The producers of BBC’s Sherlock did something really mean this week. They released a shot from a cut scene in the final episode of season three, “His Last Vow,” in which Irene Adler leaves Sherlock a single red rose in the hospital.
I’ve been writing a series about these two for over a year now, because I love them together. After the completion of “This is Not a Safe House, Part II,” I received several emails requesting a part III. But I had nothing else to say … until the aforementioned photo was released. Now, I have plenty to say.
Just for you, the beginning of “This is Not a Safe House, Part III.” For the story in its entirety, follow the link provided at the end. It’s Christmas!
This is Not a Safe House, Part III
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Sherlock Holmes in a hospital bed looked unreal, so in the darkness of night, she reached out her fingers and touched the skin around his white bandage. He was real. And warm. He was alive, breathing, asleep, and probably high on morphine. Comforted by the quiet sound of beeping machines that monitored his heart rate, Irene Adler was finally able to set the small vase and red rose on the table at the foot of his bed.
Should she wake him? If she did, she knew she would have to answer for herself—her absence. Perhaps if she woke him, he would think it but a dream and forget her by morning. But no, the rose would give her away. He would know it was from her, so maybe she should leave, just turn around and go, before those piercing blue eyes could stab her in the heart.
One more touch; she’d never been good at denying herself anything. She hoped the drugs were strong in his system as she leaned over and kissed his forehead.
His voice rumbled beneath her: “I was wondering if you were going to cut and run.”
She lingered with her mouth against his skin and then pulled back slowly. “So was I.” Irene looked down at the man she loved and hadn’t seen in over two years. He had aged some, filled out. Not so skinny anymore, and his features, more rugged. She knew she had changed, too.
“You didn’t answer me.” He sounded furious.
She stepped to the bottom of his hospital bed and smiled. “Did you ask a question?”
“When I came back to London, I sent for you. You didn’t answer.”
He tried to sit up, but his face melted into pained wrinkles.
She ran to him, her weakness showing. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back against the bed. “Don’t,” she said.
She watched him take a few deep breaths, his eyes closed.
“You look different,” she whispered.
“I look different? You were blond last I saw you.”
She nodded, remembering their time in California. He’d talked as if they had a future then. He’d talked about her coming to hide at Baker Street when he came back to life in London—talked as if they might end up happy. Together.
He looked up at her, and she withered under his gaze. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“Who shot you?”
He chuckled, bit at his bottom lip. “Planning a vendetta?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Irene tried to hide behind her long hair, loose around her shoulders. Quietly, she asked again, “Who shot you?”
(Read the full story HERE.)