Chapter Text
“Evening, gentlemen. Lost are we?” Irene Adler politely inquired of the two ski masked clad gentlemen who had so unsubtly followed her down one of Amsterdam’s narrower allies.
“I’ll grab her.” The fat one muttered to the thinner one. Irene sighed as he lunged for her. Stepping side-wards, she twisted herself around to elbow him in the lower back. He stumbled to the ground and Irene smirked as she watched him get up to face her, pulling her pepper spray from her bag.
The thug screeched as the pepper spray hit his eyes and crashed back to the ground. But not before one of his blind punches collided with Irene's jaw. She staggered backwards. Through her blurred vision she saw the thinner assailant flinch towards her.
A smile quirked at the edge of her bloody lips.
“Would you mind putting him out of his misery, Mr. Holmes?”
“Not at all.” came an all too familiar rumble that sent involuntary tingles up her spine.
“I thought you were occupied in Devon?” She asked, wiping blood from her lip.
“I was.” Sherlock walked over to the assailant, crouching down only long enough to provide him with a sucker punch to the head, quickly silencing his moaning.
“Anything interesting?” She asked. As he stood up, he removed his ski mask and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. Irene’s heart fluttered without warrant.
“Not really, just dealt with a man and his dog.” He muttered.
“What?”
“I infiltrated an extreme sect of the Russian Nationalists and not a single one of them noticed that I wasn’t even Russian.” He said, walking towards her.
“I’m not sure how they could miss those cheekbones.” She mused as he reached her. Chuckling, he held her gaze. They were standing so close that Irene could see the steam of his breath clinging to the cold night air between them.
“Are you alright?” His voice was oddly gentle.
“I’m fine, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock bit his lip before quickly turning away from her and gesturing towards the thug at their feet, “Didn’t I warn you about making friends?”
Irene frowned at him and folded her arms, “Didn’t you just let a Russian Nationalist attack me?”
“I was maintaining a cover. Something you are obviously struggling with.” He replied. Irene felt like slapping him.
“Is it entertaining, Mr Holmes?” Her voice was deadly.
“Sorry-?”
“Does it feed your ego? Waiting for the last moments of my life so you can swoop in and save it?” Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, “All so you can throw it back in my face and expect me to thank you for it?” Sherlock was gaping at her. Irene swallowed. “Oh, please, really? I would have rather you just swung that cutlass.”
She turned on her heel and walked out of the alleyway. Heading down the next street, she weaved in and out of the bicyclists and unattended bikes. Walking, a little too vigorously, towards the canal. Reaching it, she turned towards the bridge. Her heart was pounding in her ears, the only other sound she could hear was her breath, catching sharply in her chest as she stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned against the railing between two pink bicycles adorned with flowers.
Lights twinkled on the surface of water as she looked out into the night and over the canal. The low hanging tress casting spindly shadows from yellow street lamps, but the reflection of Amsterdam sprawled beneath her seemed distorted rather than beautiful this evening. She leaned against the rail, taking a deep breath of sweet Amsterdam air before running her hands through her long hair to the ends.
It had been almost 9 months since Mr Holmes had saved her life. Living life on the run wasn’t exactly easy. Especially when you no longer had the leverage you once did and you rarely got a full night’s sleep. Irene never used to dream, let alone have nightmares. But, then again, she’d never been almost beheaded as the result of becoming a tool for a criminal mastermind in a game so elaborately designed with the intention of destroying one man either. The man who condemned her, who saved her life, who she had developed feelings for, despite her best efforts. The man who now stood beside her on the bridge.
“Please don’t ask me to apologize for saving your life.” His voice sounded strained. He didn’t look at her, just out over the canal.
Irene sighed, “I don’t want you to.” She said, finally. They both stared out over the water for a while. Irene becoming more and more aware of the close proximity of their hands on the cool rail until Sherlock spoke.
“Moriarty uses people. He plays with them because he does find it entertaining. I knew your phone’s passcode. I worked it out hours before we set foot inside my brother’s office.” Sherlock took a breath, “But I saw no harm in you using whatever information was on that phone for your ‘protection’. Even found it rather amusing watching you best my brother.” He sighed,
“But then, you mentioned Moriarty. Moriarty knew that once you gave me that message, I would be forced to stop you. I wouldn’t let him have any kind of control, even indirectly, of the information on that phone and the only way I could do that was, effectively, killing you.” Sherlock paused and his voice became bitter, “That was always his game. That was the best part.” He looked at her then before continuing,
“I figured out a way to save us both from his little game. I did it, not for my ego, Miss Adler and believe me,” he looked away from her, distractedly, “I find nothing entertaining about the idea of your death and I will not apologize for preventing it. Nor will I ever expect your thanks,” he looked back at her, “or ask for it, for that matter.”
He seemed finished. Irene’s heart was slamming against her ribs as she stared at him. Words rarely escaped her though on this occasion they all seemed to have disappeared.
“You know,” she managed, finally, holding back a smile and angling her body towards his, “Buying me dinner would’ve been a lot simpler, Mr. Holmes.” He laughed as he turned to face her.
“Probably.” He agreed. Irene watched as he raised his fingers, brushing them so lightly against the place where the Russian Nationalist had punched her, she would have thought she’d imagined it if it wasn’t for the tingling sensation beneath her skin where he touched it. “That will bruise.” He muttered, frowning, “Sorry-”
“You should be.” She retorted, playfully, “I used to get paid quite extravagantly to beat people, Mr Holmes. Now, I find myself receiving them for nothing.” Sherlock pressed his lips together, though a chuckle still escaped them with his fingers were still on her cheek. The action seemed almost absent minded. Irene wondered if it was. He seemed to be saying something else about bruising now and, though she was watching his lips, she barely heard a word he spoke before the space between them disappeared and she found herself kissing Sherlock Holmes for the second time in her life since he had saved it.
Amsterdam’s air was cold. But as she pressed her body against Sherlock Holmes’ she could’ve forgotten that it was. His body heat seemed to radiate all around her. As her pulse raced against her skin, she felt Sherlock’s hands’ rest on either side of her cheeks, tilting her head up and pulling her closer. In some distant part of her mind that wasn’t consumed by the oddly smoky taste of his lips, it occurred her that he could probably feel the heat of her blush beneath is fingers. She was still not accustomed to the amount of blushing she did when it came to Sherlock Holmes. It was rather annoying, but not entirely unpleasant.
Pain shot through her cheek.
“Ouch,” she murmured against his lips, “Careful, Mr Holmes. I was quite recently punched there.” Was she actually giggling? Jesus Christ…
“Hmmm?” Sherlock seemed dazed. He lowered his hand from her face, tracing it down her arm until his fingers entwined with hers at her side. It seemed yet another absent action, though fire spread beneath her skin from every point he touched.
“Are you alright, Mr Holmes?”
“What?”
“You told me we weren’t to have any kind of contact unless circumstances were dire,” she squeezed his fingers in her hand at her side, still whispering into his lips “I wouldn’t describe what we’re doing as ‘zero contact’.” He let go of her hand and took a step back from her, then. As if he’d just realized something. Though he was still close enough that she could feel the residual heat from their kiss hanging in the air between them.
Suddenly flustered, he said, “In Devon I was,” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully “vulnerable. I just wanted to-” he broke off, looking away from her for a moment. She smiled at him.
“Fear makes us ever so sentimental, does it not, Mr. Holmes?” Irene grinned. It was his turn to blush.
“Yes, I suppose it does, Miss Adler.” He said, returning her smile. She stepped forward, closing the space between them, again.
“Dinner?” she asked, playfully. He grinned.
“Not tonight. I have to get back to London for the returning of the Reichenbach paintings in the morning.” He rolled his eyes, “Like they were missing, they were in the gallery archive. The only crime there was bureaucracy.” Irene raised an eyebrow at him as Sherlock smirked at her, placing his hands in his pockets as he turned to walk away,
“You know, saving my life doesn’t mean you still don’t owe me dinner.” She called after him. Sherlock stopped and turned, his crooked smile tugging at his lips as he closed the space between them and brushed his lips briefly against hers,
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
“Well then, until the next time, Mr Holmes.”
“Until the next time, Miss Adler.”