In Which a Questionable Decision is (Hopefully) Made {for elementrymydear}
It was only a handful of months after the true circumstances of Sherlock Holmes' fate at Reichenbach Falls was revealed to all that Irene Adler moved into the address of 221B Baker Street.
It was probably a few weeks more, she suspected, until Mister Sherlock Holmes finally noticed.
To be fair, she actually hadn't given him warning. Once it was made public that her once-adversary (though often, at times, Irene still much considered Mister Holmes to remain at such a status) was, in fact, still alive and well, Irene had already found herself back in London. Not precisely destitute, as Irene still much enjoyed the earnings that her inheritance and retirement supplied, but without a steady source of income, Irene found herself hoping for the security of sharing rooms. And with Doctor Watson having once again taken leave of the residence, it seemed only logical that Irene should fill that empty space. With or without Mister Holmes' agreement.
And that is, precisely, what she did.
They had fallen into a steady routine, and Irene quite enjoyed the freedom her solitary housemate supplied. She was free to come and go as she pleased, as was he, and it wasn't often they actually encountered one another.
So, upon this day, it was a rare occasion in which Irene not only felt the desire to visit Holmes, but deliver, upon her arrival, his tea. Which, she had made herself. Which, had resulted in it being slightly more seared around the edges than was probably desired for a roast. Which wouldn't be so bad, if the potatoes weren't quite a thoroughly cooked as they should have been. But Irene was of the straightforward mind that, if he disapproved, there was nothing stopping him from making his own meal. Granted, he would no doubt starve before taking such a challenge into his own usually adept hands.
Tray in hand, and without a knock or word of warning, Irene burst into Holmes' quarters, displaying her work proudly. "I do hope you are hungry, Mister Holmes."
It was probably a few weeks more, she suspected, until Mister Sherlock Holmes finally noticed.
To be fair, she actually hadn't given him warning. Once it was made public that her once-adversary (though often, at times, Irene still much considered Mister Holmes to remain at such a status) was, in fact, still alive and well, Irene had already found herself back in London. Not precisely destitute, as Irene still much enjoyed the earnings that her inheritance and retirement supplied, but without a steady source of income, Irene found herself hoping for the security of sharing rooms. And with Doctor Watson having once again taken leave of the residence, it seemed only logical that Irene should fill that empty space. With or without Mister Holmes' agreement.
And that is, precisely, what she did.
They had fallen into a steady routine, and Irene quite enjoyed the freedom her solitary housemate supplied. She was free to come and go as she pleased, as was he, and it wasn't often they actually encountered one another.
So, upon this day, it was a rare occasion in which Irene not only felt the desire to visit Holmes, but deliver, upon her arrival, his tea. Which, she had made herself. Which, had resulted in it being slightly more seared around the edges than was probably desired for a roast. Which wouldn't be so bad, if the potatoes weren't quite a thoroughly cooked as they should have been. But Irene was of the straightforward mind that, if he disapproved, there was nothing stopping him from making his own meal. Granted, he would no doubt starve before taking such a challenge into his own usually adept hands.
Tray in hand, and without a knock or word of warning, Irene burst into Holmes' quarters, displaying her work proudly. "I do hope you are hungry, Mister Holmes."