Title: we're so disarming, darling

Author: sablize

Character/Pairing: Sherlock/Irene, but it isn't as shippy as you'd think.

Summary: She intrigues him because he cannot, for the life of him, figure her out. Slight Sherlock/Irene. Spoilers for 2x01.

Spoilers: Sherlock 2x01, A Scandal in Belgravia

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Author's Notes: Hello! It's been a while. NaNoWriMo and life pretty much ate me. But I couldn't resist writing some Sherlock/Irene after yesterday's episode because it was AMAZING and Irene Adler is the flawless fearless hbic of my heart. But I digress. Remember those things I did where I basically recapped the episode in snippets but with feeeeeelings? Yeah. That's what that is. Also, title is from Apartment Story by The National.

She… intrigues him.

It's strange, really. Intrigue is something he usually reserves for cases—even then, it never happens often—but Irene is not a case or a corpse or a mystery to solve; she is a living, breathing, moving thing.

She intrigues him because he cannot, for the life of him, figure her out.

All he has is the bare facts in his hands and no tidbits to spice them with. She is a flat, frictionless plane of existence, her secrets so neatly tucked away behind those glittering green eyes that any attempt at discovering them and he simply slides off.

And worst of all (best of all?), she intrigues him because she is him.

Same keen gaze, same cunning methods, with a little damage; a crack here, there. He knows instantly that she will be a hard one to beat—he would say the same if he were ever faced with himself—but he is already anticipating the challenge.

He thinks he has the upper hand, here. So when she poisons him, it catches him slightly off guard. 'Slightly' and 'off guard' being vast understatements.

Then, against all odds, she returns his coat.

Till the next time, Mr. Holmes.

Next time, indeed.

—

The next time comes with a text reading Mantelpiece and again, the intrigue.

Intrigue that soon turns to confusion and then fear and then bitter, bitter acceptance. The package is as red as her lips and contains a single thing: a phone, the phone. He knows the implications of such a gift, and it makes his heart sink and settle near his toes. He had rather liked her, after all; her and her cleverness.

The phone is heavy in his hands. Heavier with the sadness.

He doesn't know what to do so he calls his brother.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight."

Mycroft doesn't even hesitate, doesn't even notice the tone of his brother's voice and realize that something is very, very wrong. "We already know where she is," he says. "As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

"No. I mean you're going to find her dead."

And he hangs up, because there is nothing left to say.

—

Even without seeing her face, he knows it's her.

One quick glance over her creamy, exposed flesh that used to be alive (so, so alive) and he knows.

—

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" For caring. For not caring. For trying not to, and failing.

The answer Mycroft gives him is helplessly indirect, so he takes it as a yes.

—

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.

The message is like an anchor, pulling him from the sea.

Then she's in his flat, hiding and running for her life but still cunning, still brilliant, and it's still like looking into a mirror. In a way, it feels like something has sort of clicked back into place; a something that he wasn't even aware existed or had been missing at all.

He's just glad that she's alive. He doesn't want to be the only intelligent individual left in the world, after all.

—

"I make my way in the world; I misbehave," she explains to him, standing there in his living room. "I like to know people will be on my side, exactly when I need them to be."

He smirks inwardly. He has to admire her style.

"What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She leans in close to him, pressing her chest against his shoulder. He tries to ignore her closeness. "Go on, impress a girl."

Oh, he fully intends to.

—

"That's all it takes. One lonely, naïve man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

He thinks he knows. "You should screen your defense people more carefully."

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you."

Him.

He barely hears the words as they leave Mycroft's mouth, because his mind is whirling, analyzing every minute, every second spent with Irene. He should have known. Damnit, he should have known.

Of course she is there, behind him, watching. Of course. "Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk."

"So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on." Why. For example.

The way she saunters down the aisle—so calm, fearless, frictionless—makes his blood boil in anger. Stupid. Stupid mistakes.

"Not you, junior. You're done now."

She brushes past him in a way he no longer expected from her; it's like turning back the clock, erasing the fifty-seven text messages and the let's-have-dinner's and the hiding in his flat. It's turning back to question marks and bare facts but at least he knows more, now. He has that, at least.

Still.

There's something so disarming about being wrong.

—

"Nicely played."

"No." He says it instantly. Though Mycroft is right—it is well-played, in typical Irene style—but, no. He knows. He knows he can win this time.

The smile has frozen on her face. "Sorry?"

"I said no. Very, very close, but no." He stands, and begins. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate, you're enjoying yourself too much."

"No such thing as too much." She smirks, but he can see just the slightest hint of fear in her eyes.

He's scaring her now, as he talks. "But sentiment?" he finishes, watching her face as her smile falters. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Sentiment?" she shoots back, her eyes as hard as steel. "What are you talking about?"

"You."

Her smile fades completely. "Oh, dear god, look at the poor man." She's trying, he has to give her that. "You don't actually think I was interested in you. Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

"No." And he steps closer, pressing a finger against the soft skin of her wrist. He leans in, bending down to her ear, and whispers, "Because I took your pulse."

He hears her draw a quick, startled breath, and he knows that he's won.

—

Four letters.

I AM SHER-LOCKED.

—

"Are you expecting me to beg?" she calls, tears still glistening in her eyes. No one likes losing.

"Yes."

He doesn't watch her face but he knows she is struggling with herself. Finally, though, it comes, in a voice shaking with fear: "Please."

Then, she adds, "You're right."

He turns.

"I wouldn't even last six months."

"Sorry about dinner." It's all he can think of to say.

He leaves before the tears can fall from her eyes.

—

Goodbye Mr Holmes.

Oh, but he just couldn't resist, could he.

There's no way he'd let her die again.