Chapter Text
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Despite the fact that Lyon has a rich history - plague, famine, destruction, also revolutions and wars, this city doesn’t usually fall into common tourist’ routes, especially in winter. Lyon’s streets demonstrate absolute tranquility now. After midnight, the city seems sleepy, almost dead. Nothing disturbs the peace of the 8th Arrondissement’s residents.
Almost nothing but the sharp clatter of heels in the silence of the night street. This sound is the only phenomenon Sherlock can think about right now. Perhaps, he would choose the tempo vivace or presto if he wrote music based on this sound. It sounds lively, fast, dynamic. He will keep this idea for the future.
The second phenomenon Sherlock can think about right now is The Woman herself, who is now quickly walking away from him down the street; about her silhouette against the gray buildings, outlined in the light of night lamps, about her funny fluffy coat that barely covers her knees, about her thin ankles. And her insanely high and loud heels. This sound and every step are torturing the pavement and remains somewhere deep, deep in his mind.
Everything because a few minutes ago he has commented her style of work in a rather harsh words during their mutual case.
Instead, Irene decided to punish him harder, deliberately demonstrating her own self-sufficiency. Sherlock tries not to think about her hips and catchy gait when she’s walking, the manner which he has seen before, probably only in black and white films. They were shown on TV during his childhood quite often.
He barely has time to grab her by the shoulder, pulling her away from the belated taxi, which suddenly jumped out off the corner. The car honks and nearly knocks Irene off her feet as she recklessly crosses the road. The man behind the wheel presents Irene a dirty curse, which can be delicately translated as ‘Crazy bitch!’ in French. However, the woman takes the phrase as a compliment, finally stops and turns to the detective, giving him a stubborn crimson smile.
Her light blue eyes outlined with heavy, evening makeup shine with an almost infernal light: not knowing her, Sherlock would have thought that Irene is drunk or stoned. Her hair is messy, although it was neatly styled a couple of hours ago. Now her wavy curls lie along the shoulders, giving the woman a special softness. This combination of delicacy and vulgarity always confuses the detective. Like walking on a tightrope. And now he feels almost helpless when she rolls her eyes and begins to explain:
"I'm fine, Sherlock. And the same thing about Robert, it wasn’t necessary to protect me".
Her voice is soft and calm as always, but Sherlock hears the steel in it quite distinctly.
" And what would you do if he had one more bullet in his gun? Or I’m not around?" Sherlock shrugs his shoulders in annoyance, lifting the collar of his favorite coat.
"Oh, don't start this!"
"So, after all, what would you do?"
"I would love to use the golf club I had in my left hand."
"And if you don’t have it…"
"Listen, dear, everything went well. And now you have the papers. Our main goal has been reached. We have nothing to worry about anymore!," The Woman turn detective’s back, continuing her way down the street.
Sherlock reaches her and puts his hand on the shoulder, slowing her down more. His gesture turns out to be too strong, dominant, but Irene immediately adjusts to it, accepting the compromise, and then they finally walk side by side. She takes him by the hand and Sherlock has to match her pace as they make their way to the small rented apartment she's moved in a few months ago.
Despite everything, Sherlock Holmes enjoys working with The Woman. Of course, he will never admit it loudly, but every time he travels abroad and shares cases with Irene Adler it turns into the Real, ’10 out of 10’ Adventure. That’s because she’s smarter than John, faster, more capable; she always has trilling and interesting ideas. And she’s the only one person who doesn’t need to explain anything. Plus, she is charming and beautiful, and these features open most closed doors in front of them. But there is something that always bothers Sherlock.
Firstly, the more complicated becoming their missions, the more interesting the tasks, the more successfully they cope with them, the more courageous the Woman becomes. More desperate, more reckless.
Literally, when he enters the door, she climbs out the window without any fear. He tries to talk to the villain and quietly knock out his gun, she, without warning, confidently hits him in solar plexus.
Sherlock himself wouldn't take the risk in some situations. But she does it easily. But it’s worth saying, Irene Adler is like a cat. Jumping from the highest height, she easily lands on all her paws, and always returns from the most dangerous adventures alive, unharmed, and also more pleased with herself than usual.
There is something else in these situations as well. Sherlock always feels a special kind of danger, being next to Irene. Sometimes it’s pleasant, but sometimes he literally feels how life and death walk nearby, whispering in their ears. But The Woman seems always be able to make deal with the Death.
The same thing’s happened today. The banker impostor Andre Robert had only one bullet in his gun when Irene, fearing that the criminal would slip away from her, rushed after him to the third floor without waiting for Sherlock. And again, as usually, The Woman wasn’t taken by bullets, her heels didn’t slip off an abrupt staircase, and Sherlock catch up with her and Robert in the end. But every time it happens, it gets even worse. Sherlock is constantly afraid that some day a small and insignificant mistake would be fatal for her, his desperate partner in crime.
And where’s the difference between John and Irene? The detective worries about his friend only during the case, when the two of them hunting the criminals. But the feeling of concern for Adler is constant. And it goes away only when she walks next to him, when she’s near him. Or, as at this exact moment, noisily climbs the stairs to the top floor.
Suddenly Irene freezes. She sees that the door to her apartment is open. A soft curse escapes her lips. The Woman frowns, lowers her gaze, and for the first time Sherlock sees the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes he hadn't noticed before.
Anxiety appears in her eyes for a second, and then, when she realizes that there is no one in the room anymore, it disappears. Her gaze again lights up with slyness and tease.
"Oh my Goodness, they didn’t touch my Ikea tumblers, but smashed my favorite and rare vase. Just animals!," pieces of what used to be an expensive vase from Lalique are crunching thinly under Irene's feet.
The woman briefly examines the mess around: clothes, underwear, books and cosmetics are scattered here and there. Then she checks the safe hidden behind one of the ordinary Ikea bookshelves and picks out several jewelry boxes from it, three bundles of cash, a new passport and a gun. Impressive!
Then she takes out a Birkin tote bag from her wardrobe, and puts her treasures here. Also, she throws in it two bottles of perfume, a couple of silk dresses, a blue bathrobe (suspiciously similar with the one Sherlock owns), and her favorite lipstick. Sherlock does not ask questions when the Woman takes off her fancy fur coat, undresses and changing it into one of her favorite McQueen dresses and not less expensive coat. Here's all her favorite clothes and things she probably does not plan to part with in the distinct future.
It took Irene Adler seven and a half minutes to "pack" her past life and move on. What a nerve of steel!