Hounded
Sherlock Holmes AU fic for the kinkchat cageverse! Totally not my idea on either count. PG, gen.
It's raining when Irene comes, like it nearly always is, because rain obliterates her tracks and makes her another umbrella-shrouded face in the crowd. She has done well for herself, he sees immediately. She is clean, in her skirts and coats and hat, and her perfume drifts into his cage when she is near. Imported from Egypt, except that judging by her tan she went and got it herself. She has brown hair, which according to the stray hairs at the back of her neck was red last week. Her hat is pulled over her eyes. She is dressed all in blue, which suits her less than red, but still suits her. Most things do. She leans against the bars of his cage without looking at him, or without appearing to, and pulls out a silver cigarette case. She lights a cigarette and he can see that she has no ring -- Miss Adler once again, and probably the richer for it.
"I presume you are here to see what could have been," Holmes says, "Or to gloat, perhaps?"
She takes a long drag and says nothing. Her hair is damp and straggling down her neck. He can't see her face. Her silence is made all the worse by the hissing rain around them. Except for the canopy in front of Holmes' cage, they are enveloped in white noise. He can hear every unmeasured breath she takes, every absentminded, nervous, sigh. Irene is very nearly worried.
"Surely this isn't a social visit," he continues, and she laughs under her breath. There is something bleak about it. It rolls up from the back of her throat and barely escapes her mouth.
"You couldn't play the idiot," she murmurs. Anyone walking by would think she was talking to herself.
"It's never been in my repertoire," he says solemnly.
She passes the lit cigarette back to him through a memorized sleight-of-hand. She has left lipstick on the filter, vibrant red against the white, and he takes a slow drag. "Imports," he says as he breathes it out. The smoke bites his throat and swirls up, away, out into the rain to mingle with the rest of the smog and the shit. He passes it back to her. She's not paying attention, and ash falls onto her white glove.
"Oh," she says, "Yes. Always."
"Where do you plan to go next, Miss Adler?" he asks, taking in the delicate red flowers in her hat, the white detail on her dress. "Back home?"
She hardly nods. There is tension in the white stretch of her neck and in her shoulders. Her head bobs forward when she sucks down smoke. "For a while."
"And then. . . "
"You must know I can't say."
"Of course," he says, "Of course. I look forward to hearing of your future exploits."
She snaps the cigarette case shut decisively and stands up straight. She is in the act of walking away when she speaks. He can't hear her voice, but he learned to read lips very quickly. "You won't hear." And she leaves. First he stops hearing the swish of her dress. Second the click of her shoes. Third, the rain covers her, and she is just a blurry blue shape, and fourth she is nothing at all.
Holmes sighs and picks up the handkerchief that she left at the edge of his cage. It's wrapped around a red-stained cigarette filter. Irene Adler is going underground, it would appear. There is little hope for anyone else if that is true. Watson should be coming by soon, he thinks, and sure enough he's already making his way through the curtains of rain. He is soaking wet and leaning heavily on his cane. His mustache is bedraggled with the water. He looks vaguely put out. "Did you know that woman?" he asks.
"Not in the slightest," Holmes says simply, and passes him Irene's handkerchief so he can dry his face. Watson won't notice, but it smells distinctly of Egypt, not just perfume but the Nile and sand and heat, ash, cigarettes, sex, wealth. This is all Irene has to offer him; miles and miles of scent. It seems that now she will not even offer that. Still and all, anything is better than what he smells now. Anything, even scents he can't remember how to place, is better than London.
It's raining when Irene comes, like it nearly always is, because rain obliterates her tracks and makes her another umbrella-shrouded face in the crowd. She has done well for herself, he sees immediately. She is clean, in her skirts and coats and hat, and her perfume drifts into his cage when she is near. Imported from Egypt, except that judging by her tan she went and got it herself. She has brown hair, which according to the stray hairs at the back of her neck was red last week. Her hat is pulled over her eyes. She is dressed all in blue, which suits her less than red, but still suits her. Most things do. She leans against the bars of his cage without looking at him, or without appearing to, and pulls out a silver cigarette case. She lights a cigarette and he can see that she has no ring -- Miss Adler once again, and probably the richer for it.
"I presume you are here to see what could have been," Holmes says, "Or to gloat, perhaps?"
She takes a long drag and says nothing. Her hair is damp and straggling down her neck. He can't see her face. Her silence is made all the worse by the hissing rain around them. Except for the canopy in front of Holmes' cage, they are enveloped in white noise. He can hear every unmeasured breath she takes, every absentminded, nervous, sigh. Irene is very nearly worried.
"Surely this isn't a social visit," he continues, and she laughs under her breath. There is something bleak about it. It rolls up from the back of her throat and barely escapes her mouth.
"You couldn't play the idiot," she murmurs. Anyone walking by would think she was talking to herself.
"It's never been in my repertoire," he says solemnly.
She passes the lit cigarette back to him through a memorized sleight-of-hand. She has left lipstick on the filter, vibrant red against the white, and he takes a slow drag. "Imports," he says as he breathes it out. The smoke bites his throat and swirls up, away, out into the rain to mingle with the rest of the smog and the shit. He passes it back to her. She's not paying attention, and ash falls onto her white glove.
"Oh," she says, "Yes. Always."
"Where do you plan to go next, Miss Adler?" he asks, taking in the delicate red flowers in her hat, the white detail on her dress. "Back home?"
She hardly nods. There is tension in the white stretch of her neck and in her shoulders. Her head bobs forward when she sucks down smoke. "For a while."
"And then. . . "
"You must know I can't say."
"Of course," he says, "Of course. I look forward to hearing of your future exploits."
She snaps the cigarette case shut decisively and stands up straight. She is in the act of walking away when she speaks. He can't hear her voice, but he learned to read lips very quickly. "You won't hear." And she leaves. First he stops hearing the swish of her dress. Second the click of her shoes. Third, the rain covers her, and she is just a blurry blue shape, and fourth she is nothing at all.
Holmes sighs and picks up the handkerchief that she left at the edge of his cage. It's wrapped around a red-stained cigarette filter. Irene Adler is going underground, it would appear. There is little hope for anyone else if that is true. Watson should be coming by soon, he thinks, and sure enough he's already making his way through the curtains of rain. He is soaking wet and leaning heavily on his cane. His mustache is bedraggled with the water. He looks vaguely put out. "Did you know that woman?" he asks.
"Not in the slightest," Holmes says simply, and passes him Irene's handkerchief so he can dry his face. Watson won't notice, but it smells distinctly of Egypt, not just perfume but the Nile and sand and heat, ash, cigarettes, sex, wealth. This is all Irene has to offer him; miles and miles of scent. It seems that now she will not even offer that. Still and all, anything is better than what he smells now. Anything, even scents he can't remember how to place, is better than London.