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Drowning. There was a sense of drowning when one is intoxicated in nicotine. It was a good sense, if Sherlock was to contextualise it, the brushing of something refreshing and energising in one’s mind was far too delicate and harsh at the same time.
The cases that had fled past him the past few weeks proved to be agonisingly mundane that they weren’t even worthy to be called as neuron exercises.
At time of this solitude, he would often get so lost in his own mind that he unconsciously finds his way to that one hall in his mind palace that he often have kept locked with bars and chains. With one touch, all the barriers fell off and he found his hands trembling at the twist of the doorknob.
Sherlock took a deep breath, cussing. No. He had sworn never to go there. Never. And yet when he was about to turn away, he felt a hand softly landing on his chest, the familiar red painted nails stroking where his heart is.
“And I thought I was finally going to get a visit…” Sherlock heard someone say, his eyes meeting the smile on Irene Adler’s face. She was in her battledress, eyes expectant. Sherlock turned away, gritting his teeth.
“Why. Do. You. Always. Get. Out?!?” Sherlock spat, snapping out of his reverie.
“Maybe because you know deep inside you still think about me. You’re just trying to deny it.” he heard Irene’s voice in his head, making his annoyance grow even more.
“I don’t.” Sherlock hissed, tugging on his hair impatiently. “ I need a case. I need a bloody case.”
“Or you could just stay here in this huge room with me.” he heard Irene say again, snapping him back to his mind palace. She was not in her battledress anymore, but rather in the grey shirt he had loaned her as soon as they were in the safehouse back in Karachi. She was looking at him expectantly, her grey eyes bright, curls loose down to her shoulders. Her face was without a trace of makeup and Sherlock, not oblivious to aesthetics, believed her beauty was much more evident this way.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Sherlock sighed, his blue eyes studying her. At his question, Irene laughed.
“This is your mind palace, Mr. Holmes,” Irene mused, her tongue rolling over his name, “I’m only here as long as you will me to.”
“This isn’t what I want.” Sherlock replied, his eyes looking away from her, his fingers curled to fists at his sides. It happens so very often, especially when he is alone or thinking of that night in Mycroft’s residence, the same night Irene Adler closed their proximity by a breath in the light of the flickering fire, that he thinks couldn’t get her off his mind no matter how hard he tried.
At night, when work was low, those memories are replaced, even overshadowed by one single thought: Irene Adler’s skin against his own.
Sherlock cursed himself and noticed Irene was still there, now standing in front of him, her hand reaching for his face just like the way he saw her in that Mayfly man incidence. He took a step back, almost a little too dramatically, wanting to come in terms with his own mind. His thoughts never went in such rebellion before, but then again that was the time before Irene Adler. Everything changed when she came, all his room for his convictions opened a new hall that took on its foundation and grew independently on its own.
He felt her finger touch his face, the way it tingled his skin like once beneath that Arabian sky. His eyes met hers, blue to green, his full of confusion and self-anger, hers steady and knowing.
“It takes a simple admission, Sherlock.” she whispered.
“No. It doesn’t..” Sherlock simply replied, trying to sound distant and yet the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
“Then tell me here. Admit it here where no one else will hear. No one else will know.” Irene said, her face drawing in closer, her eyelids fluttering. “You know the words, Sherlock. No one else will hear.”
Sherlock rested his forehead on hers, his eyes shut tightly, his hands blindly making his way to each side of her face. He took a deep breath, letting go of his cold facade.
“Where in the world are you, Ms. Adler? Come back. Come back to London. Come back to me.” he whispered, his lips meeting hers before he was drifted away into the sound of Lestrade walking up to his flat with a new case to offer.