Work Text:
Mantelpiece.
Sherlock Holmes never thought that a single word would topple his world. As soon as he saw Irene Adler’s Christmas present, he felt an overwhelming need to be alone, intrigued by the small package she had left for him.
He was oblivious to the strange looks everyone was giving him, giving John a brief reply when the doctor mused that he was counting The Woman’s messages judging by her customised text alert. His mind was trying to figure out when she had left the box and why she never felt like showing herself to him in the process. The red and black colours of the small bundle was deliberate, a sign that Irene Adler wanted him to recognise the gift as hers at a glance. Sherlock was disappointed with himself for recognition was not the only thing that occured to him but also the memory of her blood-shaded lips.
Leaving the door slightly ajar at his haste, Sherlock dismantled the package eagerly, his heart racing at every stroke of his finger. Alas, the Vertu phone was revealed.
Not wanting to believe the first thought that came into his mind when he saw her camera phone, , he examined it clearly. His trained and observant eyes scanned the object swiftly but carefully, all the scratches and markers he had taken note of before are all in place to his surprising dismay. Denial was never Sherlock’s way and therefore, he did what was to be done: phone Mycroft.
“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.” he said, succeeding at his attempt to sound neutral.
“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.” Mycroft replied.
Sherlock wanted to smack his brother. At times when he needed Mycroft to be comprehending, it was when the older Holmes proved to be ignorant.
“No. I mean you’re going to find her dead.” Sherlock explained. As soon as he made his report, he felt his words stab his insides like a newly sharpened knife. He ended the call at the statement, seeing John hovering at his door.
“You’ okay?” John asked.
“Yes.” Sherlock replied abruptly, shutting the door at his companion’s face. He didn’t want to explain himself for he was also confused as to why his entire body suddenly turned numb as soon as he was alone. The Vertu still lay on his bed as if mocking him, senfding his thoughts spiraling into an unexplainable void.
When his phone rang and Mycroft’s voice was heard at the other end, he grabbed his coat swiftly and made his way down to Barts. They had found a body, as he was told, and half his mind was wishing it wasn’t her.
“I had her brought here. Your home from home.” Mycroft mused, but Sherlock’s mind was too clouded to notice the suggestive remark. His eyes was trained on the form underneath the white cloth, his hands cold. Molly warned him and his brother that the face was beyond recognition but Sherlock simply brushed this off. He wanted this to be done, to get away from Irene Adler’s lifeless form as soon as he can. Mycroft would want an answer and he will give it.
He asked Molly to show him the rest of the corpse, his eyes giving a quick scan over the body in front of him. The curves on the waist and hips was a bit smaller than when he saw The Woman but then these measurements do change. Skin tone paler due to the lack of blood flow, everything limp and unmoving. He couldn’t bare to look at it more than a single sweep.
“That’s her.” he said as he walked away, the room suddenly much more colder than the snow.
He stared out the window, his mind trying to understand why he was feeling an aching sensation in his chest as the picture became clear. Irene Adler was dead and surely, he could trust his own eyes to know that this was the truth.
Mycroft came out and offered him a cigarette, offering it as a Christmas present. He took it, inquiring about the law as one seemed to do when talking to Mycroft, lighting the cigarette as a closing statement. But then again, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was never one to pass up an opportunity to taunt him. Whatever he was feeling, he knew that Mycroft was well aware of his confusion and thus, the older Holmes went on to ask how Sherlock was able to find out about Irene’s death.
Of course Mycroft would want to get hold of the phone. But Sherloc wanted none of the discussion. He wanted to curse himself but he couldn’t picture parting with the Vertu just yet-- not when he knew that the last thing Irene Adler did was to entrust it to him.
“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” he heard Mycroft say, as if to push on an implication.
He wanted to show his brother that he was oblivious to the connection he was making, thus a remark about the cigarette was necessary. “This is low tar.” he spat, but in reality he didn’t mind. Too much nicotine would clear his head and he would prefer to have his mind clouded, wanting every distraction there is just to avoid his thoughts on lingering to Irene Adler.
“Well, you barely knew her.” Mycroft replied and almost as if on impulse, Sherlock snorted in protest. It was time to leave this place, he figured, turn away from where Irene Adler’s cold body lay a few doors away.
When he got home, he sensed a search was done by John and Mrs.Hudson. As always, he laughed at them internally. He would never opt for anything that might lead him to hallucinations about The Woman.
As he entered his room, he took the Vertu from its hiding place, his fingers stroking its keys and screen. In his hands was the only key to ever finding out Irene Adler’s secrets, the key to knowing what had led him to her in the first place.
Hours turned to days and the passcode became his obsession. To keep his mind of her, he turned his eye on her most prized possession, which was ironic at every angle. But better to keep himself occupied with a game she had left than dwell on the reality of her death.
Sherlock was lost in his own mind when his fingers involutarily reached for his violin. Notes turned to a melody and the melody to a song, every sway of the music sounding like an unspoken lament.
Every slide of his bow sent images of Irene Adler in his head, from the moment they met to the point when she had made it known she was gone forever. Sherlock kept on reminding himself that Irene Adler was nothing more than a case, but he never seemed to believe it.
At the sight of John’s blog, his hope had risen, thinking that the page counter had been hacked to send him a clue but only to be disappointed when the numbers didn’t match the passcode. He let himself be sweeped off by his own melody, allowing to be drunk with the composition inspired by the unwavering trouble in his mind and heart as caused by Irene Adler.
His eyes was directed out the window, staring into the nothingness. That was when his periphery caught a sight of a woman walking over their front door. As John emerged from 221B, Sherlock figured a discussion was taking place and at the tilt of the woman’s head, he learned that the visitor wasn’t Mycroft’s assistant. A black car that can easily be mistaken for Mycroft’s drove into view and John stepped into the vehicle. Sherlock felt his chest thrumming hard, a curious thought looming over his head sending tingles down his spine.
His heart raced at the sight of the seemingly abandoned building where John entered, walking as stealthily as possible, anticipation filling his veins as he suspected what was about to come. Voices echoed in the walls and his heart almost stopped at the sound of a familiar purr.
John was exchanging words to the point of agitation with none other than Irene Adler. He stood idly by, unable to move a muscle, the tension in his head growing as the conversation he was hearing dawns to a stop. He heard that Irene was going to send him a message so he pulled out his phone, wanting her to be well aware that he was one step ahead.
I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.
The text alert had made its toll and he was well aware his presence was made known. Walking out of the building, Sherlock felt different emotions rush through him. He was angry and confused but relieved to his own surprise. As he made his way back to Baker Street, the feeling of seeing The Woman again made him fall into a daze, only to be distracted by the noticeable change in 221B’s doorway.
His thoughts will fleet to her yet again, but the idea that she was alive and well made him steadier on his feet. He will welcome her later today, perhaps with a text message to greet her a Happy New Year, but for now, he will have to put aside his partially accepted feelings for The Woman and do his bidding as the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.