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The ringing sound of what Sherlock believes to be sarcasm echoes evidently in John Watson’s voice upon every mention of High Wycombe.
It has become a habit of sorts, that every time the doctor would hear Irene Adler’s text alert (Sherlock doesn’t even bother to put his phone to silent anymore, much to the doctor’s amusement), he would quip how the normalcy of the Buckinghamshire town seem to be an alluring thought if juxtaposed against the detective and The Woman’s current relationship.
Sherlock would often dismiss the idea, at least on the surface, trying his best to not let John or anyone know that he often mulled over what John would call as ‘lazy nights of passion’.
It is true that he and The Woman spent some days and nights in High Wycombe, keeping a low profile and, at least in his case, using a triple poisoner or recurring disappearances in the area as an excuse to see each other – he definitely wouldn’t call it lazy.He was still quite unsure as to why she politely accepts his invitations, never wanting to be presumptuous of her thoughts and… feelings.
But then again, what can be deduced from some of their escapades?
He found himself lying in his bed without the intention of sleeping, as usual, but the feeling of the sheets touching his skin sent his mind adrift.
The image of Irene Adler’s dark hair splayed across the pillow beside him, with dusk looming outside the apartment window where they were staying, flashed his mind. It was one of the moments when she had asked him to find her, just as soon as she flew in from Bali. There were no questions between them anymore, at least not when one seeks the company of the other, and it made him rush to her as fast as he can.
What was it expected upon normal people when they greet someone they haven’t seen in a while? A cheerful exchange of greeting? An embrace? A kiss?
Of course, when it comes to Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, it was different. It starts with a teasing remark, a barely-there touch, a soft smile, a tender caress on the cheek, and a silent analysis on how much the other had changed over the time they were apart.
Sherlock could still remember how much Irene has lost 3 pounds during their last meeting, her dark locks recently chopped by an inch to retain its usual length, and her eyes – those eyes – earning another wrinkle or two that comes with age, but to his silent admittance, still as beautiful as ever.
So what did John mean by ‘nights of passion’? Was he still stuck with the idea that since they met Irene as a dominatrix, sex was a centerpoint in their relationship? Sherlock can’t help but wonder some more.
Though with the idea crossing his mind, he did remember that it was also in High Wycombe when he gave in to his own impulses on a rare occasion, many years after Karachi.
He was preparing to come back to London after his two year stint as a dead man. A small apartment in the quieter areas of the town was his temporary home after Serbia, and as per his request, Irene paid him a visit.
They secretly enjoyed the idea of sneaking behind Mycroft, and such recounting of their misadventures in dismantling Moriarty’s network set an unexpected suggestive mood. The feeling of her lips touching his felt electric, the sweet smell of her soft and pale skin sending chills down his spine.
Sherlock needed to breathe for a moment, reminding himself that no matter how vivid the memory is, he is still just in the comfort of his own flat.
He sat up, reaching for his mobile phone and decided to scroll through his gallery. There he saw photos of her – and them– together, a variety taken during his past birthdays, their times meeting in Montserrat, Amsterdam, Italy… and some he took in their short and simple reunions in, again, High Wycombe.
One photo showed her pale skin glowing in the soft light of the nightstand lamp, her face peacefully sleeping next to him. He could remember how her fingers rubbed his back at the time, trying to ease the tension and the stress buzzing his mind. It was still also fresh in his memory how she playfully rested her head on his shoulder in one occasion, and how much, as much as he denied it, loved how it felt.
Another photo showed her wearing a simple green dress, her signature smirk playing on her lips even without her looking at him. It was one of the days they decided to follow a suspect for a case he was handling, and them ending up having lunch at a much-too-normal family diner. It was still odd to him to be reminded of that day, but it was evident to him that Irene definitely found the moment fondly amusing.
So what is it about that place that made it stood out the most? Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration.
And then he smiled to himself, finally coming to a conclusion as he scrolled through the stolen photographs he took of Irene Adler.
They were different; much like ancient structures in Greece and Rome, they hold a certain history that needs to be known before appreciated.
And they speak their own language; his connection with Irene Adler is something that even the Rosetta stone could not decode. The way he feels for her is not expressed by the clichéd words romance movies often stretch out, but with words of assurance that he trusts her and that he always looks forward to seeing her again. The mere look in her eyes upon seeing him and the soft touch she usually gives his cheek at their every reunion, on the other hand, is enough to resonate how much she had missed his company.
That’s when he understood– they may do or say things that are not subject to the commonwealth, but they do have tendencies just like any other person; tendencies to be attached, to be emotional, to be in love, and be loved.
Sherlock realised that, in contrary to what John implies, it is not that ridiculous for him and The Woman to find a sanctuary in such a ‘mundane’ place such as the Buckinghamshire town. In fact, it could be in any other place, at any other time – but never with someone else.
It just so happens that he lived these moments – these nights and days and years of exhilarating passion concerning Irene Adler – in High Wycombe.