Nothing Shocks Sherlock Holmes
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or Irene, or Watson, or anything in the movie. Just borrowing.
Nothing shocks Sherlock Holmes. He's always on top of everything, he always knows what everyone is thinking, he always knows everybody's business. He's never put in a tizzy, because everything is always under control in his mind. If he weren't always in control, he wouldn't be such a great man, would he?
Watson liked to tease him for his feelings for Miss Adler. He would never really listen, for he was so lost in his own mysterious and complex mind to; and, he didn't really want to hear it. But Watson knew how she affected him. It was curious, he thought, to watch such a put-together man fall apart because of a woman. He knew she was too smart for Sherlock's own good, and tried to tell him that, but he wouldn't listen.
Nothing seemed mysterious on the day he saw Irene Adler for the last time. He was idling around the bazaar, disguised as a poor Chinese beggar. People threw coins at him, as their way of showing pity, but he just swept them away. He wasn't here to make money. He was here because he knew she would be here.
He knew his suspicions were right, as they always were, as he saw her stride right by him, a small package tucked under her arm. He is suddenly mesmerized by her, and looses sight of his original purpose in finding her. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and focuses once again.
The three thugs following her glance over at him, narrowing their eyes and sneering. He would have to put an end to that at once. With a swish of his jacket, he stands, grabs a handful of rice and beans, and follows them.
When will people learn not to mess with him? This thought can't help but cross his mind as he hastily makes his way to the Auction House. She doesn't expect him to follow her there, does she? Well, alas, she doesn't know that he will follow her anywhere.
As soon as he sees the box, he knows it's a bomb. How can everyone be so thick? Sticking the auction number under the spring just in time, he saves a whole room full of people, including her. She rolls her eyes in knowing annoyance, so used to his rambles about everything that she just keeps her mouth shut. Her client is confused, and asks who he is.
"Hello, darling," he croons as he plants a scratchy kiss on her cheek, his only motive to get that envelope from her. Well, of course, he'll enjoy the kiss as well, but shall we ignore that? She puts up a fight, but eventually succumbs and hands it over.
The daft old man sitting next to her foolishly slides the wrapping off the top of the bomb, something Sherlock specifically told him not to do. He knows exactly what to do, but decides to put his damsel to the test.
"Sweet thing, I might need your help in the disposal of this parcel," he says, grabbing her delicate shoulder and sitting her back down. The auctioneer, totally oblivious to the danger looming in the back, continues shouting out numbers. A sudden idea comes to mind.
"One million pounds!" he exclaims loudly, standing up and drawing everyone's attention. Precisely what he wanted. The room takes a collective gasp, looking back at the mad man offering an absurd amount of money. "Oh, and by the way, fire."
His plan went off without a hitch, the orange flames licking the expensive tapestry behind him. As the room discovers the danger, someone shouts "Fire!" and everyone clears the auction house. She quietly follows the throng flocking for the door, thinking he didn't notice.
"Leave my side, and you'll be dead in an hour," he calls, drawing her attention back to him. She hides a smile, stalking back over.
"And don't be late for dinner," she teases, smiling freely now. "I expect that my schedule will be quite tight because of these activities here."
He looks down at her with his astonishingly soft brown eyes, searching her face. "I've never been late in my life, only early."
"Fashionably," she purrs. It's talks like these that make their relationship worth while, and gives her something to smile about for the rest of the day.
He leans down and kisses her, quite passionately to be honest. Their lips press tight against the other, their noses squashed in between them. Her heart flutters, but her brain reminds her that she does have a job to do. She runs her gloved hand down his chest, pretending it's for sensual purposes, but reaching for the note in his pocket instead. Alas, he's too smart for her.
"Mm. Mm-mm. Mm!"
He grabs her wrist and pulls it away, their lips still locked. "Very witty," he mutters, pulling away. "So confident, even in retreat." He smirks, chuckling at her. "I'll hold onto that. We'll read it together over an aperitif."
"Fine," she says, attaining her seductive manner she always saves for around him. "Dinner and a show."
With that, she stalks off, her heels clicking the marble floor, her cloak billowing behind her. "Oh and Sherlock," she calls. He whips around to see her stopped in the doorway. "I do need to talk to you."
She doesn't say anything else, but sweeps from the room with her usual Irene charm.
After discovering the dead body on the street, Sherlock decides to head home and add this to his grand map. He's dreaming about it, working out more details in his mind, not really paying attention, when a hiss of his name catches his attention.
"Sherlock!" it calls. "Sherlock Holmes!"
He turns around, lips frowning, searching for the source of the noise.
"Over here," it calls again. He squints his eyes to see Irene peaking out from an alley, her curly brown hair shining so beautifully in the sun. "Come."
He looks around to make sure no one is watching, then strides over to her hiding place.
"What in God's name are you doing?"
"I told you I needed to talk to you," she says, reaching up and straightening his jacket. Any thought of the recent murder slips his mind.
"Can't we talk about it over-"
"No," she says. "I wanted to talk before I meet with my next client."
He cocks an eyebrow, looking down curiously at her.
"Come with me," she says, striding from the alley and out into the street. Sherlock struggles to keep up, being cut off by oblivious bystanders. She leads him a few blocks down to an empty, little pub, where she greets the owner by name, and takes a seat in a dark corner.
"You know this gentleman?" he asks, taking a seat opposite her, referring to the owner.
"Old friend," she explains, taking off her gloves and laying them on the table, her pale, elegant fingers on display. Sherlock catches himself staring at them, but looks away, back up at her face.
"What is it you wanted to talk about?"
"Could I get you anything to drink, madam? Sir?" the owner asks, coming over in a greasy old apron, with a greasier voice.
"No, thank you," Irene says, looking down into her lap.
"I'll have a glass of wine," Sherlock says, leaning back in his chair and observing Irene. She looks… nervous. Scared even. She twiddles her fingers in his lap, her face pale. He observes her for several more minutes, until the owner comes back with his wine.
"Here you go, sir," he says, handing him red wine in a dusty old cup.
"Thank you," he says curtly, taking it. He brings his lips to it and takes a sip, making a face. "It's sour," he explains, seeing Irene's confused expression. He sets it down heavily on the table, confused by her stony expression. "Alright, talk."
"Sherlock," she starts, finally looking up to meet his eyes. "I don't know how to say this."
"Then just say it," he says simply, his finger absentmindedly tracing the lip of the glass.
She takes a deep breath, watching his finger determinedly, almost trying to look anywhere but at Holmes. "I'm pregnant."
This makes him stop his tracing, his breathing even. Everything stops as he stares wide-eyed at the girl he loves.
"And it's yours," she continues, sighing. "I was just at the doctor this morning, and well, you're the only person who can qualify to be it's father."
He doesn't say anything, but continues to stare at her with an unreadable expression. She knows this must be hard for him, such an independent, spontaneous man to have to hear something like this. But, Irene couldn't be happier; she loved this man, and wouldn't want to have a child with anyone else.
Would the baby have his eyes? She thinks, watching him take in the news, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Would it have his perfectly messy black hair? Would it be able to know what she was thinking before she did, like its father?
"Are you going to say something?" she asks, after several minutes of silence. He hasn't moved an inch, yet you can hear his breathing is labored. She laughs sarcastically, sitting back in her chair. "The man who never stops talking, now speechless."
"It's not that I'm speechless," he says evenly. "I just…"
"Don't know how to respond?" she finishes.
Nothing shocks Sherlock Holmes.
"Yes," he admits, sighing. "You're quite sure it's mine?"
"I couldn't be more sure," she confirms, subconsciously laying a hand on her abdomen. Several minutes of silence go by, Sherlock working things through in his mind.
"I want you to get away," he suddenly announces, leaning forward to get a better look at her.
"Get away?" she questions, sitting forward to meet him, their faces inches from one another.
"Yes," he confirms. "Go somewhere to be safe. My field is a very dangerous one, and I have dozens of people who would do anything to get back at me. A significant other, or a child, would be an obvious target."
"No," she states with finality. "Not a chance, Holmes. I have a job, too, you know."
He makes a face, looking hopelessly at the floor. There was no way he was going to win this argument against her. "Fine."
He stands up, stalking around the table to stand behind her, his mind still going in circles.
"You're not angry?" she questions, her voice choking up.
"Why would I be angry?" he responds, quirking an eyebrow.
"I don't know," she admits, turning around in her seat to watch him pace. She suddenly reaches up and plunges her hand in his pocket, not for the envelope like he thinks she is, but for his pocket watch. She examines it, her eyes widening. "I'm going to be late."
She stands up, wrapping her cloak around her body once again. He looks startled, watching her gather herself.
"I'll be seeing you at 8?" she purrs, stepping into him and laying a hand on his chest.
"Of course," he says, brain fuzzy from her sudden change of mood. Her full, red lips suddenly reach up to meet his, and he returns the kiss with the same ferocity.
"We can discuss this more then," she says, breaking away. His hand subconsciously reaches up to rest on her abdomen. He is surprised to feel it slightly raised under his palm, her stomach already hard from the fullness within.
"How far along are you?" he asks, curious.
"Maybe four months," she says, sighing. "The doctors couldn't really tell."
"I must be off," she says again, pulling away and striding to the door. "I'll be seeing you, my dear Holmes."
"And I, you."
As Sherlock walks out of the Moriarty's office, he feels like falling apart. He clutches Irene's handkerchief tightly in his right hand, as if it's the most precious metal in the world. He brings it to his mouth and nose, taking in her scent, not wanting to believe she was actually dead. But, he keeps himself together, for Watson's sake, course. For John Watson did not know of his status as a father. Well, he supposes it was his status; the child died with her.
Many people wouldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes could care that much about a child, his child. The truth was, he already loved it as much as he loved Irene. From the moment he laid his hand on Irene's swollen abdomen, all he felt was love. And this was something curious for Sherlock Holmes to deal with. Now that his little joy was ripped from him, he felt emptier than ever before. Although it had never had a chance to live, he was sure he could've managed as a father.
Almost everything dear to him died that day; Irene, the love of his life, and his unborn child. He knew he couldn't give up and let Moriarty win, because that's what he wanted. He wanted this to be enough to throw Sherlock off his game, and let him win. But Sherlock was smarter than that, and kept his head level, focused on the task. He even fought harder because of it, a little revenge in each blow against the reason they were both dead.
He was home in time to wish Watson and Mary off to the train station for their honeymoon. Watson was married now. Watson had a wife. Watson could have children. Watson didn't even know that Sherlock could barely keep from weeping uncontrollably as he left, for Watson was all Sherlock had left. These thoughts torture Sherlock's twisted mind even more as he sits, hours later, trying to stop thinking about it, a bottle clutched tightly in his right hand, Irene's handkerchief in his left.
And to think, he was ruffled because she didn't meet him for dinner.
This might be a little odd, because this is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, and my forte is usually Harry Potter! So, if you're here from I love you more than myself, awesome! But if you just found this, even more awesome! Just a little one-shot, please let me know what you think! Would you like me to write more Sherlock Holmes? I surprisingly really liked writing this. I couldn't help myself after watching the movies all day!
Also, if you aren't aware, I have another story (it's almost a novel, really) about the couple Remus and Tonks! I would love it if you want to take the time to read it and leave a review! That'd be absolutely spiffing! :D
Please leave a review!