Sherlock Fic: Goodbye, Mr. Homes
current mood: tired
Title: Goodbye, Mr. Holmes
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Irene, pre Sherlock/John
Word Count: 1020
Warnings/Rating: SPOILERS for 2.01, A Scandal in Belgravia. Faked character death
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock
Summary: “I’ll text you,” Irene says, not as a promise or as an act of sentiment, but simply because that is what she intends to do.
A/N: Thanks to Jenn for the beta <3
“I’ll text you,” Irene says, not as a promise or as an act of sentiment, but simply because that is what she intends to do. This is after terrorist cells and Goodbye Mr. Holmes and complete, utter relief, and sword fighting and running, an awful lot of running. Probably comes with the territory of associating oneself with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock pauses. “I doubt I’ll respond,” he says carelessly, but then he looks at her and allows her a small smile, a yes, I do believe I just saved your life, smug kind of smile.
“Oh, I never expect one from you. Though I was told by a certain source that Sherlock Holmes ‘will outlive God trying to have the last word.'" She looks at him. "Who knows, maybe I’m just special,” she says, knowing it’s true because, as much as she hates being indebted to anyone, Sherlock Holmes just saved her life.
“Ah, John.” Sherlock sighs, but is unable to prevent another smile from reaching his lips. “He’s always been rather sentimental. Probably why people like his blasted blog so much.”
“But you see, I was also once told that sentiment is a defect in the losing side,” Irene says, playing their little game even now.
Sherlock Holmes doesn’t say anything, his expression shielded from view by the cloth around his face. The sun beats down, an arid breeze presses against their clothing and skin, and the sound of a weary engine disturbs the silence of the desert. An army vehicle approaches in the distance and Sherlock walks towards it. Irene doesn’t. It’s obvious that the car is meant for Sherlock, not for her, though she’s not worried. There’s a town a few miles from here, she’s sure she can find her own way back home.
“Goodbye, Ms. Adler,” Sherlock calls, giving her a nod.
“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes,” she says. Sherlock pauses, then gets into the car and drives away.
She texts him, mostly because she’s rather used to it now, and rebuilding her connections does take quite a bit of work, especially when she has to use an alias. She needs something to help herself unwind.
In case you’re wondering, I made it back alive. Thinking about America, need a change of scene.
This place is big, shiny. I think I’m going to have ever so much fun here.
I’m lonely. Care for dinner?
She signs her initials because while she thinks it’s rather stupid, it’s also a bit cute when Sherlock does it. Irene only texts him periodically after she gets settled in New Jersey, only when other people aren’t enough for her and she needs someone a little more challenging.
Naturally he doesn’t answer any of them.
Except for once. He does text her just once, right before.
Irene is at home and her phone vibrates and she picks it up only to read, Goodbye, Ms. Adler. Her stomach twists and she knows.
She scours the British news, finding nothing of a dead detective or Jim Moriarty or any sort of great game. She gives up and goes to bed, still knowing.
It’s on the news the next day, that a famous consulting detective fell from the top of Reichenbach Tower. Was pushed apparently, by the international criminal, Jim Moriarty, who Sherlock was able to take with him in his fall. Both are dead, and the army doctor who made Sherlock Holmes so famous declines to comment.
It’s not sentiment that makes Irene text him again, or grief, or worry.
It’s just…she has a feeling about this, about his text, his parting remark to her. Something that itches underneath her skin, something that isn’t quite right about his death.
I have a feeling this isn’t goodbye, Mr. Holmes
She sends it, as always, without the expectation of getting a response. But she doesn’t need one. Irene knows Sherlock is alive, knows it with the kind of conviction that helped her to build her vast network in Britain, and now in America. She continues texting him, texting that dead madman, Sherlock Holmes.
You should tell John
I told you when we first met that your own higher power is yourself. Do you think I actually believe that you would allow yourself to fall off a building? Give me some credit.
Though, as far as faked deaths go, it was a rather good one. I’m sure you won’t mind if I take some of the credit for that.
Wouldn’t mind some dinner now. Not sure you wouldn’t either, wherever you are.
I’ve been reading John’s blog. You already know that he’s devastated, but you should know he isn’t coping well either. He tries to hide it, but blog posts are oh so telling when you read between the lines.
You should tell him, you know
He loves you
John’s new book is out, good enough read. Boy is he devoted to you, the whole thing reads like a love letter. I think he even realizes it himself now.
Please tell him
She’s had experience in faking her own death, she knows the aftershocks it creates. John knows it, that’s why he wanted Irene to tell Sherlock she was alive, so long ago. Sherlock must know it too, must know that the damage he’s done isn’t worth it, no matter what his reason. She texts him so, in every possible arrangement of words. He never replies.
Her texts dwindle once again, down to a few every month. It’s been months and months and months, but Irene still picks up her phone one day, because she’s bored and doesn’t feel like texting anyone else, and texts, Say something to him.
There’s a pause, and then a notification that almost makes Irene jump. She can’t stop a smirk from spreading across her face. Sherlock Holmes, that bastard. She knew he wasn’t dead, she knew it. She always knows.
What do I say?
Ask him out for dinner.
Perhaps I will.
Good luck, Mr. Holmes
To you as well, Ms. Adler