Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance/Angst - Irene A., Sherlock H., John W. - Words: 1,890 - Status: Complete
FF.Net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9289887/1/Proof-in-a-Password
Also available at AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/801910
Author's Note: The fascinating characters and brilliant series do not belong to me. Spoilers for "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Episode 1, Season 2) from "Sherlock".
Info:
[1] A quote taken from "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Episode 1, Season 2) from "Sherlock".
[2] A quote taken from "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Episode 1, Season 2) from "Sherlock".
[3] A quote taken from "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Episode 1, Season 2) from "Sherlock".
[4] A quote taken from "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Episode 1, Season 2) from "Sherlock".
I AM SHER LOCKED.
When we first met you told me that disguise is always a self portrait – how true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements. [1]
His name was Sherlock Holmes.
But this, this is far more intimate. This is your heart. And you should never let it rule your head. You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you worked for. [2]
Names were important in her profession. In a vocation where the bodies were faceless tools of self-gratification, without memorable identity, names – real, honest, genuine – meant knowledge, emotional intimacy, emotional attachment.
Irene Adler was well-versed in this game; people knew her, they loathed her, they feared her, they loved her, they needed her.
They thought of her.
They remembered her.
She existed in their minds; her name an indelible mark on their memories.
To her, they were just clients; instruments she played her composition on, looking deep into their hearts, their souls, and using their pleasure to give herself pleasure.
They were replaceable.
But you just couldn't resist it, could you? [3]
Then, Sherlock Holmes came along, and she had changed her password.
I AM SHER LOCKED.
He had become an existence in her mind that she could not forget; his name an indelible mark on her memories. Irene didn't quite know why she had done what she did.
Why had she changed her password to his name?
Why had she stolen his phone, and changed her own personal text tone in it? Why had she texted him? Why had she waited for his reply?
Why had she been ecstatic when he finally did reply?
Why had her thoughts turned to him when her end had been near? Why had she instantly believed that he had been there, amongst the terrorists, not because he had wanted her dead, but because he had come to her rescue?
Why had she wanted to be able to trust him?
Why had she wanted his name on something that belonged to her?
On something that was intimate and close to heart?
Because he was right; she had not been able to resist it.
The detective had matched her - wit for wit, technique for technique, blood for blood – stirring in her veins a passion she had not felt since she stopped being just a woman; since she had become The Woman. He had fascinated her, intrigued her, aroused her – mentally, physically.
Emotionally.
She hadn't been lying when she had mocked Sherlock's accusations that she had had feelings for him; she, herself, hadn't realized.
At least, not the true extent of it.
Because I took your pulse. [4]
His words had hit her like a sledgehammer; revealing to her what he suspected, what she had only begun to recognize.
And, the answer – there was only one – to her questions was simple.
Sherlock Holmes had made her – Irene Adler, serial professional seductress, proud distant dominatrix, The Woman – fall in love; deeply, passionately, irrevocably in love.
Names meant emotional intimacy, emotional attachment; she had changed her password to his name because her body, her heart, had already recognized the desire she had not even known.
She hadn't been able to resist it.
She hadn't been able to resist him.
That was why she changed her personal text tone – because she wanted to be different from everyone else.
That was why she had texted him – because she wanted to leave him proof of her existence.
That was why she was overcome with delight when he texted her back – because it meant that he acknowledged her existence.
That was why she had wanted to believe that he was there, not as an enemy, but as someone she could rely on, someone she could trust – because it meant that he cared enough to chase her, to save her.
And, the reason why she had wanted his name on something intimate, something close to her heart?
It was because she wanted him to see how much she loved him; that she had loved him enough for his name to be the key to her phone.
I AM SHER LOCKED.
The password to her heart.
The younger Holmes boy had been right – the phone was her heart. It kept all her secrets; it was her protection. She couldn't live without it; she would die to protect it. Taken from her, it meant her death, her destruction.
Taken from her, it would break her.
But, you see, she was right too. Sherlock had something just like that phone of hers – it was his heart. It kept all his secrets – it knew things that Sherlock would have never told anyone else, had seen things that Sherlock would have never let anyone else see; it was his protection – reliable and trusted in a way Sherlock never trusted anything, anyone; it had watched his back, protected Sherlock in a way that nobody else could.
He had not realized it yet, but she knew; he had come to need that heart of his, couldn't live without it. Still, he was making progress; he had already realized that he would die to protect it – of that she had no doubt.
Because taken from him, it meant his death, his destruction.
Taken from him, it would break him.
The one thing – the only thing – that could break Sherlock Holmes.
And, it wasn't her.
Irene knew that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't forget her; she was The Woman.
But, though Irene knew she had made an impression – he had mourned her death; he had risked his life to rescue her, spirited her away from his country, under the nose of his own brother – she also knew that what she wanted of him, she could never have.
He would never forget her.
But, he would never be hers.
She looked pensively at the phone.
I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED.
Four letters; the password that unlocked the phone, chosen and selected by the user.
The password that had been a symbol for her; a symbol that she knew could also be applied to the man of her thoughts.
Sherlock, for all his act and bluster, wasn't all that different from her; a detective and a dominatrix, careers that allowed for no emotion, no weakness.
It, however, did not mean that they were indifferent, that they couldn't feel, couldn't be tempted by what they both scoffed at as said weakness.
I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED.
It may not have been the key to Sherlock's phone, but it was the password to his heart.
A name; just as his name had been the password to hers.
A name; a password that she knew.
And, he had had the gall to call her out on her disguise; her self-portrait.
On how she had proven him right; that love was a dangerous disadvantage.
What did it then say about him; about the man who knew of such danger, and yet had allowed himself to fall into that very trap?
Just as he recognized the signs in her – because he was a detective, the best of his profession, the only one of his kind, who made a living reading people – she recognized the signs in him.
She was a seductress – the best of her profession, the only one of her kind – who made a living reading people, knowing their secret desires – even the ones that they did not see in themselves, the ones that they themselves did not know – and she recognized the signs in him.
Just like her, his body and his heart had already recognize that, and though he, himself, had yet to realize it, there was simply no denying it.
Sherlock Holmes could never be hers because he already belonged to someone else.
Irene also knew who that person was, and she could see the attraction.
I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED.
She had been attracted to Sherlock because they had been similar, so similar; two strong forces that pushed at each other, hard and challenging in a way that both had never encountered in anyone else.
This person that Sherlock was attracted to was different, so very different, from him, from them; soft where they were hard, warm where they were cold, completely ordinary and unmemorable where they utterly conspicuous and unforgettable.
But, there was also a core of steel beneath the softness – forged and dangerous – a brittle iciness when the warmth melted, and a soul that was extraordinary, different, when all that was ordinary was stripped away.
Irene was not a renowned dominatrix for nothing, and like how she could see into the deepest desires of her clients, she caught a glimpse of what had attracted the detective so.
This person was different from them, quite the opposite.
But, more than that, this person was their mirror opposite; similar enough to understand, to accept, yet with enough differences to intrigue, to fascinate.
To complete.
The half that made them whole.
Or, maybe, that was why he had been so thoroughly ensnared?
Even more so than she had been.
Irene was a dominatrix; she loved power.
She was also drawn to it; drunk on the emotional intensity, addicted to the power of the game.
Sherlock was a detective; he loved that which was not known.
He was also drawn to it; drunk on curiosity, addicted to the need to see what nobody saw, the need to know what nobody else knew.
She loved Sherlock, the emotional intensity from their battle of wits, their battle for control, the want to control him, to bend him to her will; a dangerous, intriguing sentiment that made her pulse flutter.
Sherlock loved danger, the curiosity of not knowing what the future held; he thrived on the thrill of gambling against the odds, of risking his life, his blood pulsing with adrenaline.
She loved the secrets her phone held, secrets that gave her power over the most powerful; an insurance that ensured her personal and professional survival.
He loved the secrets people kept from him, secrets that he relished in knowing even as he unveiled them; puzzles that his mind needed to survive the mundaneness of life.
But, the phone itself? It was just a device.
And, her love for Sherlock? It was completely different matter.
But, the one thing that combined the all of Sherlock's greatest loves? It was a person.
And, his love for that person? It was greater than all his other loves combined.
No, Irene had not been able to resist it.
But, neither had he.
And, what he had, it was far more intimate.
Far more dangerous.
Irene had not given him the final proof – she had escaped, survived.
She wondered if he would.
I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED.
Image Credits: Abby Taylor @ Pinterest
