Keeping the Strength to Fight

Chapter 2- Sherlock

Sherlock sat... 

Before he sprung up, the answer becoming clear in his mind, and rushed to the door, shouting; "I've figured it out! I know where she is!" 

He had just put his new brown coat on over his purple check shirt and jeans when he stopped, realising yet again that there was nobody else in the room. 

He had come accustomed to John being sat with him, and still hadn't adjusted his voice to compensate for the fact that he now lived alone, again. 

He opened the door and began briskly waking to his destination. He missed it, a bit. Living with John. But he couldn't stay; obviously! And no one could know he was alive; also obvious.  

He had to shut down Moriarty's inner circle. After that, the whole thing would come crumbling down. A shame really, it was a novel idea, and a well functioning one at that. Not many of them around these days. 

However, Sherlock had come across an issue. Not something he was used to finding.  

Because Moriarty had shot himself, quite profusely, in the head, there was no real link to any of his followers.  

Except one. One person he knew would have some information on where the illusive followers were. 

So that's why he was here, having tracked her down to Paris, finally heading to the location he knew she lived. 

Irene Adler.

He hated getting help, it made him look lost and stupid.  

He smirked at that, "Lost and stupid? I'm getting sentimental. Me? stupid? Ha!" 

He rounded the corner to her house. He had moved into the vicinity he knew she would be, but he never realised how close he was, just a mere five blocks away.  

Sherlock wondered if she had already figured out he was alive. Of course she would have heard the news, even though it wasn't considered 'important' in Paris, she still had informants running around after her every whim. 

Pitiful really. 

He found the right adress and subtly checked around him, cautious of anyone watching, before knocking on the black front door.  

A tired looking Irene appeared, with her 'ok, you better start talking before I rip your throat out' look, before realising who was stood at her doorway, and being physically taken aback by the early morning visitor. 

Sherlock smirked. "It seemed she didn't know." He thought smugly. 

He cocked his head to the side as he waited for Miss Adler to compose herself. While furrowing her brows in confusion, she was presently opening and closing her mouth like a drowned fish.  

What a stupid metaphor. 

One she had regained the miracle of speech, she began to ask a question. 

"Bu-but, you're... but... how...?" 

She then resumed to acting like a fish. 

Sherlock sighed, she should have kept her mouth shut, that really was an awful attempt at speech, she sounded like a pre-schooler. 

"Pre-schooler?" He questioned again, "I've been spending too much time in America..." 

And speaking of shutting mouths... 

"What are you trying to do, catch flies?" He said in his usual, cinical tone. 

Irene snapped her mouth shut and took a deep breath. Gritting her teeth, she smiled and said  

"How did you do it?" 

"Please, like I would tell you that!" 

She frowned and stepped to the side."Would you like to come in?" 

Finally.

"That would probably be for the best as I have been stood here for at least..." He checked his nonexistent watch. "Four minutes and its beginning to look rarther suspicious." 

"Speaking of suspicious." She said as Sherlock stepped in. "What are you doing here, its dangerous, you know that." 

"Never stopped me before." He said, a hint of playfulness lacing his voice.

Irene just shrugged, before smiling sweetly and saying;

"Nice hair." 

"Don't." Sherlock warned.

"Aww, but look! You look like goldilock's long lost brother!" 

"It's not funny." 

"Oh, it really is." She said, grinning. 

"I had to dye it blonde! It was too recognizable!" He said grumpily as he followed her to the stairs.

She lead him into the spacious apartment, and as he looked around, he began to deduce. 

She's had only 4, no, 5 men round in the last few months, a personal record I must say, so obviously she's deeply troubled by recent events. What recent events, though, could have contributed to this drastic change? The furniture has lost its previous vividness, partly because of her move to france, a ploy to blend in no doubt, as well as a portrayal of her emotional state. Everything is just as stylish though, so its not something to do with her life that is troubling her. Probably a family member or friend. Charcoal and dust in the fireplace is formed in a rectangular outline on the base, but its obvious that the fire hasn't been used recently, so why the build up of ash? Inference; something in the roof has been dislodged recently, releasing the dust and ash from the gaps. But in that tight a rectangle? It can only be some kind of box. Conclusion; a container, or more probably, safe, is hidden there.  

Small, yet deep, imprints can be found near the windows, obviously where she has been stood in stillettoes for long lengths of time, at regular intervals. Probably checking for people who could be watching her, so she fears someone has found out shes alive, probably through my death. Furniture has been moved 6 times since she moved in so is having trouble settling, she misses London and is finding it difficult to adjust. 

He smirked and glanced at her clothing. 

Casual, wasn't planning on going anywhere, and the lack of seductive makeup shows no one is coming here. Tiny rip at the back on the left side of her dress shows she has been preoccupied recently, so much so that she hasn't noticed the wear in her clothing. The ends of the dress are crumpled, showing where she has been playing with them to relieve stress, and failing by the looks of the faint bags under her eyes and the worry lines that are set into her face. She's been under pressure for some time now. For what? Work? No... more likely for the same reason she keeps checking out the window. Miss Adler doesn't get worried over nothing, something serious is after her, something that won't hesitate in killing her. 

A mystery.

Sherlock smiled.

He liked mysteries.