Author's Note: So, so sorry for the wait! I know I'd said I would update on the 12th, but I'd only kept a copy of this fic on Word, and my computer crashed, deleting all my files with it. Needless to say, I was far from pleased and busy trying to recover all my fictions in a timely manner. This update is shorter because of it, but I promise chapter 4 is twice as long to make up for those of you who may have been waiting. Anyway, I realized I made chapter 2 a bit bland, so here's a little action/character introduction if you've been craving some.
** I'm currently looking for a beta; if anyone is interested let me know :)
-o—
The car ride out of London promised to be a long one once Mycroft insisted Anthea had to take them on an indirect route in case of any "unanticipated interference." Irene curled a lip at his embellished phrasing. The reason she despised and excelled at playing political games was one in the same: the amount flattery and ego stroking involved was astronomical. In her line of work, misbehaving came at a price, and the mastery of words often paid prices she couldn't have without them.
The car itself was cramped, but she eventually settled, compacted in the backseat with Sherlock and a mixture of their belongings. After all the ruckus at Baker's Street, he'd only brought enough of his possessions to fill a medium trunk, though she'd seen him eying his microscope lustfully on the way out. The car was finally starting to slow along a dark stretch of back between them and their destination, the countryside surrounding them blackened to the pitch of night.
Sherlock's phone light was glaring into her corneas as he typed with lethal concentration - most likely to his equally petulant brother. The night was unnervingly silent apart from the subtle purr of the Audi's engine. Irene thought she'd probably enjoy the quiet a bit more if her leg didn't fall asleep for the second time in the past half hour as she tried to settle into a more comfortable position - not that being cramped against a gorgeous curly haired detective hurt. "Stop fidgeting," he spoke without looking up from his mobile. "Have dinner with me." She curled one side of her mouth up as she said it, knowing he wouldn't answer - same as usual.
Irene began to lean forward to rummage her own mobile from her purse when the car lurched forward, her head hitting the luggage with a thump while the car fishtailed across the pavement. The glass of the windshield shattered into tiny diamonds when it came into contact with the guardrail. Sherlock grunted as she was thrown into his side with the combined weight of the trunks. When the spinning finally stopped, they all sat disoriented for a brief moment before the divider slid down. "Damn it." Anthea cursed from the driver's seat, quickly pulling a pistol concealed by the bulk of her pea coat. The twin beams of headlights filtered through the broken front of the car, blinding Irene to its driver.
Anthea kept her eyes fixed ahead as she readied her weapon with the ease of a seasoned professional. She got out of the ruined car and Sherlock wasn't a step behind, so she scooted across the seat with them. "Are either of you injured?" she asked with a calm urgency Irene instantly attributed to years of military train - "Irene!" She blinked, realizing Sherlock was staring.
"Oh, I'm -" performing a brief survey of her body she opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by the deep baritone beside her. "Concussion. Mild, but you were already tired. If you feel the urge to sleep more than normal, make sure to fight it." "I assure you, I've survived worse, Sherlock," she cupped the side of her head gingerly, wiping a trickle of blood from what felt like a shallow cut from a sharp cornered piece of luggage. Sherlock spared her a final glare through his narrowed lashes before turning his attention to their assailants.
Irene forced her mind to remain alert, but It was starting to become increasingly difficult for her to focus on the navy blue SUV they'd had the altercation with and the two men that stepped out. A designer shoe touched the ground and though his body was concealed by the door, her breath caught quietly in her throat. A fog of dread slithered into the dominatrix's mind with abhorrent certainty; she knew those shoes.
-o-
Sherlock flicked his gaze from the Woman to the offending car's high beams, but not before he caught the hint of fearful recognition darken her blue eyes and the barely audible catch in her breathing. He hadn't spoken to her much about her time on the run from the numerous criminal organizations with a price on her head, but since he'd last seen her nearly beheaded by terrorists, something had changed in her demeanor.
When a man in his homeless network with past connections to a rival terror cell contacted him about The Woman being held for execution by the Karachi, he'd wasted no time arranging a private flight, assuming Mycroft wouldn't look at it too closely while he was dealing with another root canal.
From there it was only a matter of finding out where they'd taken her - terrorists were so boringly predictable. Yet, even after being tortured at the terrorists' will, she had that inextinguishable fire burning just below the surface - a flame that had diminished until it left a gaping hole in her otherwise flawless façade.
At some point, the once dauntless dominatrix had a submissive streak beaten into her, and for inexplicable reasons he felt a flash of emotion rear its ugly head before he shoved it into the darkest corner of his mind palace for later evaluation.
A car door slammed as three men stepped out of the backseat and Sherlock felt his thought process fray like a piece of snipped thread. He saw Anthea's face and hands tighten in synchronization, her fingers just as nimble with a gun as they were with the keys of a cell phone.
The first two men were merely hired guards - Neanderthals given a modernized club and pointed in the direction of their puppeteer's enemies. The third man, however, was much more intriguing. He was in his late 30's to early 40's, pale, and had a classically sculpted face; dark grey eyes were perfectly offset by his dark brown hair and an aristocratic nose sat above a lazily amused grin. Dressed in a designer white button down and slacks with the unique shoes to match, the man was full of secrets waiting to be unveiled, and though drugs were an acceptable substitute, nothing got Sherlock's mind buzzing like the prospect of a new challenger. Well groomed, confident despite the gun pointed at his chest, Sherlock mused. In business, obviously not on the right side of the law since he just hit us with a car to make a point. And that point was…?
"Ah, Mr. Holmes! So nice to finally put a face to the name. I heard so much about you from a friend of mine, you may know him - Jim Moriarty? You see he was supposed to close a deal with me before you sidetracked him. A very important deal that my little enterprise was relying on. Tell me, what's stopping me from having my buddy-" he said, slapping one of the stoic men's cheeks mockingly " -put three holes straight through your friends' hearts and that precious brain of yours?"
-o-
Okay, I may start portraying Anthea as a badass - after all, John was attracted to her so she must be a raging sociopath. I know, she wasn't supposed to be like that (evil laughter.)
As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following. I appreciate the support :)