``my mind //rebels// at {stagnation} >open<

[Sherlock Holmes]

Walking the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes had seen a lot. He'd seen criminals and citizens, dastardly plots and ordinary homes. He'd stopped said criminals, exposed said plots, and made things generally safer in London. He'd talked to the citizens involved, been welcomed into their homes to help, and he'd completed his obligations, so there was no further communications.

And yet, he'd stumbled across something he hadn't seen. There was a stray kitten following at his heels, and despite everything he did, it wouldn't leave him alone. He decided just to ignore it, and of course, it followed him everywhere he went.

The cat was a domestic shorthair, barely six weeks old and malnourished, but it seemed sort of happy to have someone at least pay a little bit of attention to it. It was predominantly black, with white whiskers, paws, a white chest, stomach and what looked like a mustache. Its green-gold eyes were quite large, the pupils vertical but slightly wide as the clouds were covering the sun. Most would probably call it "cute."

It might be nice to not have the apartment to himself for once, even if his only company was a kitten. Watson had moved out to be with his soon-to-be wife, and in the months afterwards, he'd sort of gotten... lonely. Watson was practically his brother, and he was missing his faithful friend and biographer. Of course, he could barely admit it to himself, but he'd gotten quite attached to the doctor. He could only hope that Watson was dealing with their separation better than he himself was.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the kitten was still following him, looking up at him with those large eyes, and he turned back around, continuing on his walk. It would be nice, indeed.

[Irene Adler]

Once again, the London day had proven to be rather bleak. The gray skies and threat of rain were nothing but normal for English. For an American born woman, however, sunshine and blue skies were a bit of a necessity. In fact, part of the reason she had taken up residence in the remote English countryside was because of the blue skies. Though, her isolation did not last long, as Irene was a people-person. To thrive successfully, and be at her best, she needed the hustle and bustle of the city. More than anything else, her explicit need of keeping herself from insanity had brought Miss Irene Adler to the city for the next few weeks.

Irene had a grin of sheer confidence upon her face as she walked gracefully through the crowds. She had long since learned how to maneuver through crowded sidewalks while wearing a bustle ensemble, though she knew she’d have an easier time if she were dressed as a man. Still, Irene had plenty of errands which required a woman’s delicate touch. A touch she knew would win her a shiny new prize at the end.

It had always been a matter of time before Miss Adler fell back to her old schemes. She had, after all, come full circle in her usual pattern. One major heist, whether it involved conning of some sort or just her extraordinary sneaky skills, and then she dropped from sight. A few trips here, perhaps a vacation there, and then a return to one of her residences in order to clear her head. All the while fighting off the impending insanity from months of being alone. All reasons why Irene Adler brought herself to London. Of course, she hadn’t really expected to catch sight of Sherlock Holmes while merely walking down a sidewalk.

She had turned a corner. One meaningless corner, and it had brought her to the backside of Sherlock Holmes. His backside and a small kitten at his heels, to be precise. Irene had never seen anything of the sort before. A stray dog following someone’s feet, of course! But a kitten? What treasures this city held! Irene followed him, though at a respectably safe distance, and she had to stifle her laughter at the small animal. Surely he wouldn’t lead it home? Surely this creature had a mother somewhere awaiting its return home? Irene felt the other possibility for the kitten was more dangerous than living on a street corner. A home with Holmes? Irene Adler didn’t even think she could survive that fate.

Unable to stand the sight any longer, she picked up her pace until she was right on the man. Though, instead of reaching out to him, she bent herself at the waist of her corset and picked up the kitten in a single hand. The thing weighed less than her change purse, and its fur was visibly stained with the muck of the street. Had she ever let herself feel emotions, Irene might have felt a pang of pity and sorrow for the animal. However, she smiled and held the kitten between her hand and the lapel of her coat. ”One would think Gladstone might have a thing or two to howl about should his master arrive home with a kitten,” In her mind, she was referring to the second glance Holmes had entertained, ”Though he might be relieved to have another lab rat on hand.”

Irene stood there, her eyes staring at Holmes, awaiting a response if any. She hadn’t seen him since that day atop the Tower Bridge when he had handcuffed her and slipped that key into her shirt. She began to wonder if he had even expected to see her again.

[Sherlock Holmes]

”One would think Gladstone might have a thing or two to howl about should his master arrive home with a kitten. Though he might be relieved to have another lab rat on hand."

The familiar voice made Sherlock stop in his tracks. The last time he'd heard it, he'd left her handcuffed on the unfinished Tower Bridge. Of course, he'd given her the key, but he definitely hadn't expected to cross paths with her quite so soon. Though, the "lab rat" comment was hardly necessary. Gladstone hadn't been a lab rat; he was He composed himself, letting the other Londoners walk by him as he turned around to face her.

"Gladstone isn't here, Miss Adler. Watson is married now; he's off with his wife, and Gladstone is off with them." he replied, his voice nor his face showing any sign of his thoughts, though his eyes shone with a bit of an amused glint. She had to have some reason for coming to him, even if she had happened upon him by chance. Judging from the look on her face - that of confidence and mastery - she had set her eyes on some lofty prize of no doubt priceless value. He would make sure to remind himself to watch for it, for he knew her style when he saw it.

He entertained a few thoughts about what her next heist would be, but his attentions were grabbed not too soon after by the little kitten as it started to squirm in Irene's grasp. It didn't have the strength to get out of her arms, but it definitely wanted to. He was slightly intrigued as the cat looked directly at him, then pushed against Irene's arm harder. It made him start to wonder what exactly he'd done to get the kitten so attached.

[Irene Adler]

While some might have taken offense to Holmes’ complete disregard of pleasantries and proper manners, Irene reveled in his habit. The man never treated her any differently just because she was a woman. Irene had always felt Sherlock was more tedious of her because she was a woman. One might say Miss Adler was ahead of her time in wanting to be seen as an equal to men, rather than a possession. Although, even she had to admit being seen as a prize to be won had its advantages. Men seemed to work so much harder for your attention and affection once they knew you could be stolen away. They practically groveled to Irene on a good night. Which she was hoping tonight would be a good night. Until, of course, she had spotted Sherlock.

The man had a nasty tendency of spoiling her fun. Whether it was for sport or just plain curiosity, she did not care. For a time, she used to think her tricks had their affect on the great detective as well, but she soon realized he was not as susceptible as some people. It seemed almost as if their attraction was based solely upon a battle of wits with just a hint of needless flirtation mixed in. No matter how you broke it down, their relationship, if you could even call it one, was rather odd for their day.

At this moment in time, however, neither of them was a threat to the other. Irene kept her eyes locked on Sherlock, even despite the kitten pushing against the lapel of her jacket. The corner’s of her lips threatened to twitch upwards into a larger smile as they stood facing each other. ”I understand the last time I popped in on you it was a bit of surprise that ended in near death experiences, but I think that hardly condones you just staring at me.” It was one of her sly little humors, no offense intended. Not that Holmes would even bother taking offense to her words.

”I can assure you, Sherlock, today’s meeting is purely by chance. I’m not in town for long.” It was an assurance she had gotten used to letting him know whenever she happened by. He was the only man who seemed relatively paranoid at Irene just showing up unannounced. She supposed he had good reason to be paranoid, though. The last time she showed up, she had introduced him to a new foe. A clever foe; Professor Moriarty. Well, that and she nearly got him blown up, and had most definitely drugged him.

[Sherlock Holmes]

”I understand the last time I popped in on you it was a bit of surprise that ended in near death experiences, but I think that hardly condones you just staring at me.”

Near death experiences? Of course. On a dangerous case like Blackwood's, Sherlock knew, there would always be near death experiences, and some would lose their lives. Five innocent women, a ginger haired midget, and two men of that odd order that Blackwood and Coward had belonged to had been murdered. Blackwood himself had attempted to asphyxiate the entire population of Parliament with cyanide, as well as Watson, Irene and himself with manpower or explosives on at least four occasions. In each case, there was a possibility of danger and death, and sometimes, they were a certainty.

And staring? He hadn't been staring at her, he'd been looking at the cat in her hand. Looking from the feline to Irene's smiling face, he took note of the humor in her voice, and felt a bit compelled to respond in the same fashion. "It wasn't you I was staring at, Miss Adler. The little one in your grasp seems to want to be put down." he replied, a bit of sarcasm lacing his words. He knew that she meant no offense by it, and it was one of the few pleasures he had found in speaking wit her. He found that he rather enjoyed their banter, though it wasn't as amusing as his and Watson's.

And yet again, his thoughts went back to his long-time friend, and, for all intents and purposes, brother. He felt that he could begrudge John a bit of selfishness, as going off with his wife had been the only selfish thing he'd done in the years they had lived together. He would have at least liked to see John occasionally, as his presence had a calming, yet stimulating effect on his mind. He'd fallen into those black depressions more often as of late, and the syringe in its black box had seemed all the more tempting. But he wouldn't do it. John would be horrified. The good doctor had always condemned his cocaine use, calling it his only vice, and had helped him to get away from it. His reminiscing on his old friend was interrupted when Irene spoke again.

”I can assure you, Sherlock, today’s meeting is purely by chance. I’m not in town for long.”

By chance, she said. He didn't exactly buy it. Last time she'd happened upon him, the ball was set in motion to a very peculiar chain of events. She'd asked him to find a certain ginger midget. In doing so, he and Watson had been investigating said midget's laboratory when the huge man came in. He'd been nearly choked to death, Watson had nearly been killed, but they'd gotten out of it rather unharmed, though John had lost the ring he wanted to use to propose to his then-girlfriend.

Then, they had seen the same big guy at a shipyard, and he'd had to fight him. Watson had come in after a while, having wanted to leave to see said girlfriend, but he'd come back. Apparently, Sherlock had been knocked unconscious in the middle of the fight, and came to later, only to see that the chain attached to the ship - which was then sinking in the Thames - had ripped itself out of the ground and was barreling right towards him. John had saved him there, having seen it before he had and forcing him down. Though they'd ended up under arrest for property damage.

After that had been the adventure across the Thames, where he and Watson had saved her from getting burnt to charcoal and cut open like a pig. Then, trying to get back to the craft they came on, Blackwood was waiting for them, and had prepared rigged explosives. John had accidentally tripped the switch, but had stopped them from following him too closely and took the brunt of the explosions himself. Sherlock was glad his friend had done that, but the cost was high: the wood of the dock had become shrapnel and had hurt him more than the detective was comfortable with. His best friend had almost died there; it wasn't something he could get over that easily.

And of course, what recounting of these events would be complete without mentioning what exactly she'd done to him? She'd broken into his house and woken him up to give him a case that was all too easy, though the man involved was complicated indeed. She'd drugged him, taken advantage of him, stripped him, then handcuffed him to her bed with only a pillow covering him. And it was a small pillow, mind you. Then there was the adventure with saving her across the Thames. When they'd found out about Blackwood's cyanide plot, she'd blown their cover, and when the coast was clear, she'd stolen the cyanide chambers and run off. She'd nearly gotten herself killed as Blackwood pushed her off the unfinished Tower Bridge. And finally, she'd revealed to him her "employer," Professor James Moriarty. Quite a record.

"Somehow, I have a hard time believing that." he said, the previous thought process crossing his mind in less than a few seconds. "You never could stay too long away; you like the excitement of the city too much." A half smile graced his face, though the amused glint in his eyes was harder to trace. Paired together, they were proof of the fact that he was enjoying himself. He'd been so used to John's presence in the small space of Baker Street, he'd forgotten how it felt to be alone. Talking to anyone who wasn't a client was extremely welcome.

His attentions turned back to the cat once again, as it had started to meow pitifully. Irene's earlier "lab rat" comment came back to his mind. Experimentation was a way to keep his mind working, for he detested the dark moods that came over him when he wasn't doing something. Gladstone had merely suffered an aftereffect of that. He was far from a lab rat; he was a loyal canine for putting up with his experiments for so long. Sherlock would definitely try not to experiment on him... if he and his master ever came back.

[Irene Adler]

With a roll of her eyes, she set the mangy little beast down on one of the many stoops beside them. It was no longer a factor of curiosity to her, and it need not be said that Irene Adler was not a fan of felines. This fact was very common knowledge. Or so she expected it would be to the great Sherlock Holmes. He did have a whole file on her, after all. Well, a file on someone who resembled her quite well, rather. Seeing as none of the papers ever had a name to go with their stories. That was Irene, however. Present, in full force one day, and the next she was gone. Much like wind rasping between the buildings of London.

Stealing her eyes away from the kitten for what she expected to be the last time, Irene fixed them upon Holmes. Part of her wondered how he was getting on without the good Doctor. Surely he wouldn't be pining away his days in darkness and solitude? No, how could he? He was on the sidewalk, amidst a gaggle of Londoners. He seemed rather chipper, or as chipper as she supposed Holmes could be. For two with such a long past together, Irene was beginning to realize how little they really knew about each other. Still, there was that never ending attraction between thief and thief-catcher. She guessed it would never cease.

"Oh, Sherlock," her tone was nearly matronly, as if a mother laughing lightheartedly at her son's newest wild tale of fantasy. It was a tone Irene had perfected in the presence of Sherlock. A tone that was needed, apparently, as his irrational paranoid behavior seemed to win him over whenever she was near. For a moment, she wondered if trying to convince him of their honest run-in being nothing more than coincidence was even worth the breath she'd use. Deciding against it, she merely tilted her head to the side slightly, and allowed her smile to expand warmly. Knowing full well this would not ease his suspicions, Irene decided playing a role was more fun. "You worry too much. I fear that will be the death of you, rather than a revolver to the head."

Straightening herself, she shrugged lightly and prepared her coat and dress to move forward, "Still, I cannot convince you of anything, nor could I ever. I suppose I should just be on my way then?" Irene moved forward slightly, just enough so that her step brought her shoulder right next to his. There was just a hint of pleading in her voice. Pleading, asking him to take a leap and talk to her. But that wasn't Holmes, was it? The sad thought ran through her mind. He didn't do mindless conversation, at least he never had with her. Though, what had they ever needed to discuss before? Other than the reasons he was chasing her down, and whatever it was she had stolen?

[Sherlock Holmes]

"Oh, Sherlock. You worry too much. I fear that will be the death of you, rather than a revolver to the head."

Sherlock's grin widened a bit. Her tone was playful, an aspect of her personality that he found extremely intriguing. She seemed extremely carefree, yet confident and precise. He never had to choose his words carefully around her, because he knew that she wouldn't take offense if he was particularly blunt. In his eyes, she wasn't a woman, but the woman. She was the only one worth noticing. In a time where women were meant to be ladies, she had the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men.

In the end, she was one of the few people he thought of as a person instead of just a unit. She, Mycroft and Watson were the only ones. Everyone else was just a unit, and he wouldn't get attached to his clients. His thoughts turned, once again, to Watson, but he managed to stop himself before he induced a depression. He really needed to stop doing that. He was going to drive himself into depression rather quickly at this rate. He just couldn't get Watson off his mind.

"Still, I cannot convince you of anything, nor could I ever. I suppose I should just be on my way then?"

The grin nearly fell off his face. She wanted to leave? Already? Normally, he would have just let her go, but months without any sort of human contact had left him a bit more welcome to the idea of just talking with her. Any presence was better than none at all, and he might have considered himself lucky that it was her, instead of someone else. He'd also caught the tone of her voice, that pleading tone that showed what she wanted. She wanted him to chase after her, instead of just walking away and leaving her to her own devices.

He was acutely conscious of her shoulder against his, and the back of his hand accidentally brushed hers. He didn't want to just let her leave and be left to himself again, because he'd just fall into a depression the minute he thought of the past. Watson was gone, and there wasn't any way to get him to come back. He'd just have to deal with that. But Irene was right there. He could talk to her, right?

"Why so soon? Do you have somewhere you need to be?" he asked her. On the surface, it was just a simple question, and could be attributed to his professional curiosity. But his true intention was to get her to stay. He didn't want to be alone anymore, and if he could delay the impending depression that resulted from his loneliness, he would. Talking to her was always enjoyable, especially when it wasn't strictly professional. He also sort of wanted to get to know her a bit better, as all he knew was the thief in Irene Adler.

[Irene Adler]

The smile was unmistakable as she stared at the street before her. In profile, as she was to Holmes, Irene was sure she looked pleased by his inquiry as to her sudden departure. In actuality, it was a wicked little grin Irene possessed whenever she received exactly what she wanted. In this case, she had gained an upper hand. Holmes wanted her to stay, or in any case, he was craving some sort of companionship. For Irene, this also meant companionship of a sort. Something she had been wanting for a long time. Being cooped up in a country estate, where there was lots of open space was becoming increasingly difficult for Miss Adler to stomach. People were the most interesting part of her life. After all, people were how she made her money.

"Well, I'm sure I can work you into my daily schedule, Sherlock," She smiled coyly, "All you had to do was ask." Irene turned her head towards the man, and raised her brow with an air of curiosity.

Irene was not one to hold grudges, nor was she one to judge too harshly. Sure, she and Sherlock had their differences. He caught thieves and criminals for a living, and she was a thief for a living. Still, there is something to be said for those so different who attract each other the way Irene and Sherlock did. Not even she could put a correct label on the force that pulled her towards the man. He was frustrating, brilliant, enticing, and a complete idiot on modern socialization, but she was still always coming back to him.

"So?" Her tone was expectant. In truth, Irene was waiting for the man to propose something. Should it not be any more than just a stroll through the London streets, Irene was willing and waiting. Surely, Sherlock was smart enough he could suss out this much?

[Sherlock Holmes]

"Well, I'm sure I can work you into my daily schedule, Sherlock. All you had to do was ask."

Looking past the provocative nature of the words, Sherlock confirmed that she wanted him to stay. As usual, she had twisted the conversation around to make him be the one to ask, but at this moment in time, he didn't really mind it too much. After staying in that empty house for so long, any kind of human contact was welcome. He didn't know why he kept running across her, but he was glad for it today. He wanted to talk to someone, for some sort of distraction from his constant battles with depression. And he wouldn't think about using cocaine. He couldn't. He felt that Watson would be appalled if he did.

Stop thinking about him! Ugh, he definitely was taking this too hard. He just couldn't get his brother out of his head. Any sort of distraction was welcome, and Irene's gentle, expectant "So?" was enough to set his mind working. He hadn't really planned on doing much that day. He'd been sitting on the floor with his back against Watson's door when he'd just gotten up, put on his coat and hat and went outside. He didn't have any sort of destination, either. He'd just walked around London for a while, and he would have gone back when he felt like it, all the while thinking of what could have been.

He hadn't touched Watson's old room. He'd barely even set foot in there. Instead, he'd made a routine of sitting just outside. It hadn't been conscious thought that had pushed him to do so, but something he didn't really understand. He'd simply found himself there, day after day, with no real explanation for it. Was it that he'd gotten so attached to the doctor? Was it that he was... incapable of comprehending the fact that the doctor was gone? He didn't know. Allowing his mind to work on that problem without sufficient material was like racing an engine--it racks itself to pieces. And so, some sort of distraction was needed.

Asking her to accompany him wouldn't be hard. He didn't have to choose his words carefully around her, like he had to with others. She knew him well enough to know that he was who he was, and she understood. She was someone he could rely on, and right now, he truly wanted to talk with her. He'd been curious about her for a while now, and he'd realized a while ago that he was, in a way, attracted to her. He didn't know just in what way, yet, but he would figure it out. So just asking her wasn't hard... right?

"Will you walk with me?"