We’re back from our cross-country road trip, and I figured out what to do between writing novels. You guessed it: Sherlock BBC Fan Fiction. I’m officially a nerd. (Rated M for some sexual content.)
This is Not a Safe House
Beneath the black fabric that smelled of blood and gunpowder, sweat dripped between her breasts, yet she felt frozen. She was afraid but safe, because of him, the stupid, stupid man. She felt safe, even though they were in a stolen vehicle—even though they drove through the backstreets of Karachi, Pakistan, unable to seek shelter at the British Embassy, because she was supposed to be dead and he was in the country with a fake ID.
She screamed when he almost hit a pedestrian, but he turned the wheel just in time. Under normal circumstances, Irene Adler would not scream. However, these were not normal circumstances. Ten minutes earlier, she was prepared to die. Then, the sound of his voice. How many men had he killed for her? Five? Six? With nothing more than a machete and well-handled gun—which made her wonder if Sherlock Holmes had killed before.
Perhaps that was why she did not reach for him. Not only would he pull away from her caress, but she was, for the first time since they met, scared of the consulting detective.
He, too, wore a black robe, his hair covered by a heavy hood. She could see only his eyes from beneath the fabric that covered his face, and his eyes were not amused. His look was not playful or mischievous. His eyes were like steel, so she stared out the window and watched dark buildings pass like shadowed mausoleums.
“Where are we going?” She sounded forceful, strong, unwilling to reveal her weakness.
“A safe house.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, or I’ll regret my decision.”
She wished he would remove the fabric from his face. She needed to see his mouth. Did he smirk, at least, with that last comment, or was he serious? She did not take her eyes off him, which was perhaps why she noticed his breath shake on a rather loud exhale.
“Mr. Holmes …”
“Please refrain from speaking until we reach our destination. You’re only acting as a distraction, and I have no time for distractions right now.”
When he turned suddenly left, her hip jammed against the car door. She winced, but she knew the bruise would only add to all the others accumulated during her time of imprisonment. Then, Sherlock put the car in park and jumped out. She assumed she was to follow.
“Here?” She looked up at a stacked tenement building with laundry hanging from balconies and the sound of a radio playing the Beach Boys.
“No. A block up.” He nodded and started walking. She had to practically run to keep up. “If they find the car …”
“They’ll think we’re hiding with someone in the apartments.”
“Hopefully. Try to cover your face.”
“There’s no one—”
“Cover your face, Ms. Adler.”
She pulled fabric over her mouth and continued to run alongside her protector, who she was still surprised to see. Irene had never hurt someone as much as she hurt Sherlock Holmes; yet, he issued her death warrant, didn’t he? Perhaps they were equal in their betrayals. And although she did not hate him—she couldn’t hate him—she wondered if he hated her. Yet, if so, why was he there? Why did he save her life?
He rushed down an alley the size of a broom closet. She heard the metallic sound of keys and smelled rotting garbage. Then, the door opened, and she felt his hand in the darkness, pushing her inside. It wasn’t much: a bed with the approximation of clean sheets; a desk, covered in Sherlock’s belongings; a duffel bag on the floor; and a darkened bathroom to her right.
“Cozy,” she joked.
He stepped past her and removed the hood and fabric from his face. Finally, she could see him, and she was surprised to find him sweating and paler than usual. His tall form leaned against the wall, and she noticed blood on his neck—probably nothing more than spatter from earlier.
“Whiskey,” he said.
“There’s whiskey in my bag.” He nodded at the black duffel on the floor.
Irene had never once seen Sherlock drink, so she stepped toward him. “Mr. Holmes.” The closer she got, the better she could hear his breath—labored, strained. She put her hand on his cheek and found him cold. “What’s wrong?”
“The whiskey …” His upper torso tilted forward. She caught him with her hands on his shoulders, which made him shout.
She noticed her left hand felt wet, and when he found the strength to stand straight again, her palm was covered in blood. She looked up at him, terrified.
“Hazard of the job,” he whispered.
“Oh, my God.” She put her arm around him and easily pushed him onto the bed. She straddled his waist and untied the black cloak he wore as a disguise. Beneath, he wore a white dress shirt. However, Irene felt light-headed when she saw the amount of red that now stained his entire shoulder and chest. She untucked his shirt from his black pants and tore the fabric; buttons flew. Finally, after a year of fantasy, Irene Adler touched the bare skin of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and yet, there was nothing sexual about it. She pushed the fabric away from his shoulder wound and recognized, as she expected, a bullet hole in his faultless flesh.
(Read the rest at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9315455/1/This-is-Not-A-Safe-House. As I said, it gets kind of steamy from here …)