Royals (Adlock AU Excerpt)
Lestrade took one look at the strange assembly in the living room of 221B and his jaw dropped. He saw Irene sitting in Sherlock’s chair, perfectly composed and quite unharmed, and his face turned a rather nasty shade of purple. Sherlock opened his mouth to head off the inevitable explosion, but Lestrade got there first.
“Oh, you bastard!” Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, glaring severely at him, since he couldn’t glare at Irene. “So this is why you wouldn’t take the case? ‘She’ll turn up’, you said. ‘Probably in a ditch’, you said. ‘Cause a nice little international incident’. You prick! I’ve been scouring all of London for her for the past 48 hours! I’ve had officers on standby, tapping phones for a ransom call, and you’ve had her here all this time????”
“Well done, Lestrade.” Sherlock shot him a sly, unfazed grin. “I knew you’d get here eventually. Took you longer than I’d hoped, to be honest. Bit disappointing for the Yard, but well...”
“Mycroft told me!” Lestrade bellowed, face still somewhat purple. “He’s been on the phone with her father all day, trying to keep him from starting a war. I’ve had her security detail on my arse since yesterday, and there’s a pack of reporters outside your door!”
“Yes, well aware of that, thank you.”
Sherlock's face remained calm, but he shot a look at Irene sitting across from him. She, too, seemed to be outwardly collected, but he saw the minute tightness around her eyes, the tension at the corners of her lips. Her body language remained loose and relaxed, but her fingers contracted ever so slightly, digging into the armrest of his chair.
Mycroft... He would murder his brother the next time he saw him. On the one hand, he supposed he should be grateful Mycroft had bought them an extra day before sending Lestrade. But on the other, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if it was Mycroft who had sent the press to their door as well, just to teach them both a lesson.
“Thank you for your concern, Detective Inspector.” Irene stated coolly, the rich, cultured tones of her voice making Lestrade shift a bit, disarmed by the charming smile she sent his way.
Sherlock thought it was distinctly unfair that Lestrade was angry at him, but not at her. She was, after all, just as complicit in her absence as he was. But then again, it was impossible to resist her, Sherlock himself was proof, and Lestrade was only human. Irene’s smile never faltered. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll be happy to let you escort me to the consulate.”
Lestrade bowed -- bowed -- in Irene’s direction, making Sherlock chuckle. The detective inspector glared at him one last time before heading toward the stairs.
Irene rose from his chair and Sherlock followed suit. She exchanged small niceties with everyone else, polite goodbyes and promises to stay in touch that would likely never happen. Sherlock refused to listen, and instead headed into the alcove by the stairs, her coat in his hand.
She joined him not a minute later, and he held the coat out to her silently. When she slipped her arms into the coat, she allowed his hands to linger over her shoulders and arms under the pretext of smoothing out invisible wrinkles they both knew weren’t there.
He could feel the tension that had been gradually building in her muscles the closer they got to the moment of goodbye, tension that had been absent over the past 48 hours.
When they could no longer pretend, Irene slipped quietly away from him and his arms dropped to his side. She gave him a wry smile, her ‘public’ smile. "Well... It's been a lovely little holiday, darling, but I’m afraid duty calls.”
Sherlock’s hands clenched and unclenched awkwardly at his side. He was aware they had an audience. From the living room, he could see the others -- John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson -- trying not to seem as if they were eavesdropping and failing miserably. From the bottom of the stairs, Lestrade was shifting uncomfortably, trying to keep out of sight of the reporters outside.
The unrelenting clicks of the cameras and the rising voices outside disturbed him. As she turned to go down the stairs, Sherlock caught her wrist. He debated even asking, but his fingers unerringly sought her pulse and found it to be elevated, and the question slipped out anyway.
“Will you be alright?”
Irene turned toward him, and though she wasn’t offended by the question as he thought she might be, the smile she shot him was teasing. One eyebrow raised, she asked “Are you worried about me?”
He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on her, and his hand over her pulse. When Irene realized he was serious, all the teasing disappeared, and something shifted in her eyes. She moved closer and lifted her hand, letting one finger stroke gently down his cheek. He leaned unconsciously toward the feather-like caress.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes...” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She, too, knew they had an audience, and while neither of them really cared, he knew that she was just as selfish and greedily protective of the intimacy between them as he was. “How perfectly sentimental of you...”
There was just a touch of teasing in her eyes as she kissed him on the cheek, careful not to let her lips touch his. Resisting temptation so as not to make the withdrawal worse.
It took all of Sherlock’s restraint not to turn his head to catch the kiss, to take it further, make it last. Instead, he focused on preserving everything else: the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her, the fit of her body against his. He hadn’t known how vital it was until she pulled away.
From the bottom of the stairs, Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly, and Irene disengaged herself from Sherlock, pulling out a pair of sunglasses from her purse as she did.
With a deep breath that he echoed, she slipped the sunglasses on and that familiar icy smile appeared on her face. As she walked gracefully down the stairs, her body language shifted from the careless languor of the past two days to the carefully constructed poise of her daily demeanor.
Lestrade opened the door for her, and she walked out into the sea of reporters outside 221 Baker Street with her head held high. As the door closed behind her, Sherlock pushed past the others and sprinted to the window, careful to keep himself hidden from the reporters below.
He watched her as she got into Lestrade’s car and shut the door, hiding her partially from his view. Still, he watched as the car pulled away from the mass of reporters. He watched the silhouette of her receding as the car made its way up the street. He watched even when he almost couldn’t see her anymore, and the car turned the corner and disappeared completely from sight.
She never looked back.
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By SorrowsFlower
Ugh. Just take me out back and shoot me. Seriously, I can’t believe my writing has gotten this bad.