I’m as surprised as anyone by the positive responses I received from my first Sherlock BBC Fan Fiction, “This is Not a Safe House.” Wrote a sequel over the weekend. Hope you enjoy. (Also rated M for sexual content.)
This is Not a Safe House, Part II
She wept when she heard he was dead.
She almost cried over him once before, in the safe house in Pakistan when he’d been shot while saving her life. She never thought he would die, though—not that night, not ever. Sherlock Holmes seemed a legend in her eyes, and legends never died. Then, he did, by his own hand, which was the most shocking part of the nightmare. How could he do it? How could he splatter that beautiful brain on pavement? How could he leave John? How could he leave her?
He left her in Paris a year before, but he didn’t say goodbye. She realized they never said goodbye. How disrespectful to go and kill himself without at least a friendly text, which was exactly what she did when she heard the news—stumbled upon it on the BBC website. Irene Adler sent Sherlock Holmes a text: “Tell me you’re not dead.”
Then, she waited, in her shiny new flat in San Francisco. Paris was too close to London, too close to him. California was better, safer: a sunny place to start a new business. The day she heard the news, she texted him from her flat, and he never responded, so she wept for what seemed like days.
She cancelled with clients. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She sat and stared at her cellular phone, willing it to make a sound until the silence threatened to crush her eardrums—until she turned on loud, American rock music to cover the sound of his absence. Forever. The only man she loved, gone forever.
When the weeping stopped, when the clients returned, she still jumped at every text. When she closed her eyes at night, she dreamt of his hands on her flesh and remembered the way his mouth felt in the safe house in Karachi. When she woke in the morning, she sometimes even felt his warm body next to her, only to reach out and find cold, tangled sheets. She didn’t cry then, not anymore. She subdued all sentiment, buried alongside her dead consulting detective.
* * *
That afternoon, she awaited a client. One of her favorites: a pretty, young actress who always stopped by when visiting from LA.
Irene sat in a chair made of worn leather, purchased at an antique shop when she’d first moved to San Fran. The chair was her first piece of furniture, in fact, because she liked sitting in it, liked looking out the window over the harbor as the mist rose every day. She extended her slim legs and rested her red stiletto pumps on the windowpane.
Her style had changed drastically in California. In an effort to remain incognito, she chopped her long, brown hair into a short, blond bob. She replaced her usual black negligee with gaudy shades of red and gold—very Hollywood. She kept the accent, didn’t try to assimilate, because clients seemed to like a dirty girl from Britain. Her posh voice acted as a stimulus as she whipped them, chained them, and tied them to bedposts.
On the arm of the chair, she spun her cellular phone. She always kept it close, although if asked, she would have denied she kept it close because of him. Irene no longer even allowed herself to think his name.
A quiet knock on her apartment door sent a sigh from her lips. Her job was all she had to keep her distracted. She had no friends in California—too dangerous to make connections. Her “connections” were now only sexual and on a paid basis. Such connections kept her safe, safe from the way he once made her feel.
Irene stood and adjusted her floor-length, red lace robe. She glanced in the mirror to the left of her front door and admired the way her bleached blond hair made her light eyes glow. She winked at herself, struck her most seductive pose, and opened the front door.
A man stood before her—tall and slim, in a gray suit and light blue shirt. Blond hair was styled back over his high forehead, but even with the assistance of product, Irene could see the hair wanted to curl. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him, not until his eyes finally lifted from her robe and found her face. Those eyes: the cold, blue eyes that lingered on the edge of nightmares.
“Your client has decided to cancel,” he said.
(Read the rest at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9379897/1/This-is-Not-a-Safe-House-Part-II. Rated MATURE.)