Nutrisco & exstinguo - Chapter 31
A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by MusicWritesMyLife :)
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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Oculos habent et non videbunt: "They have eyes and they do not see."
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.
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Chapter XXXI: Oculos habent et non videbunt
Lady in Spain, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I am a lady in Spain
I'll sing a haunting refrain
I am a lady from Mars
And I can unscrew the stars
I can be anything that I see
I can be anything that I, anything that I see
The weather today was endowed with a briskly stimulating coldness. Invigorated, Irene smiled and delicately tilted her head to the side, enjoying the shiver that ran down her spine under her vermilion cashmere dress.
"Are you cold, Ms. Rose?" the man still lying on the bed, inquired in a religiously respectful tone, rubbing his wrists.
Irene looked away from the coolness of the window and turned to the fool. This one had seemed a little more challenging than the others at first, but in the end he was just as easily duped. Could it truly be that there was not one man as challenging as Sherlock Holmes on the face of the earth?
Apparently not. Especially as the consulting criminal was now the worms' property.
"I don't remember saying anything about you being allowed to speak to me yet," she answered finally as she picked her coat, not sparing one look at the bed. "But you've been good until now, so I shall forgive you."
"When will I see you again?" he insisted.
She sent him a very amused smirk, her eyes sparkling with mockery.
"Why, dear, never." You're useless now.
And with that, she closed the door behind her.
Yi Ling was waiting for her in a car a few streets away.
"Miss Salome! Are you all right? You are late!"
"Is that a reproach?" Irene asked her teasingly as she got into the car.
Yi Ling turned crimson.
"Of course not, Miss Salome! I would never dare..."
"Good girl. Did you do the shopping?"
"Yes, Miss Salome. I went to Dior and Valentino and..."
"That's enough, thank you. Did you find a white dress?"
"Yes, Miss Salome."
"Perfect. I'll change now."
The poor maid's eyes widened in shock. Admittedly, the pane separating them from the driver's seat was dark-tinged glass, like in all the cars Irene requested.
"You want to change in the car?"
"That's what I said. Are you tired?"
"No, no! My apologies. I will help you..."
Irene smiled wolfishly, yet in an endearingly charming way, and took off the soft piece of clothing she was wearing, replacing the blood red with unalloyed white, and letting her hair down. Yi Ling took the dress that her mistress had removed, her cheeks matching its colour. She averted her gaze, trying pointedly not to look.
"What are you so embarrassed about? You have seen me undress many times before."
"Shall I help you remove your make-up, Miss Salome?"
"Oh dear, and now you're avoiding my questions? Do I have to give you a lesson?" Irene teased.
Yi Ling let out a little cry, but seemed to muster all her self-control and frowned up at her mistress.
"I think it is too dangerous for Miss Salome to do this when Mr. her husband is in town with her," she remarked as she dabbed Irene's cheekbones gently with make-up remover.
Irene had never liked anyone touching her face in such a way, and she found it patronizing at first. But Yi Ling was so devoted, and so adorably candid in everything she did, that the Woman decided she could indulge her in this. Yi Ling was always the one to remove her make-up now.
"What makes you say that? You got everything I needed. I will tell him I went shopping, and you know he will believe me."
"But what if he doesn't, one day?"
"He always will," Irene assured confidently. Samuel Hupaetos was the perfect husband. If she wore his favourite colour - white, naturally - and painted her face with soft, soft colours, he would never ask anything. He would never resist her.
Irene took out her phone. Her fingers ran over the keyboard smoothly, French manicured nails never in the way.
I have the names. You were right - it does point to her.
She paused a second, before finishing her text.
Won't you invite me to dinner?
A thin smile spread across her face as she pressed the SEND button. She turned to Yi Ling, who was holding a mirror out to her so she could put her new mask on.
"Miss Salome really does love the mysterious gentleman, doesn't she?"
Irene stopped in the middle of colouring her lips a light incarnadine tinge, and stared. Yi Ling must have been quite worried and quite determined, for she held up her gaze.
"Are you jealous?"
"Of course not! I have no right to be..."
"We're not a couple!"
Irene chuckled at the echoing memory.
"Well, you're more honest than him."
"Than who?" Yi Ling asked, overly confused.
Irene kissed her cheek to silence her and murmured in her ear:
"An old rival."
"You cannot possibly have a rival! Miss Salome is incomparable. You can win anybody's heart."
"I wonder."
Yi Ling frowned.
"Did the rival win, then?"
In the mirror, Irene saw a glint light up in her bright pupils. Funny, she thought, that contentment, pain, cruelty, scorn and pity all intertwined should give such a particular glow to her face, deepening its beauty subtly.
Adding the last touch to her make-up, she replied simply:
"No. He lost."
I am in love with a boy
Manufactured to destroy
So I shall unravel my love
Like an old red woollen glove
Her next "mission" was a lot more fun - she got to behave badly in the most pleasant ways - but what was truly thrilling was that she finally met the one at the centre of everything. Well. The one trying to be at the centre of everything, anyway.
"Mrs. Salome Hupaetos. Previously Irene Adler, was it?" the tall, handsome woman sussurrated with a lovely Czech accent as she blocked the way at the bottom of the large marble staircase.
Irene sent her a winning, cutting smile. She continued to walk down gracefully, ignoring the two guards who had appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Ms. Eliska Šárka, I presume."
She looked her from top to toe, and gave a disappointed moue. Eliska arched an eyebrow.
"You're not wearing red," Irene remarked.
"Why should I?" the Czech woman replied sweetly.
"Oh, you know. Shouldn't apples be red?"
Irene was now standing only two steps away from her, and stopped, wishing to remain on higher ground for their little discussion. Eliska's eyes turned to slits.
"I'm afraid I'm not the one who is the poison here, Ms. Adler."
Irene smirked.
"Naturally. You are merely acerbic."
Eliska glared. Irene considered her for a second, her gaze clearly evaluating. She wasn't pretty, but certainly had the quaint charm of ancient queens - imposing, self-assured and contemptuous. Her blond hair and translucent skin should have been too soft and given her a rather faded aspect, but she painted her face most skilfully. A true artist, defining her traits in a mercilessly stunning manner, like the first movie actresses who looked as if they had completely designed their own faces. Yet, Irene could not shake the impression of an irreducible weakness pervading her whole person, negating her finely constructed façade.
"Why are you intervening in something that does not concern you?" Eliska inquired sharply, calm features slipping.
"Why does anyone do anything?" Irene retorted sadistically. She revelled in the sudden pallor of her opponent and the flash of hurt in her eyes, which was soon replaced with sheer fury.
"Don't be so insolent. Do you even realize the situation you are in?"
"Two steps above?" Irene asked innocently.
Eliska glowered.
"Oh, don't look at me that way. I can come down to you, if you wish. I am in a hurry anyway."
And as she said so, she walked down the last two steps, and past Eliska. Of course, the door leading out of the mansion was also guarded by two other men. Not a problem, though, Irene thought idly.
"So? Did you want to tell me anything?" Irene inquired.
"Me? Not at all. Just paying a visit to my friend the ambassador. But since you're here as well, I just thought I should warn you."
"Oh? I'm afraid I'm too old to play Snow White, dear..."
"Don't worry. There are so many other ways."
Irene observed her pensively for an instant, and commented: "You know, I think you really failed your role. You picked the wrong one. The Snow Queen would have fit you so much better." Then, on second thought: "Or perhaps not. It seems you do not quite have the same power of fascination."
Eliska looked daggers at her, and declared icily: "I could have you killed here and now."
Irene smiled, repressing a snort - which wouldn't have been very elegant. But it was hilarious, the way this idiotic woman was threatening her when she was so obviously the one who was terrified here. She may have been a worthy enemy in some respect, but in the end there was too much of the frustrated spinster in her. And she must have felt it herself, in the presence of the Woman.
"You could. But you won't."
"And why is that?"
"Because your friend the ambassador would have you killed right away, love."
"Ha ha! Such self-importance!"
"It really isn't," Irene answered assuredly. The man she had left in the room upstairs would presently do the most insane things for her. Ms. Šárka really hadn't picked the right timing.
"Also," she added, unable to resist taunting Eliska some more, "aren't we similar, you and I?"
Walking up to the other woman defiantly, she started circling her in a distinctly predatory fashion, her heels clicking against the cold floor.
"We've both been rejected," Irene developed.
Eliska flushed with indignation. "I wasn't rejected!"
This time, Irene stopped pacing, now clearly bored. She shrugged before heading towards the door.
"If you truly believe that, then you are more stupid than you look."
At that moment, the ambassador appeared at the top of the stairs, bewildered by the presence of the guards. Looking down, he noted Irene was still there, and his face lit up.
"Ms. Cyclamen!" he exclaimed. But then he saw Eliska, and the joy on his face was replaced by startlement. "Oh. Do you know each other?"
Irene grinned. "No, we've just met each other. Such a pleasant meeting, too."
The ambassador frowned, evidently quite upset by Irene's ostentatious interest.
"Should I walk you to your car, Ms. Cyclamen?" he stammered.
"Why, that is quite ambitious of you. I believe I told you to remain in your room."
He faltered.
"Yes, of course... But I heard your voice and..."
"Enough. You've been a good boy, so I'll forgive you. And..." She looked at Eliska pointedly. "...I met your friend. It's been a pleasure." Then to the man again: "You can watch me walk out, if you'd like."
"Yes, Ms. Cyclamen! Of course..."
She nodded good bye to Ms. Šárka, her eyes shining with triumph but her stance soberly regal, and ambled off. The two guards by the door stepped aside as she went, head high.
Irene Adler suddenly felt very much like meeting the last woman playing a part in this grand tragicomedy.
I can do anything I want to
I can do anything I want, anything my heart tells me to do
Tells me to do
Tells me to do
Mary was drinking her third Bloody Mary and glaring at Jerry, as if daring him to make a comment. Finally he could no longer take it and asked:
"Hey, something wrong with your doctor?"
She pouted.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Then what the hell are you drinking so much for?"
"Can't I enjoy a good drink once in a while?"
"It's your third good drink, though."
"Shut up."
"Should I call Cathy?"
"No!" she protested vehemently. "I'm fine."
Jerry sighed, but did not press the issue any further, turning instead to the client who had just arrived.
"What can I get for you?"
"A Bloody Mary, please," the woman ordered in a deep, sensuous voice that made Mary turn to her with surprise and interest. Well, also because of the drink she had ordered, naturally.
But the woman with the pleasant voice was in fact quite dull on the face of it. She was wearing jeans and a sweater of a nondescript shade. Her hair was plaited into a braid and she was wearing a pair of round glasses that could have made her look like a student, had she been younger. As it was, she just looked like a rather sloppy person. Her eyes, however, sparkled with something indefinable that betrayed an unexpected intelligence behind her unkempt appearance.
"Does he prepare it well?" the stranger asked.
Mary blinked.
"What?"
"The Bloody Mary."
"Oh. Yes, it's good. Very good."
Irene observed her closely as she turned back to her drink. She looked a bit tired, she thought, but not depressed or in a truly miserable state. She also appeared to be stronger than Irene had imagined her - she always thought John more the type to go for common, boring women. Pretty ones, too, and naturally with nice curves. This one was rather flat on the whole - well, not very gifted anyway. Yet Irene found her strangely attractive in a way she could not quite define. Perhaps because "Mary" seemed so wholly present, so completely there, in her own body, without any façade whatsoever. She was obviously upset about something, and was doing nothing to hide it. She was in a gay bar where people came to chat up people, yet she was sulking and did not seem to give a damn about her surroundings. She probably wasn't very smart; but Irene reckoned her candor was quite engaging.
"Here you go," said Jerry as he brought her the drink she'd ordered. She thanked him with a nod.
"You seem to be a regular customer," Irene told Mary, intent on making her talk a bit.
"The barman's an old friend," she replied. Then, as if she suddenly thought of something: "Look, actually I'm married, and I'm not here to..."
Irene burst into laughter.
"Oh dear, I know! You are wearing a ring after all. Sorry to have intruded, I was just curious."
Mary returned her smile, and Irene thought she might not be so ungifted after all.
"I see. Well, I've been coming here for years, even before I was married. Old habits die hard, and this is my second home, so... What about you? I've never seen you around."
"Oh, I've just arrived in London. I'm only on holiday here."
"Really? Where are you from?"
"Singapore."
Mary goggled.
"Seriously?! Your accent is so good! I would've sworn - "
"I was born in Essex," Irene cut in with a smile. "I just happened to marry a man who lived in Singapore, and moved there with him."
"Oh."
Studying Mary's features, Irene tried to decipher whether she was being deemed an unworthy wife - considering she was hanging out in a gay bar - or whether Mary was only thinking she must have been quite in love, to move so far away.
"So, you're here to visit your family?"
"Not quite. My husband had some business in London, and I just accompanied him."
"I see..."
No, you don't, Irene thought, fairly amused.
"So were you into women before you met your husband, or have you just decided to explore the other side?"
This time, Irene had to admit she was quite surprised - agreeably so - by Mary's question. It was so frank, so funny in its directness, that she couldn't help but smile. It was a smile that escaped her, a truly entertained one. Not one meant to be seen, and to produce an effect on an addressee.
"I've always been interested in women," she replied smoothly. "And my husband is interested in every attractive human body, I'm afraid. Well, not children, thankfully. But let's say our marriage is quite free."
"Is it?" Mary said absentmindedly.
"Yours isn't, apparently," Irene remarked.
"Ha ha! Well, it is a bit complicated."
"How so?"
"I guess we're just a bit weird, my husband and I," she explained with a smile.
Irene tilted her head to the side in such a way as to express puzzlement.
"What do you mean? Does he cheat on you?"
"No! God no. He really isn't interested in any human body at all, actually. Well, not any living one. So I'm quite sure he is absolutely faithful. He is irreversibly in love, you see."
"Is he?" Irene asked, quite interested.
"Oh yes. Only, not with me."
Irene stared.
"Don't get me wrong," Mary added, seeing her face. "We love each other dearly. And he's the best man I've ever met."
"But he's not in love with you."
"He's not in love with me."
"And that's all right with you? You seem like quite the romantic type..."
"Oh, you'd be surprised..."
Irene was, indeed. Mary was proving a much more interesting person than expected. Probably much more idiotic, too.
"So... You love each other but you're not in love with each other... Well, why not. But why did you get married, though? This sounds more like the best friend kind of relationship to me, even if you add some sex in the mix..."
Mary looked at her with surprise, and seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then she sent Irene her bright, not-so-pretty, not-so-naive smile - and it was quite dazzling after all.
"Yes. Perhaps you're right."
Irene wondered.
I can be anything that I see
I can do anything I want to
"Oh. You. What are you doing here?" Sebastian Moran inquired as he met Irene at the door of the little cottage.
"Mr. Holmes invited me over for dinner."
Sebastian stared.
"Dinner? You think that man can cook?"
"Oh dear, you are so coarse..." Irene said with some disdain, although her tone was highly ironic. Now there was a man who knew how to play. Nothing like Mary Morstan's blinding boldness.
Sebastian shrugged.
"Well, enjoy your meal, then..."
But Irene caught his arm before he went.
"Do you know how to cook?"
He smirked slightly, not fooled for a second.
"You are the embodiement of Temptation, Ms. Adler. But quite frankly... I really wouldn't want to have a grilling contest with you."
They stared at each other for a moment, but the sniper's face was absolutely unreadable. Quietly ironic and derisive, this man's countenance was that of the unattached adventurer - the jaded, cynical, yet profoundly uninterested type. The most dangerous.
"And you are a true jester, Mr. Moran. It is too bad we did not meet before."
At this, Sebastian laughed whole-heartedly, and Irene was quite bewildered, for his laughter sounded sincere.
"It's hard to find anyone interesting when you have met those two, isn't it?"
Their eyes locked, and Irene's slowly filled with the same knowing glow. Oh, there was something twisted to this whole drama unfolding before them. But in Sebastian's gaze, Irene read the tragedy - never, never the happy ending.
He smiled.
"You're wrong."
It was useless to ask about what. So she let her hand slide down his arm slowly, releasing him instead; her caress, a threat.
"It is too bad you will not talk to me, Mr. Moran," she said. "We could have been good friends."
"I doubt it, Ms. Adler. You would never guess what I like."
And adding a wink to those parting words, he left without looking back. Irene watched his silhouette walk to the motorbike parked on the side of the path, get on it and drive off into the night.
A dangerous man, indeed.
But she was much more interested in the one presently waiting for her by the fireside, his gaze lost in space. Thinking.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
He looked up, as if just noticing her presence, and stood.
"Good evening. Please have a seat."
"While you stand?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I will sit too. We have work to do."
"Indeed."
They sat, and Irene spent the next hour doing her report. It was just like Sherlock had guessed, already - "I don't guess," he pointed out grumpily, and Irene was so happy to see some of the old Sherlock back she almost kissed him on the spot.
"So Šárka came to you?"
"I actually pity her, you know," Irene commented idly as she let herself fall back into the armchair, her posture exquisite. Well, in her own eyes, anyway, and probably in any other man's. Sherlock did not even appear to notice.
"I cannot imagine you pitying anyone," he replied coldly.
Irene looked at him intensely.
"You're wrong, then. I pity you."
Sherlock snorted.
"Please."
She sat back up and leant in closer towards him.
"Would you like me to make you beg some more?"
"That wasn't begging."
"Matter of definition."
They stared at each other, and the Woman was glad he finally deigned to look at her.
"I thought we would order dinner," Sherlock told her flatly.
Ignoring him, she stood and went to straddle him. He did not react.
"Is that really necessary?"
"If you wish to eat anything, yes."
She brought her hand to his face and traced his eyebrow, continuing down to his cheekbone and his chin.
"I know you want to be punished."
"Why would I?"
"Because you feel abandoned and sullied."
"Why - "
"Shh," she soothed, putting her finger on his lips. "Now you're more broken than believing in a higher instance."
Sherlock smirked sardonically, his eyes tinged with contempt.
"I do not need to 'believe', Ms. Adler."
"Are you really so self-assured?"
"I don't think I even need to answer that."
She searched his eyes, then pouted.
"Bravo, Mr. Holmes. You have become the perfect Count of Monte Cristo."
"I am not seeking revenge."
"Naturally. So tell me, what are you seeking?"
"Just to complete the list of names of IOU."
"For the Iceman?"
"And incidentally, so I can stay alive, too," he pointed out sarcastically. She smirked.
"And what do you want to stay alive for?"
He seemed at loss for an instant - not touched and confused, but rather, not seeing the point of her question at all.
"Do you believe I have become suicidal?"
"Well, you did jump off a roof..."
They exchanged an amused glance, before Sherlock broke eye contact promptly.
Irene let her hand fall down to his chest deflty, and traced a line across his torso.
"You're no longer deluded, are you? So why are you so reluctant to indulge in this?"
Her fingers came across his thigh, stroking, and caressed his groin.
"You're not a child anymore."
He snorted caustically.
"Because I went around the world and was hunted down? Because I took Jim Moriarty's place? Or perhaps because I killed people with my own hands?"
She traced his lips with her other hand, half teasing, half assuaging. Sherlock closed his eyes.
"You are wasting your time."
"No one will come to interrupt us here."
"There will be nothing to interrupt," he said before trying to get up. But she kept him seated firmly, straddling him even tighter.
"Why won't you let me be your friend?"
"You mean friends with benefit?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, you're being so difficult, I should just take you here and now."
"You really shouldn't."
His tone was cold, but dreadfully honest. Irene stared.
"You don't trust me," she said.
"You've taught me not to."
"I could teach you many other things. More pleasant ones, too..."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not interested."
"John Watson got married."
"I've heard, yes. What does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm asking you."
They looked each other in the eye. Irene could see nothing there but weariness, and a cold, rational, calculating determination.
Sherlock however must have seen something else in her eyes, for he added in confirmation: "I am just not interested."
"How can you know? You've never tried."
"I did not say I wouldn't like it. But I am not interested in trying."
"It doesn't make sense."
"It's not because you don't understand it that it doesn't make sense."
"You really need to be given a spanking."
"And you really should be looking for entertainment somewhere else."
At his words, Irene felt her chest clench unpleasantly. A sad smile graced her lips, but already her grip was slackening.
"It doesn't have to be a game."
"Yes, it does."
"Why?"
"Because I can never love you."
The image of Mary Morstan flashed across Irene's mind for an instant, but faded just as soon.
"Why be so quaint? Love is such a vague concept."
They had another staring contest, but Irene no longer knew who was searching who.
"Unless you have finally found out what love is?" she went on.
Sherlock appeared to be truly befuddled by the question.
"And where would I have found that?"
"Precisely in what you've lost."
Sherlock blinked.
"But I didn't lose anything."
Slowly, Irene felt something cold creep up her chest. Something that felt like disbelief at first, but soon turned out to be more akin to fear or unease.
"Didn't you?"
"Well, I guess I did lose my job, but it's only a matter of time before I - "
"Enough," she cut in sharply, the dominatrix all of a sudden back. "Have you turned stupid? What about John? That landlady of yours? And the cute D.I.?"
Sherlock scowled down at her tone.
"In what sense did I lose them? They're perfectly safe! I did not lose anything."
And indeed he seemed quite persuaded he hadn't, and merely offended she insinuated that he'd "lost" anything - or at anything. Really a bad loser, she mused.
But still, something did not feel right.
"But they believe you are dead. John Watson believes you're dead."
"Why are you bringing him up so often?" he asked curiously.
"Don't you miss him? Aren't you looking forward to seeing him again?"
"Why would I ever see him again?" Sherlock asked candidly.
She stared, stunned and speechless for less than a second. Now she understood where the sense of unease came from.
"What did you do to your mind?"
"What?"
"Have you forgotten what you 'died' for?"
"There were many factors."
She glared down at him heatedly.
"Do you intend to never go back to London?"
"That would probably be safer."
"Safer? For who?"
"Well, living in London, I'm bound to run into someone I used to know. And since I'm dead..."
"Except you're not."
"To them, I am."
The graveness of his voice betrayed him.
"You're lying to me," she said, realizing it as soon as she voiced it. He looked at her coolly.
She leant in and pressed her lips to his, rather gently at first, then more and more adroitly, in control. Truly an expert.
He simply let her, unmoving. Unmoved. The gaze she met when she broke away was unartifically dispassionate.
He pushed her away gingerly, but firmly.
"It would always be a game. I do not want to play with you."
Irene heard it as he meant it. I do not want to play against you.
"I'm sure I could have given you a lot of pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I have a way with broken men."
"I'm sure."
Irene stared. The man before her really was Sherlock Holmes, there was no doubt about that. But what she saw now that he'd stopped fooling around was the figure of a man that should not be played with. Some philosopher once wrote that there is only one thing - only one - that is immune to any kind of irony. "Silent pain." Quiet, wordless suffering. The state a mother who'd lost he child was left in, even years after the event, for instance.
Irene Adler was used to playing with men and women. She was used to liking and dumping. She was not so heartless as to never have been in love either. She had no qualms about killing anyone who would have otherwise killed her, be it CIA agent or other. She enjoyed behaving badly, and found being devious one of the most pleasant things in the world.
But Sherlock Holmes was a child, and a virgin. She wasn't so sure about the "child" part, now, and definitely wished she could put an end to the "virgin" one. But Sherlock was also a genius. A very, very lonely genius, who had apparently been completely impervious to anyone's kindness or love before he'd met John Watson. From what Moriarty had told Irene, the landlady, the D.I., and the silly mortuary worker had not especially changed when John had burst into Sherlock's life. But the consulting detective's perception of them had started to change.
Sherlock being the child that he was (or had been at the time, anyway), Irene wasn't sure how he construed his own relationship with John. Irene wasn't sure what was destroying Sherlock, either. His everyday life must have been more hellish than she'd imagined, for sure. But she had thought he would be rather thrilled about it. The only logical explanation was that he couldn't enjoy it because John wasn't here. Couldn't enjoy it because he feared for John's life every instant - and quite rightly so, she mused, considering that dreadful sniper... Couldn't enjoy it because he had to bear the knowledge that he was dead to John, and that the doctor was moving on. In fact, he must have been torn between the wish to see him again, and the wish to remain dead to him forever.
"Perhaps you're still a child..." she murmured, more to herself than to Sherlock. "... or perhaps you're an old man, now."
"Nice alternative."
She pouted as she stood up, and walked to the fireplace.
"Oh well. We'll talk about it again when you're done, shall we? Perhaps you'll be more interested then."
Turning to him again, she added seriously: "But you are doing dangerous things with your own mind, Mr. Holmes. And you have a very dangerous manservant, quite capable of messing with your mind even more. I would take better care of my own sanity, if I were you. Then again..." She went to sit in the armchair again, facing Sherlock. "If you need help dealing with the pain, you can rely on me."
"I will be sure to make a note of it."
And as she exchanged a knowing smile with that great, broken man sitting with her in this small cottage bathed in the glow of the fire, Irene Adler mused that the play could not end well for everyone, but that it did not have to be a tragedy. Even if the protagonists seemed so intent to make it one, the Woman would have no qualms in duping even them.
Now, the question was: what role would she choose for herself?
I can do anything I want to
I can be anything that I, anything that I see...
.
.
.
tbc
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