Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended and this fanfiction is not written for profit. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

~ EPILOGUE: AND STILL THE EAST WIND BLOWS~

Sherrinford Fortress

Location: Classified

Cell 18/95

The boredom is going to bloody kill me, she thinks, well before Her Majesty gets the chance.

And Irene Adler, for what feels like the fiftieth time today, stands. Stretches. Paces across her cell, counts off the footsteps as she listens to them echo.

"Sixteen by six," she murmurs, before laughing, adding, "Whatever else did you think it was going to be, you foolish woman?"

And she walks over the the so-called bed they have given her. Lies down upon it. She supposes as prison stays go, this one isn't so bad: At least they've chosen to be merciful and given her access to books.

No needlework or other ladylike pursuits, but then she supposes she isn't surprised: they doubtless know how she got out of that last Caliph's private prison, a place where she doubts any prisoner will ever be given so much as a crochet hook again. And given her way with chemicals, they don't feel paint or charcoal would be a wise gift either.

So it's books they give her.

Books, and the privacy to read them.

Most of the time Irene takes that for a mercy, just as most of the time she accepts that she will have to wait for her chance before she can get out of this place- She has, after all, some quite valuable information to sell once she does so-

She's so intent on thinking of this- and of not letting herself think of the thing which saw her landed here, the thing which showed her so much and was then snatched from her- that at first she doesn't notice it. Doesn't notice that there's a certain… shiver to the air. A readiness. A… watchfulness. The cell seems stuffier than it should be, and when she raises her head from her copy of Wuthering Heights to notice she finds herself oddly… discomfitted by the thought.

She feels gooseflesh rise on her arms and she doesn't know why.

Casting the book aside she stands. Paces again. Six by sixteen, six by sixteen, over and over again it goes through her head. Over and over again.

She's so distracted that she almost doesn't notice the click of a key turning in her cell door. Doesn't realise it's opening until it already has done.

A woman stands in the doorway: She's beautiful. Pale. Dark-haired and blue-eyed.

She reminds Irene of someone but she can't put her finger on who.

Nevertheless, the adventuress raises her head up. Pops a hip and cocks an eyebrow. If this is to be her interrogator then let the games commence. "Have you come for a show?" she drawls, and at this the newcomer merely smiles. Reaches inside her heavy travelling habit.

"I'm not here for a show, darling girl," she says and her voice is low and soft and soothing. "I have it on good authority, however, that you are."

And she takes her hand out of travelling habit. Holds it out to Irene and opens it.

A tiny clockwork globe, like nothing so much as a miniature chronograph, glimmers in her palm. It glows with the same unearthly light that Sir Henry's delightful pocketwatch had and Irene feels a rush of joy, of homecoming flow through her at the sight.

"So you are the one we're looking for," the newcomer says softly.

Her blue eyes glitter, and again, just for a moment, she reminds Irene of someone though she just can't place who.

"May I…" Irene dips her head. Looks at the other woman with her most beguiling expression. "May I touch it?" she asks and the newcomer throws back her head. Barks out a huff of sharp, mirthless laughter.

"You're going to do much more than that, my fine girl," she says as she steps inside the cell and closes the door…

~ The End..? ~