Work Text:
Irene Adler has made a great impression on Sherlock. He refers to her as "the woman" and sees her as superior to her gender. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's in love. But before Sherlock falls in love, a revolver heals bullet wounds. Definitely add the case to the collection, though.
Sherlock chuckles to himself in his quiet way as he follows the hasty handwriting on the shabby note John carelessly lost on his last visit to Baker Street a good two months ago, and which has been stuck to the mantelpiece with a pin ever since. Good old John! As long as his oldest and best friend had lived with him, and as much as he admired him, he didn't understand Sherlock very well. Right next to the notepad hangs Irene's photograph, and the sovereign on his watch chain presses gently against his skin through the fabric.
Nervously, Sherlock watches the other clock, the one on the wall; monitors with eyes and ears the all-too-slow passage of time. Tick-tock-tick-tock. Like the beating of his heart, the racing of his pulse.
Every shadow that scurries past the window, every noise on the stairs makes him jump up again and rush to the door in euphoric anticipation. But it's only a messenger delivering a package to the neighbors across the street or Mrs. Hudson's cat knocking over a vase as it sneaks out. Tense, Sherlock sinks back into his armchair. His illustrious visitor, his long-awaited guest, is taking her time and putting his tense nerves on the rack a little longer.
If, yes... Sherlock may hardly finish the thought, if, yes, she accepts my invitation at all.
It was only this morning that he posted the telegram. Perhaps it was too short notice.
For over a year Shelock has followed her trail, photograph in hand, throughout Europe and even beyond the continent. He had known the moment he held her letter to him in his hands that he had to see her again. No other person has ever been so burned into his memory and his heart. He is obsessed with her. But Irene Adler is like a fish that always eluded him and fooled his abilities more than once. Only with the help of his little helpers, his eyes and ears in the city, has he been able to track down her whereabouts. And as luck would have it, she resides very close to him, right in the heart of London.
Sherlock is almost lost in thought when another noise in the house snaps him out of his thoughts. But this time it's footsteps. Footsteps that are clearly coming up the stairs. Suddenly the door opens. Briefly, Mrs. Hudson shows herself, announcing a guest, and then as she steps aside, Sherlock thinks his heart stops and the world stands still for a moment.
For the first time in over a year, he gazes into the face he had gazed at for so long only in the photograph. The face of a woman, the woman.
Majestic like a queen and beautiful like an angel she enters the room.
Irene Adler
She has come to him, to Baker Street.
In a breathless moment, Sherlock takes in every little detail of her body. The glossy curls that reveal she can still afford a good hairdresser; her clean shoe soles that reveal she came to him by carriage, not on foot; the unironed folds of her dress that suggest her maid must be acutely ill.
She no longer wears a ring on her finger. Not even one made of white skin that stands out against the summer tan of the rest of her hand. Only the briefcase she carries, plain and made of black leather as law firms are fond of, is a reminder that for a very short time she was not Miss Adler but Mrs. Norton. The thought gives Sherlock a small twinge. The annulment of a marriage is not usually announced as solemnly in the advertisement columns as a marriage. But Sherlock has his ways of finding out things the press doesn't know about. Why her husband was a bachelor again just a week after her wedding is a mystery. Sherlock has his suspicions, but he dares not pursue them further.
"Miss Adler! How nice of you to accept my invitation. Please do come in," he greets her effusively and, after a retort on her part, gallantly leads her to the armchair where Watson has so often sat. His hands tremble slightly and still do as he opens the bottle of red wine and he pours for her. Heat surges through him as her lips curve around the rim of the crystal glass and he has to rein in his thoughts.
"Tempranillo! You really have taste, Mister Holmes," she declares after taking the first sip.
Sherlock smiles. Her compliment flatters him and his knees feel soft.
"I so rarely have the opportunity to entertain guests. It is a real shame that in my trade one seldom gets to demonstrate one's skills as a host, besides, many visitors are sadly far from mannerly."
Irene says nothing in reply to his attempt at a joke, but sets down her glass.
"What did you want to see me about?" she finally asks coolly, "Your telegram, Mister Holmes, was, if I may say so, rather puzzling. I must confess that skepticism almost kept me away from her house, had not my curiosity been stronger."
Sherlock sighs softly and sets the glass down. He had hoped they wouldn't get down to business so quickly. But Irene is pointed and razor-sharp. And somehow he likes that about her. So he takes a deep breath to gather himself for the solemn, honest words.
"Miss Adler, I asked you to come to me because I wanted to express my deepest respect for you. You truly and thoroughly hoodwinked me a year ago! So far, only a few men have succeeded in doing that, and not a single woman. You may think such a compliment from the mouth of a gentleman is trite, but I must confess to you that you are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. You are of brilliant mind. That is unique and deeply admirable, and I am, in a sense, in your debt, for you have taught me to reconsider my hubris."
To his astonishment, Irene suddenly smiles and there is a slightly mischievous gleam in her eye.
"Usually, Mister Holmes, men who hardly know me praise my beauty rather than my spirit. It is not trite, rather exceedingly refreshing to hear something different for once. But I can only return the compliment. You truly put the fear of God into me, Mr. Holmes, when I almost fell for you. But I can't help but confess that your performance lacked nothing of the artistry that the world's great stages demand. An actor has been lost on you!"
Sherlock feels the heat rush to his face and his ears burn. Certainly his cheeks are flushed. Her words are like honey. How can this fascinating woman find anything admirable about him?
"I thank you for the compliment, Miss Adler," he replied, a little sheepishly, "If you ask my friend John Watson, he will confirm that I have a penchant for the dramatic. I guess this is where my family's artistic nature comes through. My grandmother was a painter. But even more important in my profession is the cool, clear mind. Deduction is an exact science, based on the closest observation and sober, logical reasoning."
"Oh, certainly! Observation is of no small importance in my trade, too," Irene immediately concludes, "How could one imitate life if he did not first study it closely?"
Suddenly, her eyes veil as her gaze wanders into the distance. Already during their entire conversation, she kept looking around the apartment with a sideways glance. But only this time does Irene fall silent. Astonished, Sherlock follows him and the pine table, finally cleared a few days ago after a tantrum from Mrs. Hudson, moves into his field of vision.
"You're a chemist, too, I see! Just like my cousin's husband," Irene finally murmurs, "Those stains on the wood can only come from acids. And you often work at night. Most of the stains collect on that side of the table that is turned towards the cabinet. Now, in daylight, you can not see the difference. But with the position of the ceiling lamp, the cabinet is likely to cast a deep shadow, which is more likely to cause accidents due to poor visibility, and the wallpaper is too close to safely place a lamp. However, if I were you, I would refrain from drinking your tea during such an activity, Mister Holmes. The sugar crumbs and water stains give you away. Bear in mind that one day you may poison yourself through carelessness!"
Suddenly, all at once, she turns around and looks Sherlock straight in the eye. Like a bolt of lightning, his gaze hits the pit of his stomach and a thousand butterflies seem to dance. He had been watching her gaze, but never before had he looked so directly into her eyes. How wonderfully pretty they are, beautiful to sink into! But even more than her beauty, it is her intellect that captivates him. An equal, perhaps even a superior mind. How can feminine charm and razor-sharp intellect mix in such a way? Scherlock feels the urge to sink to his knees in adoration. But he forces himself to remain composed.
"I see you have already internalized the basic principles of deduction without needing a teacher," Sherlock admits with a laugh, "I will certainly take your advice to heart."
Instead of an answer, Irene picks up her wine glass again, empties the anyway only half-filled glass with a hearty gulp, and in this way allows them both a pause for thought.
"And how do we remain now?" she finally speaks as she sets the glass down again.
Sherlock looks at her with a frown.
"What do you mean by that, Miss Adler?"
"Well, you invited me over to get to know me, and we showered each other with compliments. But neither of us is likely to linger in these armchairs for all eternity. So what do we take away from this meeting before we part ways again?"
Sherlock smiles gently.
"Well, if you ask so, Miss Adler, I hope we can remain in friendship. We have met under unfavorable circumstances. But with respect, should our paths ever cross again, I would hate to know you as my adversary"
Now it is Irene who smiles.
"This is quite to my liking. Even though my letter may have given you the wrong impression, I hold you in high esteem. You are a truly interesting man, Mister Holmes, and as I learned today, a courteous one as well. I may count myself fortunate to be considered a friend by you."
"So, then, we remain in friendship. That is quite a pleasant outcome to this evening" Sherlock sums up, helping Irene up as she rises to leave.
"Thank you for your invitation, Mister Holmes, and goodbye".
"It's been an honor, Miss Adler. Goodbye and have a safe trip home"
Slowly Irene moves away from him, her hair flashing in the light of the sunshine, her robes rustling over the floor. Sherlock looks longingly after her and feels as if the whole summer were leaving his room.
But at the doorstep, Irene suddenly turns once again.
"Mister Holmes?"
Her voice has lost all power and now carries the sound of an intimate confession
Attentively, Sherlock searches her face and looks into her eyes.
"Would you do me a favor?" breathes Irene.
"So far as is consistent with the law, I am heartily pleased to be your husband. Please, Miss Adler, sit down again and tell me everything."
Irene, however, shakes her head gently and Sherlock realizes his faux pas in a matter of seconds. She doesn't mean his professional services!
"It's not that, Mister Holmes," Irene immediately confirms, "Would you perhaps do me the favor of going out with me? I have been taken out and loved by wealthy lawyers, even nobles. But never by a man with such a brilliant mind and fascinating nature as yours."
A hint of blush creeps over her cheeks, overwhelming Sherlock's heart more than his reasoning abilities. It does capers in his chest and the world picks up dizzying speed.
"From the bottom of my heart, I'd love to," he finally exclaims, grabbing her hand and blowing a kiss on the back of it.
Irene just smiles blissfully. And without another word, she is gone all at once.
For a while longer, Sherlock stands in the doorway, gazing after the shadow that has long since vanished, his lips still burning from the touch and his heart drumming wildly. Then he remembers John again and considers writing to him, telling him that he has found Irene and that his judgment of his assessment of her is fundamentally flawed. But then Sherlock decides otherwise. Let John believe him to be an unfeeling reasoning machine. This would remain his secret.
Finally, Sherlock turns away and strides as if on clouds to his bedroom.
the woman... the woman