She grips tightly to her doll as Uncle Clint helps her out
of the car seat. He’s fidgeting and his face has that look as if he’s
struggling to keep it together. Sarah hold his hand as they walk quickly across
the parking lot walking through the big doors Clint’s hand squeezes around her
little hand as they reach the desk, they mutter between the two of them the
woman behind the counter and Clint, both looking down at Sarah who grips harder
on her doll. Clint turns walking faster than Sarah who was struggling to keep
lean on the lamp post, far from them on the empty street, your gaze never
leaving his form as you watch your soldier talking to another woman, who was
rather getting a little too handsy with him. Her delicate fingers brushing up
over his prosthetic arm, treating it like a delicate, poor little flower.
disgusts you to no end and your violent mind thinks of all the scenarios where
you’d do anything to keep her away from him. Keep everything, everyone away
from him. But you know he’s only doing his job, the one that HYDRA forced him
there are so many other ways of gathering information. You could have taken
matters in your own hand, but since the Soldier was granted the liberty for
this mission, he thought it could be done without any sort of destruction, which
you would never hesitate to cause.
has been half an hour since they’re talking and as much as you wanted to ignore
the sting in your heart, your brain overtakes your feelings and reminds you
once again that you’re nothing but the protector; you’re here just to keep an
eye on the asset. Any other sort of attachment would cost you both your
Setting that intimate night in Karachi aside, and leaving
any sentiment unaddressed, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler (as they were
formerly known) began their collaboration during The Fall.
Their encounter with the first strand of Moriarty’s network,
however, did not go quite as smoothly as planned. Shortly after they arrived in
Montenegro as Mr and Mrs Wolfe, a gunfire-loaded incident had them both
It also cost the late consulting detective his memory – he
awoke in confusion, without the faintest knowledge of who he was.
Fortunately for him, his location was incredibly easy to
deduce, as was his relationship with the only other occupant of the house.
No need to inform her of the slightly inconvenient detail
just yet. He was confident everything could continue on as usual, without his
wife suspecting a thing about his (hopefully temporary) condition. It was their
honeymoon after all.
One of the first things he learnt about himself was that he
hated being bored, hated being immobilised in bed by a leg wound.
He almost wished it was more of a challenge, who this woman
was to him. But no, it was so painfully obvious even without their shiny
wedding rings (only 3-4 weeks old, he estimated) immediately giving everything
away, further corroborated by the state of this place (clearly not in their
home country; they moved into the house a mere couple of weeks ago and were not
planning to stay for much longer) indicating that they were on a holiday trip
He could’ve arrived at the same conclusion with
significantly less information. From how she’d looked at him the moment he
opened his eyes, for example. (It was as if he were the first rays of sunshine, heralding
arrival of the precious British summer, after 11 long months of grey skies
and rain.) She had since withdrawn any initial concern from her expression,
maintaining a cool and collected demeanour instead. A smirk or witty remark
here and there, not a single word of caring, though what was unspoken in the
way she tended to his wounds was more unequivocal than any words would’ve had power to convey.
It was just as well that they weren’t a very outwardly
affectionate couple. Eased his reacclimatisation to the relationship. He didn’t
particularly feel an affinity for the saccharine, and if he was honest, he was
even rather surprised that they were apparently the marrying type.
Whomever it was that he used to be, however, he did approve
of this man’s choice of spouse. He..liked
her, from what little he observed about her since he’d regained awareness of
his surroundings (approx. an hour ago). The nature of their relationship might have been the
simplest of deductions, but the woman herself was most decidedly not. She was highly complex and incredibly fascinating. Intelligent,
competent, self-assured, gorgeous.. (Wait, where did that last one come from?
That wasn’t a deduction! Beauty was just a social construct.) Although he was certain that the intense (and very distracting)
attraction he was experiencing had a more profound basis.
He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was about her that
conferred this singular sense of connection, familiarity layered with mystery.
Merely that it was there as a result of something, something he frustratingly had
no tangible recollection of – his current data was far from sufficient in
providing him with any glimpse into their history.
She was standing to leave his bedside, and he instinctively reached
out and caught her wrist. To gesture to her that she, too, needed to rest – it was
likely already late in the evening when he awoke. He had to have been unconscious
for days, judging from her lack of sleep (obvious, despite her efforts to
conceal her mental and physical exhaustion).
Her reaction was one he hadn’t expected. Her eyes widened,
and her breath hitched, as he was pulling her onto the bed. Shocked? But they
were husband and wife, presumably sharing the same bed, it was only logical
Oh. Oh. It hadn’t occurred
to him that the specific physical contact he initiated could be interpreted as
prelude to intimacy and..intercourse. A sudden adrenaline spike sent his own
heart pounding frantically as he felt the mattress dip beside him when she did
begin to lie down, her proximity increasingly alarming, and he turned on his
side to face away from her, to escape her deep blue gaze (it wasn’t to hide his
blush, and it wasn’t panic, he shouldn’t panic, that would be absurd).
“Sherlock, what–” And he stumbled over his interrupting
response, “Not that. Not today. I don’t think I’m feeling up to it.”
The silence that stretched between them, taut as a violin
string, told him that she was studying his demeanour, undoubtedly finding it
unusual (right, so sex wasn’t something he’d normally deny her of; still, he
was in recovery from what must’ve been a traumatic event, a reasonable excuse).
Whatever comment she was most likely biting back (he couldn’t risk turning
around to confirm this hypothesis), she didn’t say it.
Instead, he sensed her movement as she finally reached for the
light switch after a long moment, and within an instant darkness was upon them.
For which he was extremely thankful, because he then felt soft lips pressed to his cheek, immediately
causing it to heat up.
“Good night, Mr Holmes.” Her warm body was inches
away, her breathing a pleasant sound in the quiet of the night.
He tried to ignore the involuntary neuronal activity
protesting for a change of mind regarding his earlier decision, his statement
to her that he wasn’t keen to perform
(you liarrrr), and forced his thoughts to focus on the newly acquired
knowledge of his full name.
Sherlock Holmes awoke in the late-morning light, with an
arm comfortably wrapped around his wife. Time to piece together the remainder
of this puzzle that was his life. He hoped it wasn’t a dull one.