odd as her gaze locked on it.
It doesn’t fit his usual style. The watch is rectangle, contrary to Sherlock's liking of round watches. And furthermore it does look rather familiar, and not because she has seen the detective wearing it before.
It’s an elegant watch with an old black leather strap covered by dirt and debris, it sure had seen a lot of action.
The watch seems to be slightly too big and the leather strap’s hole was too short, as there appears to be a handmade hole away from the last one, so the strap can fit perfectly around the bony wrist.
Sherlock has looked at it quite fondly, a few minutes of staring, as if he is remembering something he...
It clicked.
She hummed in acknowledgement before speaking up. “It’s his.”
A few minutes pass by, and Irene doesn't expect an answer, Sherlock is quite reserved in the matters of the heart, Which is why it took her by surprised when he spoke.
“It’s John’s.” He confirmed.
He stubbed the cigarette on the ground, stood up swiftly and dusted off dust and lingering debris before taking back the coat from Irene’s outstretched hand and handing it to the MI6 agent.
The sun keeps awakening with each passing second, a new day begins, a new mission awaits.
A day closer to John.
Sherlock starts walking away, already planning his next target's assassination mission before calling out one last thing.
“My anchor in this abysmal madness.”
