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Sherlock looked at the plane ticket the man had just handed him and rolled his eyes.
“Is this supposed to persuade me?” He asked disinterestedly, handing it back over.
“Mr. Holmes,” the man in black started, placing the ticket in his inside coat pocket. “We’ve been authorized to use force.”
Sherlock glanced briefly at Irene whose eyes were oddly diverted from the conversation before her.
“Authorized or encouraged?” he inquired with a lilt of knowing irritation in his voice as he stood and buttoned his jacket.
“Authorized with enthusiasm.”
“Naturally.” he responded with narrowed eyes, and then: “Would you mind?”
The man stepped to the side, and Sherlock moved past him and on to his bedroom. He picked up his coat and scarf from where they lay draped across the chair beside the window, and as he moved to put the garments on his eyes caught sight of the photo atop his drawers in the corner. A photo of him and Mycroft.
“Is your brother always this dramatic?” Irene asked from the doorway.
Sherlock turned to her suddenly as though he’d been startled, but recovered quickly - pulling his coat over his shoulders, and his scarf from his pocket.
“You’ll want to be careful.” he responded, passing over her question, though he turned to look at her full on. “Our friend in the parlor didn’t look surprised to see you, which would have been the expected response to seeing someone who one presumed to be dead.”
Irene looked over her shoulder for a moment, and then back at Sherlock with her eyebrows knit together.
“His lack of surprise means Mycroft knows you’re alive.” Sherlock continued, and began looping his scarf around his neck.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of The Woman’s mouth. “Are you worried for me, Sherlock?” she asked almost… Reverently.
He stared at her for a beat.
“I’m worried for my case.” he voiced in a low monotone. “Mycroft knows you’re alive and hasn’t seen fit to let me in on it, which means he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. He’ll be informed that you’re here, probably as we speak.”
He began toward the door.
“You may want to disappear again.” he went on as he went to move by her to the corridor. “I’ll contact–"
She put her hand on his forearm to stop him, her face completely clear of the cool confidence that was her trademark.
"Sherlock…” she spoke simply.
He looked down at her hand on his arm and his own face softened a bit before he met her eyes in confusion. This woman loved him. He didn’t know how it would ever matter more than at this moment when his eyes were locked with hers and nothing at all seemed to stand between them. It would never matter more than this moment that he could see her for the beautiful and brilliant woman that she was and, though he couldn’t love her back, he felt an almost self indulgent sense of pride at having secured her sentiment simply by… Being himself. It wouldn’t matter after he walked away from her and out of this flat to meet his brother at Heathrow. He would never need it. It would never be useful… But for this one moment, he didn’t mind it, either.
She moved her hand away from him, and the moment was over.
“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.” she spoke firmly.
Sherlock laughed shortly.
"Try not to die before I get back.” he said as he finally walked past her. “It’d be a horrible waste of a case.”
Irene turned around, but Sherlock hadn’t walked any farther down the corridor, and so she and him were suddenly face to face - close enough for Sherlock to feel her startled exhale of breath on his chin. He stared down at her without moving his head.
“Yes.” he said shortly.
She cocked her head a bit in obvious confusion, but Sherlock turned and strode toward the stairs before she could respond. He rounded the steps without another word to anyone, and was quickly followed by Mycroft’s lackey.
Yes. The answer to her question was yes.
After all, it was only dinner, and even Sherlock Holmes needed to eat.