#adlock fic

[battledress]

It occurred to me early this morning..

Have We ever discussed how Irene Adler secured the use of Mycrofts car and Anthea to get John to meet her in the disused warehouse!!?

I mean Mycrofts car, with Driver too! How did she Do that?.

Has anyone written a fan fic on it.?.

[thewomanlovestheposhboy]

Also, your favourite Adlock fic ever? Maybe you already talked about it, sorry... Thank you again!

My favorite Adlock fic is Neither a Soldier Nor a Gentleman by @francesca-wayland. It's just amazing. And it also has an AU sequel, "Sui Generis" You'll love it!

Thanks for asking!! xoxo

[oneallysa]

Cover for the fic “All is Bright”

for @francesca-wayland

[goddessdel]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes

Rating: E

Words: 2,940

Summary: They settle into an odd sort of routine.

Or start from the beginning.

[ebdaydreamer]

Immortals - They say we are what we are

Second Fic for my Sixteen Fics challenge

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: Irene/Sherlock

Warnings: N/A

Irene receives the news that Sherlock is dead, and decides to pay her respects.

[AO3]

Suicide of Fake Genius

Fell to his death from St. Bartholomew's Hospital

Created all his crimes, notably the ‘notorious Moriarty’, played by actor Richard Brooke

Partner John Watson has remained silent on the issue

Watson claims on blog to believe Holmes

Irene swiftly turned off the telly, something she should have done the moment they showed a lifeless Sherlock smashed against the pavement. Her mind scrambled as she tried to remember as much information she could through the buzzing in her brain. She faintly made out his loyal assistant John Watson rushing towards the body, a crowd of medics around him. Mostly, she remembered the blood...so much blood. Blood from that beautiful, marvellous brain of his - smashed like it was nothing. There was a true tragedy.

Opening up her phone, Irene checked John’s blog and found his last post. Since her ‘death’ she’d been reading it frequently, leaving the occasional anonymous comment here and there. Unsurprisingly, comments for the last post had been disabled; the onslaught of hate would be too much for the poor man right now.

Irene wouldn’t believe the news. The Great Sherlock Holmes a fraud? No one could fake what he did, and she certainly wasn’t one of these so-called ‘fake’ crimes he solved-

Well, she wouldn’t say he solved the full mystery of Irene Adler. She still had her secrets, yet he would never get the opportunity to solve them.

Sighing forlornly, Irene went off John’s blog and to book the next flight to London: she had a funeral to attend.

***

Packing her things took too much time. She decided to just ship them to her next location; perhaps Paris? Enjoy some theatre whilst she was there.

These thoughts filed meaninglessly through Irene’s head whilst she stood in the graveyard, waiting restlessly for John to leave. Though she was heavily disguised, she didn’t fancy taking any chances.

Finally, he left, a final plea in his wake, and Irene moved towards his grave.

“Hello Mr Holmes,” she whispered. “We must stop meeting like this.”

Irene examined the stone: horribly plain, not at all what he deserved. Flowers were placed in front of it, god he’d hate that. Smirking to herself, she twirled the single deep red rose between her finger. He’d hate that the most, especially when he decoded what it meant.

“I know when we met, I purposefully made it near impossible for you to deduce anything on sight. Now, I’d love nothing more…” Irene inhaled sharply, choking down those threatening tears, that pesky sentiment.

Oh what the hell! She’d given into that sentiment the second she changed her password. Amazingly, he’d returned it when he flew miles to save her life in Karachi, then stayed the night as they bandaged each other up and probably confessed and did more than they should.

“I’d love for you to deduce every little detail about me...just to hear your voice, to listen to that brain of yours work just once more.”

PING

With a scoff, Irene whipped out her phone, ready to send an irritated dismissal text to whoever it was. She didn’t recognise the number, but what the text read made her throat close up and heart leap inside her mouth:

‘I’m not dead.

Let’s have dinner.

SH’

“Interesting choice of flower,” a cool voice came from behind her, making Irene nearly jump out of her skin and face the voice.

She didn’t even attempt to hide her slack jaw or wide, hopeful eyes; she just soaked him in. He stood with his usual confidence, his famed coat on his shoulders and scarf on his neck. His eyes held a guilty, yet pleading look, clearly feeling sorry for the pain he was putting people through. His light smile held something she’d only ever seen in the dim lighting of their room in Karachi: uncertainty.

“A single, dark red rose,” he stepped closer, silently asking for permission to continue.

She shuffled ever so slightly towards him; she wanted a deduction, after all.

“The rose typically shows affection and passion. A dark shade of red represents a kind of unconscious beauty as well as holding an aura of mystery...yet they leave nothing unsaid.” He took another step closer; she could hear his breathing now. “A single rose can mean a number of things: utmost devotion, thank you, love at first sight,” with each accusation he took another step closer, and she now had to tilt her head to sustain eye contact. He was so close, she could reach out and touch him, grab his wrist, perhaps. Yet she was frozen in place, eyes following his as he continued: “A single rose could be a sign that you will never cease to think about the recipient, it is a sign of unwavering affection…” They are almost pressed against each other now, and there is no doubt in her mind that he’s real. His arm manoeuvres through the little space between them, tilting up her chin and cupping her jaw. He leant in, whispering in her ear, “It is a sign of forever.”

At last, she reacted, running her hands along his chest, gathering his attention. She drowned in the sharp eyes she thought she’d never see again before scanning every inch of his face and finding not a scratch, until her gaze found his lips.

She had a million questions she should ask first: who, what, when, why, how...but they all got lost as she finally kissed him again.

It was softer than in Karachi, less fumbling and desperate and adrenaline-fueled, more calm and reassuring and, daresay, tender.

***

She broke it off, letting their foreheads rest against each other. His eyes remained closed as he let himself have the first moment of peace since he jumped off St. Barts. Startled, he jerked them open when he felt something against his lips - just Irene’s thumb removing her favoured colour from his own lips.

Questions lingered behind her eyes, but he couldn’t answer them now; didn’t have the time or energy. Instead, he offered up, “I need to disappear for a while and there’s a woman I know who seems particularly good at being dead. I don’t suppose she’d be willing to help me take down one of history’s finest criminal networks?”

Slipping her hands back to her sides, letting the rose fall to the ground, she stepped back and hissed, “He’s going to be mad and hurt when he finds out, Sherlock. You could do some irreparable damage.”

“I don’t have a choice, Woman,” he croaked, his exhaustion seeping through. “Now, I’ve been dead five days and I’m already struggling. Mycroft suggests that whilst Mrs. Hudson is out and John is incapable of returning to the flat now is the time to gather some necessities and leave the country. Start hitting some of Moriarty’s stations. Care to join?”

Irene stepped back, considering him, appearing almost sorry for him. “Is Paris on your list?”

“A place like Paris? That’s almost certainly on Moriarty’s list,” he replied.

“Fancy going there first?” He nodded, relieved that she seemed fine to help him - he loathed to admit that he could use it. “Then, Mr Holmes, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Leaning down, she moved the dropped rose from the mud to sit with the other flowers that were of crude, violently upbeat colours compared to her rose.

That’s The Woman: always standing out, even in death.

He was dead too now, God that would take some getting used to.

“So, Baker Street?”

[sorrowsflower]

He places a reverent kiss on her thigh, with all the devotion and ardor of a pilgrim kissing the feet of his holy saint. He, who has always refuted the existence of God -- and yet he finds in himself the fervor and the sincerity of a believer whenever he touches her.

from yet another Adlock WIP Next on Why Did I Write That?

[thewomanlovestheposhboy]

Finally figured how to share ffn links using a laptop!!! *feeling sheepish*

Well, hope you like it! 

[thewomanlovestheposhboy]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler & Sherlock Holmes Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler (Sherlock Holmes) Summary:

Irene Adler, also known as The Woman to Sherlock, has always been a mystery to the clever detective. The feelings that The Woman makes Sherlock feel baffles him even more. Would he be able to solve the Woman’s mystery and would his feelings fade or would it become stronger?

Hi guysss!!!! Look who finally managed to update her fanfic!!! Well, feel free to check it out, and leave comments/reviews if you’re feeling kind. 

I’ll also be posting the link for fanfiction.net later.. (When I finally figure out how to share an ffn link using a laptop. I usually use my phone, but it’s faulty, so i’m stuck.)

And @battledress, I’m tagging you, as promised.