A/N: Here is my contribution to the scarcely heard of Holmes/Irene fandom. It was fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much to my amazing beta, Product of a Sick Society, who was so attentive and helped me make this fic better than I had hoped!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters portrayed in this story...

The Woman

By: Cross-Eyed Bear

Holmes' eyes lazily adjusted to his surroundings, which appeared to be a very blurry-looking Grand Hotel room. The room became brighter, clearer, with the help of daylight streaming through its windows, as his vision and mind slowly revived. Two things roused him further out of his daze: the noisy chink of metal as he shifted his body (he observed both his wrists were shackled to opposite bedposts) and a cool draft that wakened goose bumps over his skin (he looked down to see that he had somehow misplaced all his clothing). What could he have missed to find himself in this predicament? Then, suddenly, he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as his memories returned to him. He frantically moved from side to side to find her, the culprit responsible for this humiliation. Unfortunately, he was alone, and he grudgingly acknowledged the bitter truth: Irene Adler had bested him once again.

He had a sneaking suspicion that she thoroughly knew of, and wanted to outdo her title as 'The Woman'. In his mind's eye, he saw her, both infuriating and fascinating him simultaneously. Physically shaking himself in an attempt to force his thoughts of the minx away, he chided himself for his momentary lapse of emotional indulgence. He forced himself to stop thinking of her when his fantasy batted her emerald eyes at him, smiling as she did so, as if to say that she had won the game. She must think herself very clever right now, he pondered… To his dismay, he realized that to purge her completely from his thoughts was a task he was not readily prepared for. All this time, he could have been trying to track down his clothing or figure out how he had been bound to the bed he currently sat naked upon. But, where had she gone, and how could she not heed his warnings? Never mind that, he mentally scolded himself as his mind scrambled to find a way out of his restraints.

His heart felt as though it had leapt into his throat. 'Irene!' He exclaimed, as she sashayed into the room, wearing a blatant smirk.

She appeared to feign innocent surprise as she replied; 'I've caught you at a bad time, Sherlock.'

'You must listen to reason, Irene,' he insisted, ignoring whatever game she was attempting to play this time.

'I cannot take a man, who may very well have deservedly gotten himself handcuffed and stripped, seriously.' Her smirk only widened as her gaze moved from his eyes to the small pillow that was strategically placed to preserve what modesty he had left.

'Then, you must release me so that I can be clothed, and you may properly hear me. No more games,' he said, sternly.

She touched her lips as if to stifle her derision, then she sat next to him. She inched closer to him to say, in a low voice, 'No games, no competition? I wonder what this relationship would be reduced to.'

'You should know that the dealings you are currently involved in will lead you into a game that you cannot hope to escape unscathed from,' he said, stone-faced, hoping to evoke something meaningful to her.

She studied him for a moment. 'It may appear so,' she replied, and, for the first time, looked affected.

A twitch. The faintest hesitation to smirk once more. The anxious, rapid drumming of fingertips over her lap. She was obvious, but he wondered if she was aware of it herself. He could not waste another moment to explore the possibilities further.

'You could have easily left me to fend for myself. Heaven knows you would be beaming from ear to ear about this for the rest of the day, if not all the way to wherever you were headed. Why have you come back? ' His inquiry was accompanied with his own smirk.

Her nose wrinkled at this, but she quickly recovered with another winning smile. 'I am not always scheming to outwit you…or humiliate you, no matter how deliciously entertaining it is.' Her fingers slowly traced the outline of the small pillow hiding him. 'As it were, I have time at my leisure, and I wanted to see that I did not finish off the ever consummate, ever perceptive Sher—'

'Come now, Irene,' he interrupted her, expertly feigning a placid resolve. 'You are dressed elaborately; the dress and its trappings alone ensue no easy task, the hair is worn differently, prettier, and you are wearing a different perfume. New? Have you grown tired of the Perisian...Well it had been quite a long time since I had given it to you. No matter,' He glanced at her for a moment longer before continuing, 'one can safely deduce that you are dressed for a much more dignified engagement than returning to this one.'

'I…' She hesitated to go on.

Although to an outsider he would appear to be at a disadvantage, he felt comfort in her silence. So, he continued.

'Let us assume that by saying very little, you are admitting to a great deal more.'

She averted her gaze from him, left her seat, and turned her back towards him.

'You came back because you are scared. You couldn't leave because you want me to help, and for that you are finally seeing reason.'

He heard her sigh, then she turned to face him. Her beautiful face was shaking and her eyes looked glazed over.

'Ever perceptive…' She moved towards him, wiping away a few stray tears.

'Release me so that I can help you,' he persisted.

She climbed into bed, crawled towards him, and pulled out the key to his handcuffs, dangling it before him. Her front, accentuated and almost exposed by her purposefully close-fitted dress, suddenly elicited him to clear his throat. She must have noticed the beads of sweat and the quiver in the corners of his mouth he could not control, because she looked amused. Again, she wiped tears brimming at her waterline that threatened to stream down her face. When she was this close, he noticed a sad, weary look in her eyes. He was sure that she was revealing something to him that very few people were privy to. It came as a shock to him to discover that the image of her that he harboured a secret admiration for was shattered as he watched her now. It would be difficult to be cold with her now, he internally warned himself. She took the key and closed a fist around it, putting this hand down.

She moved closer, close enough to press her lips against his, but she did not move further as she spoke in a low, hushed voice, 'It does not matter that you can help, but this cannot be helped.' She pressed her forehead against his, and closed her eyes.

'Tell me…' He urged her, his bound hands clenched uncomfortably within the steel cuffs.

He watched her eyes flutter open, and wondered if a sudden jolt in his chest meant anything, because he was never very keen on fully exploring these meanings about her if he could help it. She was completely dangerous now, and yet he probed on, 'Irene…'

'You cannot save me, Sherlock,' she said fondly, placing a hand over his cheek. She shook him by letting out a hallow laugh as they were still connected by their temples. 'You cannot save me anymore than you can save us from our future.'

He cocked a brow, looking perplexed. 'Our future?'

'Of course.' She moved her face away now, looking expectant for his understanding. 'Our future, our dance perhaps, of chance meetings and unrelenting attraction to precarious liaisons. We will always be connected by them, but never be together because of them.'

'That…certainly cannot be helped,' he agreed, nodding slowly. 'But—'

She interrupted him; she kissed full on his mouth. Hungrily, he returned the kiss, breathing in her sweet perfume and feeling light-headed. Then, as quickly as it began, she released her lips from him and pushed him away.

'I'm sorry,' she admitted, and she was sincere. She took the key she had been handling all along and dropped it behind his pillow, causing him to wince at the sudden contact against his sensitive skin. And after a quick peck on his forehead and a playful wink, she made her way towards the door. She paused at the doorway, curious by his silence.

'I suppose you did mean to return with warm intentions, if only to help me,' he said, motioning towards the key that was now hidden.

She nodded, and he observed another smile from her, which he instantly knew to be the least natural of her smiles (a feature of hers that stood out for its honesty among the sea of lies she often paraded). Another jolt to the chest almost arrested him this time, and before he could properly process its meaning, she was gone.

End.