they gave me your ash and bony shells,

[jilt]

CHARACTERS: ritchieverse assemble.
LOCATION: holmes' room.
WARNINGS: man i do not even.
SUMMARY: talking about death and stuff you know.

[ she goes to his room after.

after speaking with neal. after working her way through the network and reading all that has been said. after her hands have stopped shaking because irene adler doesn't shake, she doesn't and she won't allow anyone to see her shaking. she's upset and she's aware she's upset, but she can't acknowledge it any further than that.

there's work to be done.

but after, after, after, she goes to holmes' room, her holmes, and knocks on the door. it's a stupid, foolish impulse, but she needs to see him. she needs to know that he's still here, in all his ridiculous, eccentric glory. ]

Comments

[saidhe]

The door is locked for a reason, John! [ He crows back to the door, and there's faint sounds of strings being plucked inside. ] You'll have to come bac -

[ Even before the words are entirely out of his mouth, there's a few clangs inside, something that sounds really suspiciously like a Holmes-sized creature tripping over his own sheets. And when he answers the door, abruptly, hand against the jamb, he lifts his chin in the slightest towards her. He's wearing his jumpsuit with the sleeves tied about his waist as per usual. His ratty bathrobe on top of that, and his hair's so long it can be pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck. ]

[ Ridiculous, eccentric glory indeed. ]

House calls, then?

[jilt]

[ her lips quirk into a smile, something small and fond. irene looks tired, has exhaustion lurking in the lines of her face, in the set of her jaw, but he's himself, as dependably manic as always, and somehow that is a comforting thing. ]

Only in rare cases.

[ and she breezes past him, nose wrinkling at the state of his room. really, why hadn't waston been tidying up after him? you had one job to do, watson. ]

And I felt it was high time I visited.

[ it had been too long, even without the death and such. ]

[saidhe]

[ His own mouth curves up in the slightest at one of the corners - less relieved, more a quiet understanding, a little commiserating. ]

[ Which is mostly lost when she moves right past him into the room, and all she gets is a small, ] Don't - [ and a huff of indignation when she's inside. ]

[ Because the state of it is certainly something, various clothing and bed sheets in a pile in the corner, a few empty liquor bottles about, his violin tossed into the middle of his mattress. And then there's his research, he supposes, the giant spider's web of crazy that spans over two full walls now - profiles, information, character sketches, the list in the middle of everything. Sherlock shuts the door tightly and pads in after her, a bit slowly and cautiously. ]

Though assuredly not depending entirely upon the goodness of your heart.

[jilt]

[ irene is always charmed at his persistance. for all the years they've known each other, all the various attempts at him ordering her out, irene has never respected that particular wish. now certainly isn't the time, although--

well, there simply isn't anywhere to sit. so instead she takes stock of his spider's web. her eyes move over each piece before she answers him, before she finally comes to a stop at the list itself, reaching out to touch his name upon, cover the numbers with her fingertip. ]

No. I admit, I'm being utterly selfish at the moment.

[ because she should be sitting with neal, making certain he didn't do anything decidedly idiotic. but here she was, indulging her own silly need to see him in one piece. ]

But altruism is such a silly thing to bother with at times like this.

[saidhe]

[ Sherlock leans up against his bureau then (casually, conveniently blocking the doors in as passive a manner as he can) and watches her like a hawk. Old habits die hard and he welcomes the distraction for the moment. Besides, despite everything, he's not about to let well enough alone with her in the room, guards down and all that. ]

[ He doesn't think he has to right now. But it's probably better if he pretends he does. ]

And here I thought times of grief were specifically crafted to indulge public displays of affection, niceties and such. [ His voice bleeds sarcasm as he starts to draw his pipe from his pocket, blows out the dust. ] Why, Irene. You're absolutely rebellious.

[ Maybe if he keeps talking about her, he won't think about why she's here. ]

[jilt]

[ her fingers brush along the inked numbers almost fondly. when she turns back to him, her smile is a dazzling thing, wide and bright and fond, a gauntlet thrown. her face has ever been her best weapon. ]

You know I don't like bowing to common convictions.

[ although she already had, risking her neck to keep neal safe. how shockingly uncharacteristic. though she thinks of how she risked herself for sherlock and no, no it isn't. she's grown sentimental in her old age.

it isn't as if she's going to get any older, after all. ]

[saidhe]

And I'd hardly believe you any other way.

[ He says quiet, biting, honest above it all, his eyebrows carefully itching upwards on his face. But that smile is always something to behold, and for a moment their thoughts do coincide, and he thinks of a time and place where he might not have seen it ever again. ]

[ His own smile is careful and guarded as ever, but tight-lipped and radiant regardless. He tosses it back in return after a moment of pause, his fingers scratching into his haplessly long hair. ]

Not one for grieving either, as general rules have depicted in the past.

[jilt]

[ grief. she wonders if that is what this is. sherlocks are troubling men on all accounts, and she'd grown attached to this strange one, modern as her own counterpart. she sighs, quiet, squares her shoulders and raises her chin. ]

Did I say I was grieving?

[ not in so many words, no. but her very presence here indicates something, after all. ]

[saidhe]

Then you must be celebrating, surely. Some wine from the kitchens?

[ But she is here and her chin is raised - no, grief isn't the correct word. She's too proud for grief, as she rightly should be and has earned. His head tilts in return, his hands carefully rubbing against each other, not nervously but thoughtfully. He's distracted and it's so utterly frustrating. Not that she's been a book he's ever been able to properly read, some language of which he only understands chunks and pieces. ]

[ His eyes shift from her to the numbers her fingers brushed across on his wall and back, something flickering in his gaze. If not grief, then - ]

Why does that place you here of all the possibilities therein, Ms. Adler?

[jilt]

[ it's not grief. sorrow, perhaps, but not grief. what she'd like to call it is weariness, which is not as large a flaw as admitting to any other emotion. irene is so rarely honest, and perhaps it delights her when holmes sees through her lies and she gets to deny, deny, deny with girlish glee, she really isn't in the mood for that game. ]

Because I was in need of reassurance.

[ the honesty in her voice is too raw for her tastes, but there's so very little to be done about it now. ]

For a moment, I'd been...

[ she trails off, but the implication hangs in the air between them. i'd been worried for you. ]