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A black coffin with gold embellishments greeted him as he entered the room.
Gunshot.
Blood as red as her lips blinding him.
Breathing heavily, he found Mrs. Hudson by the door of his bedroom looking worried. If there was something that took a toll on him during that fateful experience in Sherrinford, it would be the fear that with every door opening, he would be forced to make a choice – a choice that always leads to a loss.
The vision often visited him in his sleep, some reliving memories of actual moments, and some are products of his own secret horrors. But if there is one recurring dream, it would be of The Woman.
Despite his strengthened faith in the people around him, he could not bear to talk to anyone about one of the things he feared the most during the game Eurus had orchestrated. She read through his violin piece more than he could ever admit to himself, that at every step he took at the labyrinth she created, other than fearing for John and Mycroft, he was hoping that Irene Adler would not be someone he would lose that day.
Part of him was grateful that it worked out as he hoped. But still, the dreams still haunt him.
He asked Mrs. Hudson to leave, telling her to also rest as the night was already at its peak. As she left, he reached for his phone, the clock flashing 2:37 A.M.
Without thinking too much, he let his weary mind overcome him. Finding their message thread in his inbox, he started to type.
Are you in London? SH.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of her text alert. It wasn’t until he felt his own eyes grow heavy that he drifted back to sleep.
---
3 days passed. His fingers were growing numb against the side of his phone, a silent cuss passing his lips every time it lights up and it isn’t her.
There were no patterns, for she is still on the run and would obviously have much better things to do, but he couldn’t help to feel neglected. Especially now that he’s rediscovered so much about his own emotions and humanity.
He almost jumped to his seat when his phone finally gave a moan that was ever so familiar to his ears.
Love is never defeated, a man’s errors are his portals of discovery. IA.
A small smile grew across his lips.
Taking a small duffel bag under his bed, worn through many of his private escapades, Sherlock left a note stabbed in the usual spot at the mantelpiece for his friends to see, and decided to head on his way.
---
“I should’ve sent you something harder.” he heard her say, grey eyes admiring the statue of James Joyce right in front of them.
He had just arrived in Dublin, chest exasperatedly thrumming, knowing exactly where to find her.
“John Paul II, September 30 1979: Love is never defeated, and I would add, the history of Ireland proves it. And…” his eyes drank in her image as he spoke, “A man’s errors are his portals of discovery is from Ulysses by James Joyce. Hardly a difficult deduction. I’m much interested in your choice of words.”
The words resonated with him, true enough, as he is hear because of his own personal errors, specifically on claims that love was a dangerous disadvantage. After years and years, he may have found himself agreeing to a former pope’s musings on how love is never defeated.
He couldn’t tell why but he wanted her to look at him almost desperately, at that very moment. And just like the past, as if she could hear the musings of his mind, she smiled and turned his way.
“And why is that?” she asked, walking towards him.
“Because you somehow always know how to make me… unsure. Of myself. Or everything.” he murmured, attention still fixed on her eyes as she drew closer.
She stopped at arm’s length, almost too close for him to touch but much too far for him to…
And as if she was deliberately trying to make him weak in the knees, she gave him that wicked smile of hers that muddled his brain the first time they met. “Why were you asking if I was in London?”
“Why didn’t you answer?” Sherlock replied, frustration evident in his voice.
“I needed to handle some things… As always.” Irene said, as if to stress the obvious.
“I was… worried.” the detective admitted, wracking his brain as to where he’s getting the strength to still look her in the eye upon saying the words.
Irene’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Are you now?”
“Yes. I needed to know your safe because…” Sherlock could feel his voice wavering, but he decided against it. He spent many nights, even before Sherrinford happened, on contemplating about this specific moment.
“Because what, dear?” Irene asked earnestly, drawing in nearer that he could feel her eyes piercing through him, making him feel vulnerable.
And for a flicker of a moment, his humanity had taken over his logic. As soon as she was close enough, he reached for her, taking her into his trembling arms, lips crushing into hers.
Her body started out tense against his own, but just like their past encounters, she had melted into him and him to her like they were always meant to be that way. She gripped him by the shoulders firmly, and his hold on her tightened like he was fighting for her to stay.
And when he finally pulled away, he saw Irene Adler’s flushed face staring up at him with an amused yet curious expression.
“Care to explain yourself, Sherlock Holmes?” she mused, stroking a curl off his forehead.
He sighed, quite bashful of his own actions, but still heavily relieved. Giving off a small smile at his own wit, he simply replied, “I believe this is what people call…emotional context.”