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[ireneadlerrp-blog]

that hit me so hard in my shirene shipping heart

fuck

gifs by doomslock

Sherlock opened the door of the flat and the person standing on the threshold was the last one he expected to see. He stood there, without moving, looking at her figure framed by the door, the street behind her just a blur to his eyes. He felt it as his brain stopped working for a moment and he had to bring it back, to re-start the gears. He considered closing the door, but he was just a little curious, enough to hear what she had to say, enough to ask the question.

“What are you doing here?”

His tone was cold, with a total lack of emotion. Irene Adler heard it, felt the disgust on his voice. After years without seeing her, despite all that had happened, she was expecting a different kind of welcome. Maybe not a warm one, but she was waiting for a look of surprise on his face, which he would later try to disguise. There was no such look. There wasn’t even hate; it felt as if she was only a mildly annoying thing. She didn’t like that.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Sherlock stood there a while longer, trying to think of his options, but he finally gave in. He opened the door a little more and she walked in. She smelled of tobacco and cheap perfume, quite different from the last time he had seen her, when he had been her saviour and had allowed her to run away and start a new life. But the smells she brought into the house were the only noticeable difference. There were still no wrinkles marking her perfect pale skin and she had tied her hair, the way she always did when she meant business. Her determined expression, her fearless look was also the same. Irene Adler had indeed been the woman who had beaten him. The woman. But he had planned on never setting eyes on her again. He didn’t direct her to a chair, because he didn’t want her to stay long. There were things to explain, things he wanted to know; or at least he used to, they didn’t matter anymore. Her presence in the apartment was the only thing that intrigued him that he wanted answered right now.

“What are you doing here?” he asked for the second time that evening, but this time he would demand an answer.

Irene gazed upon him, trying to remember that last night, right before she had escaped and sought a fugitive life. With his help she had managed to escape certain death and she had rebuilt a life away from the spotlight, away from those who might want to hurt her. Sherlock had looked for her on the following years to no avail. She had made sure her whereabouts remained unknown to make sure they were both secure. She knew there was no use in trying to avoid his question, and she would have to get to it sooner or later.

“I came to see him.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. She had no right to ask that of him, no right to show up here now, after eight years. And, most certainly, she had no right to see him.

“No.” was all Sherlock said.

Irene was ready for that answer; she knew he would be difficult. And, in truth, could she blame him? She would have reacted the same way.

“Please.”

Begging didn’t usually work with him, but she was desperate. She understood the mistake she had done, but at the time she had thought it was for the best. And it probably had been.

“I’m the child’s mother. I have a right to see him.” She paused, staring away from him. “I made a mistake.”

Sherlock smirked, a look of incredibility spread on his cold features. He looked her in the eye.

“You cannot choose when you want to be a mother. You practically left the boy on my doorstep.”

Irene’s eyes welled up, remembering that night.

It had been raining all day and she had managed to sneak out of the house. Everything was arranged and with the help of an old friend of hers she would be able to flee again, to seek safety away from London. Coming to town had been a risky step, but she had to do that in order to guarantee her own safety later. It had been a safe decision, and she hadn’t done it only for herself. Her son was at risk as well. The person who had agreed to help her had been quite clear on his instructions. He would take her and only her. He would provide her with anything she might need, but the child had to stay. She knew that even if she decided to stay and take the risk, that they could be found; and then it would be more than only her own life at stake. Plus, she knew being found was just a matter of time. It hadn’t been easy. To put on a disguise and leave the warmth of what had been her home for more than six months and depart, leaving everything behind. But when she had lost her mobile phone’s information to Mycroft Holmes, she knew surviving would be a struggle. And she knew now that this was something she had to do.

The rain was now falling harder and the wind made the use of an umbrella impossible. Carrying the baby was struggle enough by itself. She managed to open the door with the help of one of her hair pins and placed the baby inside, sheltered from the rain. She then rang the doorbell. She meant to get out of sight before anyone could see her. She had left a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes, with sufficient details and a birth certificate, not more than that. But, maybe because he was expecting someone or because of the lack of a case, Sherlock had stormed down the stair case at a swift pace as soon as the door rang and had seen her. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the night right after, never to see him again.

Sherlock saw Irene disappearing around a corner and his first instinct was to run after her. But something on the floor made him stop. There was a black blanket placed there, coiled, like a bundle. He picked it up carelessly and as he realised it was heavier than what he expected the cry began. He closed the door immediately and picked up the bundle more carefully this time. With his hands shaking he opened the bundle. What he found there was not something he was expecting. The little boy had his eyes wide open now and in them Sherlock saw his own shade of green. But there was more. Even at the faint light, he could see a hair dark as a crow’s feathers, curly and deranged, little drops of water making it look thicker than it was. For a moment, while the baby shut up with his presence and was busy suckling his thumb, Sherlock stood petrified there, unable to decide what to do. He was alone; John was gone to a conference and would come back much later that night. Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend, on a romantic date with a pianist. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his own legs, allowing himself to pace up the stairs. The little boy was now looking at him with eyes wide open. Sherlock placed him on the couch, leaving the blanket around him. He felt something as he put him down. Among the fabric was a piece of paper. A letter. A simple envelope, addressed to him. He opened it up with trembling hands and read it.

“Dear Sherlock,

I know this will surprise you and I apologise that I haven’t made you know before. There was a chance any of my letters could be traced and I didn’t want to take the risk. There isn’t much explaining and I might have to try to convince you that this little boy is as much mine as it is yours, but the resemblance he shares with you makes it quite clear, I believe. That last night we shared together, when you saved me and allowed me to continue to live a while longer, had a great meaning to me. I never had the chance to tell you this, but here is the truth. When I found out about my own pregnancy I was torn between amazement and fear, between the happiness to carry your child and the angst to have to keep it for myself. When he was born and I saw all your features in his beautiful face, I know it had all been worth it. He is a lovely child. Only cries when he is hungry or afraid – he has been afraid quite often with me and the life I lead – and he likes to hear me sing; maybe you can play the violin to calm him down sometimes, I know he would like it.

But I have put myself in danger again; I stood for too long in the same place, whishing it was possible to keep from attracting attention, planning to keep a low profile and be able to move on with my life incognito. Unfortunately someone found me, and with that I was offered a choice: stay and risk my death again, or leave and save myself, planning ahead new locations, and new lives. As you might have guessed by my actions, I have chosen the later. Hamish – that’s his name, maybe you can make John his godfather? – will never be safe if I carry him around with me, and I don’t want him to lead the same type of life I do. I want him to be safe, to be able to have friends and live a normal life. Don’t think it isn’t hard to leave him behind – God knows the reason I am doing this is entirely because of him. And I know that there isn’t anyone who can keep him as safe as you. You must be scared, the same way I was when I had to take care of him with no help nor guidance, but I am sure you will be able to figure him out. There is no other place he should be, if not next to his father, if he can’t be next to me.

Please, remember that he is not responsible for my actions, and if you keep any grudge against one of us, may it be against me. I don’t mind. But Hamish deserves to be loved and I know you can love him. And you know that as well, even if you can’t see it right now.

This is the last time you will hear from me, please burn this letter after you read it; I would like for Hamish to have a little something from his mother, but it is too risky to keep a proof of his connection to me. I know questions will arise and I trust you to silent them the best way.

And because I may not have a chance to say this again and there will be no proof after you burn this, please know that I love you. I have always loved you and I am sure I always will. There were many nights in my life, as you well know, but the night I spent with you meant something. And, to be fair, I had never been able to give my heart before, but I gave it to you.

If you allow me to ask you for a last favour, tell Hamish I love him too. Nothing breaks my heart more than imagining my life without him and the thought of him not knowing how much his mother loves him.

                                              With all my love to both of you,

                                                                                                                            Irene”

Sherlock put the letter down and looked at Hamish, who was now fast asleep, breathing quietly, as if the world around him was made of sweet dreams and music.

Sherlock’s mind returned to the present, the memory of that night still vivid. There was no way of describing how much he hated Irene on that night and from that night on. No matter what she had written, nothing erased the fact that she had left her son. Sherlock, who always thought children were just a waste of space, had taken Hamish and made him his responsibility. Irene could have her reasons, but they would never be enough to excuse her actions.

“Get out.” Sherlock commanded.

He wasn’t sure anymore why he had allowed her to come in in the first place. But Irene’s eyes were focusing on something behind his back.

“Hamish.” She said, no more than a whisper.

Sherlock turned around. Leaning against the kitchen door, half concealed by the wall, was Hamish, curiosity all over his face.

“Hamish, please go to your room. Papa is talking with a client and it’s private and important.”

But Hamish didn’t move. Sherlock wasn’t sure how much of the conversation he had overheard because his son had become an expert in sneaking around the house without being noticed or heard.

Irene gave a step forward but Sherlock threw her a look of warning. Without words, she pleaded again for the second time that night. He shook his head.

“Hamish, I told you to go to your room. Now, go.”

The tone on his father’s voice had changed and Hamish recognised it. There was no room to retort, he accepted the order and paced up the stairs swiftly. Sherlock approached the steps and made sure the door was closed. He then came back to the living room.

“Why won’t you let me talk to him?”

Irene’s eyes were filled with tears that spilled down her rosy cheeks.

“What are you planning on telling him? Are you ready to admit that you left him so many years ago because you were too selfish to care about anyone else but yourself?”

The words took Irene by surprise.

“It’s not like that. I had no choice. He would be in danger with me!” she needed him to understand.

“Maybe he would.” Sherlock said. “But you had eight whole years to make an appearance. And you never did. Why now?” he asked, just to continue right after, not allowing her to answer. “You know what, I don’t even care about your reasons. I raised Hamish all by myself and not even for a second did I feel the need to have you here. We can very well go on without you, just like until now. I am not going to explain to Hamish that his mother, maybe because she felt terribly guilty and has nothing else to lose now, decided to finally show up and get to know him, thinking things could go back to something they never had the chance to become. Explanations are hard enough as it is, Irene. I have raised him and I will not give him up.”

Irene knew that was a lost battle. She knew that he had beaten her. He would protect Hamish from her blindingly and there was nothing she could do about it. She had tried; it didn’t make any difference, but at least she had tried.

She came closer and held his pulse, the same electric feeling she had felt so long ago there, untouched and unchanged. He moved his own hand away from hers and looked her straight in the eyes, the message implied, the invitation to leave.

“I still love you both.” She said, assuming she had nothing to lose. “After all this time.”

And without other word she walked away, turning her back on him and disappearing into the night again. With the image of her little boy as he was now on her mind, it had been worth the try.

Sherlock saw her leaving and he closed the door behind her. He checked to make sure Hamish was still in his room and he opened the drawer of his own desk. There, among old papers he found what he was looking for. He removed the letter from its envelope and read it once again. Maybe he should have burnt it.

“What is that Papa?”

Sherlock put the letter away, startled and turned to his son.

“Nothing, Hamish. That is nothing of importance.”

His son came closer to him, pondering if he should ask.

“Who was that lady? She was crying.”

Sherlock sat on the couch, bringing Hamish with him. He placed an arm on top of his shoulders.

“That was nobody you should worry about.”

“But she wasn’t a client.” It was an affirmation.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked. He had never lied to his son and he could see him recognising a lie now.

“Well, first of all she was interacting with you with a familiarity that no client has shown before. Of course she could be someone you know and still a client, but the way you were approaching her denoted that even though you know her you weren’t pleased to see her. Then, there were her clothes. They were of good quality but used, mended in many places. A client would have to have money to come to you and the way she smelled was not of someone who has a lot of money; cheap perfume. On the other hand, she seemed like someone with good taste, someone who was in a good position in life at some point. That might not seem of importance but you don’t really relate with high society on a regular basis, and you knew this woman. If she was a client, you would have made all this remarks to her and you didn’t. Plus, it seemed that the only thing she was looking for was me.”

“How much of the conversation did you hear?” Sherlock asked. Sometimes, the skills that he had passed to his own son worked against him and he could now understand why some people were annoyed with them.

“I heard the bit where you told her to leave. You said get out and there was another reason why I am sure she was not a client; when someone is boring and you tell them to leave you are never polite, just angry. With her there was a hint of respect in all that anger.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say and Hamish saw that in his hopeless expression. He hugged his father and got up.

“It’s okay.” He said, before retiring to his room. “I know who she is.”

Sherlock was still looking at him, awaiting a reaction but Hamish didn’t seem to have one to show.

“And how are you feeling about that?”

“You are talking like Uncle John now.” Hamish remarked, smiling. He took a deep breath. “I would like to know the story and her reasons. You never told me and I never wanted to ask.  Uncle John said you would tell me when you were ready.” He thought for a moment. “I think I am willing to listen to her and try to understand her reasons. Forgive her. And maybe you should, too.”

And with that he made his way up to his room and disappeared, leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts. He read the letter again, dwelling with words and feelings. He put on his coat and checked on Hamish before leaving the house. Finding her again was not going to be easy and he just hoped he wasn’t too late. He wondered why he was giving her a second chance on this but realised that, after all these years, he already knew the answer.

[ireneadlerrp-blog]

Just a Device

Thinking a lot about Molly a lot lately and what Louise Brealey did in The Blind Banker with the few dismissive lines afforded “Miss Hooper” in this script. 

[The character] that surprised both Mark and I…the one that took us by surprise and sort of lept up was Molly Hooper played by Loo Brealey who was really a one shot deal in the pilot just a device to indicate that Sherlock Holmes has no real interest in women and is a pretty cold and deadly sort of character. She was played to utter perfection by Loo Brealey and instantly Mark and I were sitting at the monitors going we’ve got to get her back and she’s REALLY hugely developed as a character. She’s never a massive presence in the episode but because of Loo’s wonderful performance she’s really cut through and she’s a real audience favorite and she’s really the one character that’s ours. The others are all from the canon. Molly’s ours. We didn’t expect to introduce that character. It just worked so that’s not a favorite [character] but the one we didn’t expect to love so much.” -Steven Moffat (x)

This is why Molly is so puzzling, I think. They didn’t expect to love a plot device. Molly’s both just a device and the endearing creation of a rad actor who made Moftiss pay attention to what they’d blown off. Seems to me she’s not Moftiss’s character at all but Loo’s. I don’t think any of the writers can keep up with what Loo does for her.

BTW Hartswood cut the ”I think I’m Going to Die” scene from the American showing of TRF to meet Masterpiece/PBS’s time restrictions…

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Michael Price - Sherlock series 3 soundtrack (preview) part 2

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Blue Stars

“I guess you owe me something now.”

Blue eyes stared into blue, her hand curling over his wrist, the silence thick.

“You’re smarter than to make guesses, aren’t you, Miss Adler?”

The tone of Khan’s voice was almost disgusted, but she only smiled, red lips parting to show white teeth.

“I’m glad we’re acquainted,” she breathed. “Now it’s time for negotiations.”

“I could break your neck here and now.”

“But you won’t.”

Her expression was cocky, a smirk, a raised eyebrow. A part of him wanted to, yes. A part of him.

“No,” he rumbled, head tilting. “I won’t.”

He sat back, and she let go of his hand, leaned forwards in her seat. Black space and white stars shone behind the windows behind the woman, hair the color of space and skin the tone of the stars. Eyes the color of a young, burning blue star, the root of a flame.

“Good. We’re clear on that,” Irene Adler spoke, letting her words drift. “You’re brilliant, but you don’t have the resources. I did.”

“The body double was fairly accurate.”

“It was very accurate and it worked, Khan,” she spat. It was his turn to smile now. “It fooled the best of Starfleet.”

“And for that, I applaud you,” he murmured. “Many...connections.”

“I know what people like.”

She was smiling again. He despised the smile for the feeling it gave him, a terrible sense of vulnerability. She wasn’t a part of his crew. She shouldn’t matter.

“You know, you are a...different one, Mr. Singh.”

“Khan. I am Khan.”

“Let’s not get melodramatic, dear.”

He was out of his chair and standing over her within a heartbeat. He pinned her hands down on the rests of the bucket seat, eyes flashing. Much to his (hidden) dismay, she only had a brief flash of surprise before she smirked up at him defiantly.

“Khan it is, then,” she said, tone rising near the end of her remark. “First name basis.”

“Hm,” he almost laughed, releasing her and starting to slowly pace the room.

“What?” her eyes narrowed a bit irritably, but she was still nevertheless drawn to this man. “Have I missed anything?”

“You’ve missed nothing,” he assured her, looking out at the planets passing. “Nothing of...relative importance.” He gazed at the empty frontier.

“I however will be needing further assistance,” he said, turning his head sideways. He could see the slight widening of her eyes as she turned to regard him.

“And then?”

“What do you mean, 'and then'?”

“What do I get in return?”

“You...will live,” he spoke flatly. She laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound.

“If it was any other than Khan in this room, I’d roll my eyes and shoot you,” she sighed. “But just know that I was in this from the beginning.”

“Meaning?” he turned, brows barely pulled together. She reveled in the fact that she puzzled him.

“Self preservation is important, certainly,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But other motivations are just, if not more, as effective.”

The woman got to her feet and exited the room, the door shwipping closed behind her. He stared at the seat she had just vacated, lips pressed together. This would be rather troublesome, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Or did he? It didn’t matter.

Anyhow, blue stars always burned out the fastest.

---

so. um. that was my Starlock-ish Khadler-ish fic. I was horribly afraid to post it but then of course that little voice was just 'like fuck it' and here it is. ugh.

I'm wondering if I should add onto it. I've noticed a few Khooper(? not sure if that's the ship name) fics and someone else complaining under the IA tag that there was no Khadler fics. And now that I've seen STID, my muse apparently wholeheartedly agreed with them. It was a lot of fun to write though, certainly. Let me know if it sucks or whatever. c;

[ireneadlerrp-blog]

OOC

so um. I watched Star Trek Into Darkness, finally. long overdue, anyways, and my insane little voice in the back of my head said I needed to write fanfiction immediately asdfghjkl so here I am. I wrote a Khadler (Khan/Irene), naturally, kill me now. I want to post it but I'm so terrified I got everything all wrong and jesus I've been sitting with the document file open for the past thirty minutes debating.

so um. yeah. rant over. will go to reread for the trillionth time and murder myself.

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oh my god.

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Slide to the left

Take it back now y’all

Cha cha real smooth

Right foot lets stomp, left foot lets stomp

FREEZE!

Everybody clap your hands

How low can you go? Can you go down low?

All the way to the floor?

… oh

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”that show you like”

”the one you’re obsessed with”

”with the hot actors”

”that one where people die”

” FOR FUCK’S SAKE THE ONE WHERE THE MAIN CHARACTER DIES”

…

…

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wow. lara's voice asdfghjkl

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I’m still holding on to the hope that when Lara Pulver said "I’m not going to be a part of series three" and "I didn’t say you wouldn’t be seeing me", two seemingly contradictory claims, what she means is "I’m not going to be part of series three’s arc but Irene Adler was reacquainted with Sherlock Holmes during his hiatus and helped him take down Moriarty’s network while having dinner on the side”, cue flashback montage

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omfg yes.

"I am lost without my Googly Eye."

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oh my god gone for a week and you're off breaking knuckles. tsk tsk.

well fuck me

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The 'doll' stalked in silently to the ballroom, blue eyes shadowed by the masque. She hoped the few that would matter would recognize her, and the rest would leave her alone.

She wandered over to the punch, eyes darting as she took count of her surroundings. Very obviously Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to be rummaging around his pockets rather suspiciously. She'd have to thank him once he spiked the drinks. She grabbed a cupful before it was doused in stimulant, however, and as she leaned back and identified, with rather a bit of difficulty, the rest of the guests, her eyes landed on a couple of partygoers in the corner of the room.

Her eyes narrowed. About the right height for a certain pathologist. Same coloured hair, anyhow, but put up in quite a fashion. But what concerned her was the man she was sidling up to rather (awkwardly) suggestively.

Gregory Lestrade. She scowled to herself. It wasn't his fault she'd plucked up the courage to flirt with this particular, presumable 'stranger', but her hands still curled into irritated fists.

Irene's feet began to move, and before she could stop herself, she was within arms distance of the two, acting nonchalant but watching out of the corner of her eye like a cat at her prey. How was she supposed to...stop this?

It was unseasonably cold on the street outside Greg’s walkup.  Sherlock adjusted his masque over the eyepatch and sighed.  That, coupled with his elaborate pirate hat, might throw off a couple of the Yarders, but no way would any of his friends not know who it was standing in front of them when he approached.

He looked at the man standing next to him.  ”You alright?” he asked.

John’s mask, a construct of military efficiency that did nothing to detract from the elaborate 17th century naval officer uniform he wore, made him look mysterious and dashing.  He smiled.  ”Been ready.”

"And you’re sure you want the world to know about …this?" Sherlock asked, lifting their joined hands tentatively.

"Only if—you know, if you’re not ready—I can—"

"I’m ready," Sherlock said, remembering the recent adventures with and without John.  He was very ready to warn the world not to mess with Dr. Watson, or they’d have him to deal with.

"Then waiting is ridiculous," John sighed as he reached for the handle to Greg’s door.

Sherlock grinned, and they entered the party together.

[ireneadlerrp-blog]

The corset was always a bit uncomfortable to lace up at first, but the sensations disappeared soon enough. Minimal facepaint was applied with an artistic touch, but it'd not be needed very much with the special masque made for the occasion.

Her hair was let down in long, elegant curls, not quite as haughty as her usual updos. a gear placed within the dark tresses. The dress itself was simple, flirty, with a wind up key from the back of the outfit. A bit of Irene's style, but a bit more innocent that usual. She smiled deviously at her reflection in the mirror.

Kate held up her masque, and she placed it on her head, certainly the centerpiece of her outfit. Spraypainted a gleaming gunmetal-silver, with golden gear accents and hints of tasteful glitter about the edges.

Her lighter-shaded red lips pressed together in satisfaction. Yes. This would do.

Irene stood before her new closet. It was smaller than what she originally had in Belgravia, before the cameraphone business and such, but it’d have to do. Most of her clothes had been stored away anyways, and she was lucky that she managed to recover them.

Her eyes traveled over the different…

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Can you all look at this:

It’s adorable Benedict. In Lara’s twitter account.

Oh, that’s not enough for you? Here you go:

OH MY GOD I SHIP IT.

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