Chapter Text
The local drugstore certainly wasn't the most chic place to pick up wine. And it didn't escape Irene just how symbolic this was of how her life had changed in the last two years. But at 8pm on a Friday in Tel Aviv, most of the proper stores were closed for the Sabbath. And there were some decent 100 shekel wines to be had at this store. You couldn't blame a girl for being a bit desperate. It had been a long day of work and sometimes you simply needed almost any kind of drink. As Irene picked up her chosen bottle and started to round the tall shelves of wine, she stopped short at the sight of the slender, dark-haired man a few aisles over.
It had been five months since Sherlock Holmes had essentially dragged his drug-addled, horribly mortified self out of her flat the last time. Five months, and she had truly and fully come to believe she would never see him again. Either because he would avoid the chance of ever looking her in the eye again or because he would go on another binge, this time alone, and would wind up ODing. She tried not to think about that, though once in a while the image would come to mind and turn her blood cold. But now here he was, a bit bruised and scraped but looking better than the last time she'd seen him. Sherlock Holmes, buying medical supplies in her drug store in Tel Aviv, when he could have been literally anywhere in the world right now.
Now Irene needed something stronger than wine.
Ducking back behind the wine rack, she felt secure enough to watch him a moment. He was gathering up various sizes of plasters, gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic cream. Having another good week, then, she mused, thinking of the various injuries he'd sported the times he'd dropped in. She knew the work he was doing taking down Moriarty's network was dangerous. As she watched him head to the counter and purchase a slew of medical supplies, she was reminded that this was yet another thing that could have killed him. Irene closed her eyes briefly.
Then, making a decision, she set the wine she'd chosen back on the rack and discretely followed Sherlock out the door. It was risky, but she wasn't about to let him go. Not when she had feared he was already dead by now. Even keeping about 20 metres between them, she knew he might realise someone was following him. After all, if he didn't have that kind of caution, he wouldn't have made it this far. But after a block or so, Irene realised there was something different about Sherlock's gait, his stance, everything. He was hurrying, sure, but he didn't seem to be glancing around or nervous at all. It worried her a little. Did he care so little for his own safety that he'd given up precaution?
Irene was further surprised when he entered a small boutique hotel on the beach. The Shalom Hotel Tel Aviv, the sign said. An expensive, sophisticated sort of place by the looks of things. Not at all what she expected. Living on a budget and trying to avoid any special attention, she'd have figured Sherlock had mostly stayed in grimy budget motels for the past eighteen months. A fancy hotel on the beach with very few rooms and an attentive staff who would remember all their customers didn't fit at all.
Watching from outside the doors to the hotel lobby, Irene saw Sherlock make his way through the lobby filled with wing-backed, nicely upholstered chairs. He headed into the back and presumably towards some stairs. If she lost complete sight of him before he got to his room, it would be a chore to figure out where he was. Not impossible, but it would certainly take time and Irene was feeling quite impatient. In fact, she realised her heart was pounding more rapidly than usual as she stepped into the lobby and strode confidently but calmly to the back stairwell.
Making her way up the stairs cautiously, Irene glanced around the corner at the first floor landing just in time to see Sherlock disappearing into a room at the far end of the hall. An ocean view room to boot, Irene thought. Quiet, private. Well that part was like Sherlock at least. So were the white washed wood-panelled walls with their thick navy and white striped upholstery. The whole thing reminded her a bit of her flat in Belgravia, actually. Irene felt a strange pang of homesickness. It was a few moments before she slowly made her way down the hallway, walking lightly, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as though she were going to break into Sherlock's room. He'd obviously know she was out here sooner or later.
But as she approached, Irene realised she hadn't really got a good idea what she was going to say. When Sherlock had left her flat five months before, she'd realised how thoroughly she'd lost his trust. Even if he believed her pleas that she wasn't trying to manipulate him, their last encounter had to have been thoroughly embarrassing and damaging enough on its own. She hadn't stopped him leaving then because he'd decided he couldn't see her anymore. And now, she realised, he was certainly sticking to that. He was in Tel Aviv and hadn't even bothered to look her up. Clearly Sherlock still had no desire to see her. That was enough to give her pause.
But standing outside his door now, Irene could faintly here him moving around inside. He was here, on the other side of this door. Irene didn't believe in fate or destiny, nothing so trite as that. But she did believe in seizing the moment and having no fear. She'd spent five months worrying about Sherlock, wondering if she should have stopped him from leaving before, if it was only her pride holding her back from saying what she had really wanted to. She certainly knew that she'd badly mucked up her chance to explain herself the night after they'd nearly slept together. She'd given him the impression that she'd only been doing him a sexual favour, and it had devastated him. In the months since then, it had devastated her. There'd been many things she wanted to say and didn't. Many she was sure she'd never get the chance to say to him. And she'd be damned if she was going to pass up such an opportunity again.
Reaching her hand up and forcing an outward air of confidence, Irene knocked assertively on Sherlock's door.
The rustling sounds inside abated. Even though she couldn't hear it, Irene would bet anything that Sherlock had approached the door silently. He had to be well practiced at such things by now. Irene tried to look neither smug nor terrified as she folded her arms across her chest and waited. The glass of the peephole in the door darkened, the only indication that anyone was directly on the other side. The eye slid away. There was a long, pregnant pause. Irene was starting to consider that Sherlock might actually ignore her when she heard the latch click softly.
The door eased open painfully slowly, and then only halfway. Sherlock stood there with his left arm behind the door as if it were a shield. Irene surveyed him calmly. He looked less sickly than the last time she'd seen him, and she could only pray he wasn't using nearly so much cocaine. Perhaps he was even off it entirely after risking dying in her flat five months earlier. Still, he seemed flustered and a bit worse for the wear. He'd already put a small Elastoplast on a cut beside his right eye, but there were several long scratches on his face left exposed to the air. Even with his chest halfway concealed, Irene could see that he'd undone his shirt and was probably about to tend to a patchwork of scrapes and bruises there.
Irene took all of this in with a cool sweep of her eyes, then turned her gaze up to him. She was surprised that he was meeting her eyes at all, his expression one of practiced detachment. But it didn't last long before he looked down, breathing deeply as if trying to remain calm. She'd wager there weren't many things that could throw off Sherlock Holmes these days. But to her surprise, Irene found she wasn't really proud of being one of them anymore. She waited several seconds before realising he wasn't collecting himself to speak to her; he didn't seem to be planning on saying or doing anything, really. Raising an eyebrow, she prompted, "Are you going to say something?"
His head lifted slowly, and he glared at her. "You knocked on my door."
"And you opened it," she pointed out.
"I was afraid you'd only break in otherwise," he replied. In fairness, that wasn't entirely unprecedented. "How did you find me?"
"I saw you in the drugstore and followed you here," Irene explained plainly.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You just happened to be in the same store at the same time as I was? It's not even your neighbourhood," he pointed out, and Irene didn't miss the suggestion that he'd intentionally chosen to stay away from her flat.
"I'd been out at dinner and was grabbing some wine before I went home," Irene asserted. He still seemed incredibly suspicious. Swallowing her pride, Irene said, "Look, I'm sure both of us are capable of standing at the threshold trading barbs all night, but I'd much rather dispense with that and come inside where we can properly talk."
After studying her a few moments, Sherlock took a step back from the door. "Talk all you like. But I've got nothing to say," he said flatly, turning and heading back into the room.
Irene let herself in, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock was standing by his trove of medical supplies laid out on the desk. He finished removing his shirt and started dabbing the antiseptic cream onto his scrapes. Irene looked away from him to take in the room. It was open and very comfortable and posh looking. The headboard was upholstered in the same silk striped fabric as the hallways, though with extra adorned patterns in gold thread. Everything else was white or lightly crisscrossed in grey. There was a large soaker tub by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. The bathroom off to her right was peculiar, with surrounding walls made entirely of glass, opening it to the rest of the room. There was an optional privacy curtain on the outside for good measure.
Irene nodded in approval, looking back to Sherlock. "Very nice hotel. We could almost be in a seaside town back in England." Sherlock said nothing, occupied with trying to tape a piece of gauze to a large gash on his right arm. "Need some help?" Irene asked.
"Why, do you want to be paid to be my nurse this time?" Sherlock asked acidly, glancing at her only briefly before he continued taping the dressing down. Irene swallowed, stung by the comment as she wagered he hoped she would be. Sherlock continued, "And just so we're clear, when I told you last time that I didn't want you to touch me, I meant that unconditionally. If you have something to say, spit it out and be on your way." The sharp edge in his tone surprised her, though she supposed it shouldn't. After all, he'd seemed thoroughly humiliated and, though she would never use these words to him, broken-hearted when he'd left her flat before. Unfortunately for him, the fact that he was still so hurt by what had happened only told her his sentiments towards her hadn't changed.
But she couldn't just spit out what she had to say. In reality, she hadn't any idea what she wanted to say to him or what she could say to mend things between them. She'd reacted on instinct following him here, and now her mind was spinning for something solid to grasp. Changing subjects, she nodded at the scrapes and bruises covering his arms and chest. "Where are those from this time?" she inquired.
Sherlock hesitated only momentarily before saying, as if giving a favourable weather report, "Well I've just come from killing Sebastian Moran about, oh, three hours ago, out by the Dead Sea. And he wasn't too keen on the idea, hence all of these."
Irene's eyes widened, her throat constricting in fear just at the mention of that name. From what she knew, Moran was Moriarty's top lieutenant, the one almost certainly in control of his network since his death. He was also a fierce fighter, shooter, and the man who'd been assigned as John's personal sniper in Moriarty's morbid trap for Sherlock. So to hear Sherlock mention so flippantly that he'd just murdered Moran… Irene's heart was pounding and all she was doing was standing still. "God," she breathed finally, trying to focus enough to make sense of it all. Setting aside the notion of Sherlock having fresh blood on his hands, Irene asked, "So what does that mean? For the network?"
"It means," Sherlock said, pausing to rip open an Elastoplast wrapper with his teeth before he set about applying it to a deep puncture wound on his left shoulder. "That Moriarty's network is effectively defunct."
Irene held her breath a moment, staring at Sherlock for signs of a reaction. He had to realise how huge this was, but he was characteristically unshaken. Irene was forced to prompt him. "And what does that mean for you?"
Now Sherlock hesitated, sounding slightly more circumspect as he said, "I fly back to London tomorrow afternoon. I'd have gladly gone tonight if I could. Moran's body is in a sinkhole by the sea, but I left his possessions in plain sight. He should be found by hikers or bathers in a few days. Which I dare say Mossad will be happy to hear about, given his connections with Hamas… still, I'd rather not be in Israel when that happens, just in case. But I had to make my flight a few days ago, and people don't always step into a trap precisely on schedule."
Irene tried to hide her surprise and lamentation at hearing he would be leaving the next day. "Lucky I happened to see you when I did, then," she said.
"Is it?' he asked beneath his breath.
"You were going to come through Tel Aviv without ever seeing me," Irene pointed out.
"That was the plan," Sherlock muttered, affixing one final dressing. "But evidently you have something terribly pressing to discuss."
He was more right than he knew, but Irene wasn't half prepared to talk about it. He was leaving tomorrow, which both meant he wouldn't be here much longer and that he wasn't running off right away. If only she could find a way or the time to put her thoughts in order and express them to him. As it was, all she could say was, "I don't. I only wanted to see you."
"Well," Sherlock said, looking at her icily as he pulled a syringe and familiar vial out of his bag. Irene's stomach churned and she closed her eyes briefly. It had probably been too much to hope that he'd quit entirely. What motive did he have to, really? "You can see me as I celebrate my final victory." Irene felt as if her body were made of lead and she could only watch as Sherlock plopped down on the edge of the bed and quickly drew up some of the cocaine solution into the syringe. He cleaned his right elbow with an alcohol swab. Then he set the vial aside, swapped the syringe into his left hand, and began pumping his right fist as he looked around his arm for a vein. It all happened with such practiced and casual efficiency that Irene barely had time to collect herself before Sherlock had slipped the needle in, evidently much more practiced at using his left hand now than he had been over half a year ago when he'd broken his right. The idea made her heart ache.
Sherlock pulled back some blood in the plunger, and Irene didn't have to think twice about what she wanted this time. He was going back to London, which was supposed to mean the end of his nightmare. But it wouldn't be if he just kept on like this regardless of accomplishing his goal. Sherlock had faked his death, had thrown himself into his own personal hell to save people's lives. It was damned well time someone tried to save his.
In a flash, Irene was crouched down in front of Sherlock, her hand covering his left one, stopping him just as he was about to depress the plunger. "Let's have dinner," she said, desperately.
Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed under her touch and at her words. At first he didn't look up. His jaw was working angrily and his lips trembling with the effort to stay calm. His breathing had become deep and shaky. When he finally looked up from his arm to meet Irene's eyes, the mixture of fury and pain in his expression cut her to the core. "Is this why you came here?" he nearly hissed. "To mock me?"
Irene's face softened to a degree it never had around Sherlock, perhaps around anyone. She looked at him genuinely, without pretence, as her hand held onto his steadily. "I'm not mocking you, Sherlock. I mean it. Is this really how you want to celebrate being free of all this? Going home?"
Sherlock still looked angry but sounded forlorn as he replied, "Wanting doesn't factor into it."
Irene swallowed against the lump in her throat. She couldn't see this again, or do this. Too many times she'd pushed the plunger down herself, either literally or metaphorically. In a lot of ways, she felt it was her fault he had got to this point in the first place. But no more. This wasn't what he liked. And it certainly wasn't what she wanted for him. Continuing to stare at him compassionately, Irene said, "What you want should factor in. It always should have." She drew a breath. "I know it might seem easier to try to forget about everything that's happened between us. But that's obviously not true. You clearly haven't, and I know I can't. There are so many things I need you to understand…" she trailed off, uncertain of where she was going, but encouraged by seeing his anger faltering ever so slightly.
Slowly, she lifted her other hand and placed it on the arm the needle was sunk into, gently pulling the arm away, the needle sliding out of the vein along with a drop of blood. Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly with the effort to remain calm. Irene held his now uncertain gaze. "How can you have forgotten what you deduced all that time ago, back in London? You were right about me and how I felt about you. Don't you remember that?"
"Things change," he replied tightly.
"They do," she agreed. "And they have. A lot of it's been for the worse. But that doesn't mean that sentiments have changed." She swallowed, feeling a bit uncomfortably exposed by saying those words. "We're complex people you and I. It's why we were drawn to one another in the first place. Don't you think," she said slowly, giving him a slightly challenging look, "that this is a mystery that warrants full exploration to comprehend?"
Sherlock looked wary, clearly aware that she was playing to his natural desire to tear things apart, to look at them from all angles and make an informed deduction about them. But it didn't seem to make that desire of his any less, going by the way he pressed his lips together in frustration. He was teetering on the edge of his decision. Quietly, Irene added sincerely, "Please, Sherlock. I mean it. Have dinner with me?" From the look on his face, Irene knew she had him, and so did he. His curiosity had got the best of him in the end. Whatever deductions he'd made about Irene obviously hadn't set completely right in his mind in the last five months. Sherlock Holmes couldn't resist a good mystery, and this thing between them was certainly that. He nodded in defeat, and she took the syringe from his hand and pulled away. "Can I get rid of this?" she asked softly.
"If you like," he replied, sounding roundly defeated, as if he had stepped into yet another trap he couldn't escape from. She hoped he wouldn't remain this miserable all through dinner, but right now she was content that at least she could toss some of this awful stuff out. She grabbed the vial and headed into the bathroom. Through the glass walls, she could see Sherlock standing slowly and grabbing a spare shirt from his bag as she emptied the cocaine into the sink. By the time she had tossed the syringe and vial into the bin, Sherlock had his new shirt tucked in and buttoned up.
"You don't know how glad I am that I ran into you. To have a chance to see you again, but without all the other things…" Irene trailed off.
Instead of looking relieved by this notion, Sherlock looked very much like someone preparing himself for a slap. As if he were steeling himself against a pain yet to come. Of course, why shouldn't he expect that from me? Irene thought, her chest constricting painfully at the realisation.That's what always winds up happening, isn't it? Sherlock's eyes were on the floor as he said tightly, "Can we go?"
Swallowing and composing her voice into a natural timbre, Irene replied, "Of course." Sherlock waited for her to walk by him before he followed. As they walked down the hallway and headed down to the hotel's restaurant, Sherlock kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his face composed into an unreadable mask.
Sherlock remained taciturn and miserable-looking all the way through the process of being seated at the restaurant and placing their orders. The silence was unbearable, but Irene couldn't break it until they knew the wait staff would be leaving them alone for a while. She couldn't exactly mention Sherlock's cocaine addiction while people were hustling and bustling to and from the table every couple minutes. They may not have all spoken English perfectly, but both she and Sherlock valued discretion immensely.
When the waiter had finally collected their menus and disappeared, Irene stared across the table at Sherlock, who had managed to collect himself just slightly. He still seemed on edge, but not quite as defeated as he had in his room. "So," Irene began as she unfolded her napkin into her lap. "I'll dispense with small talk, which I know we both loathe." She paused, reflexively waiting for his thanks, which didn't come. He took a sip of his water and said nothing. This might be harder than I'd thought¸ she realised. There were a number of things she still wasn't sure how to approach herself, and his attitude wouldn't help that. Still, oddly, there was one area they'd grown quite comfortable with over the past year. Giving him a steady look, she said, "So you're going back to London. And what about the drugs? Are those coming, too?"
He looked up at her, surprised at her bluntness. After a second, he seemed to realise the familiar territory himself, morbid as that was, and said , "No. I'm quitting. I have to."
That made her feel a little better. At least he was acknowledging that he should stop using. But then again, he'd done that five months ago as well. Granted, then he'd made no promises that he was actually going to try to give it up. Now he said he was, but she didn't feel terribly confident about that. "So upstairs before, that was what? One for the road?" she asked. He nodded curtly. "And now you'll quit just like that?" she asked sceptically.
Sherlock pursed his lips. "Yes, not that it's any business of yours."
"That's not what you've been telling me for the past year," she pointed out. "In fact you've made it very much my business." Though she realised that was as much her fault as his, she couldn't resist being contrary. It had always been a fault of hers.
"And then I relieved you of that," he pointed out, smiling humourlessly. "Yet here you are."
Irene's face fell a little. "I'm here," she agreed with a nod, trying to make it more of a show of support than of obligation. "I only meant that I'm sure it's not easy to do something like this on your own. Are you going to a rehab program?"
Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not even officially alive."
"Surely Mycroft can rectify that," Irene ventured. She knew the elder Holmes had been involved in Sherlock's faked death and presumed he'd help get Sherlock reinstated to life. The younger Holmes said nothing, but she took that as affirmation. Then she added, "Maybe he could also help you with this problem…" she trailed off at the look on his face.
Now Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched in anger. In a low voice he said, "It will be a cold day in hell before I tell him about the drugs or ask for his help with it. It would only give him something to gloat about. And it's on account of him all this happened in the first place." He was gripping his water glass tightly in his fist, though he didn't seem conscious of it.
Irene wasn't going to touch that one. Sherlock wasn't wrong to resent his brother, and knowing Mycroft Holmes even in the limited way she did, mostly through Moriarty's provided files, she certainly wouldn't want to beg the man for help either. "Fair enough," she said. "Still, going cold turkey has to be quite a challenge."
"Done it before," Sherlock countered, raising his glass and taking a large swallow of water to calm himself. Though according to those same files from Moriarty, Irene recalled, said periods of sobriety hadn't been terribly long lasting. Not until he'd properly gone to rehab and had John as his flatmate following that, keeping him out of trouble. "It's a few rough weeks mainly," Sherlock continued. "It's not a strongly physical addiction like heroin or even alcohol. Cocaine addiction and therefore withdrawal is primarily psychological in nature."
"Mind over matter, then," Irene said a little flippantly, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her water.
"Precisely," he replied seriously. It was obvious he'd worked this all out and convinced himself precisely of how it would go. "I'll be back in Baker Street and back to work. I won't have any need for the drugs then. I didn't before," he pointed out.
Aware of just how many assumptions he seemed to be making, Irene was much less optimistic. In particular, he seemed to take no account of the fact that certainly things would have changed for John and Lestrade and everyone back in London in the wake of his death. He couldn't simply stroll back alive and except nothing to change, or expect to simply ignore the fact that he'd spent the better part of a year high and gravely depressed. Still, she'd seen Sherlock accomplish all sorts of things. He was no usual case in any respect. Perhaps if he had some help… "You'll tell John, then?"
Sherlock stiffened, giving her a hard stare. "Absolutely not," he said thinly. "There's no reason for him to ever know. And in fact I very much hope to keep it from him. The last thing I need is the further humiliation of John knowing that I-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, seeming to realise what he was saying, and looked away for a moment. But Irene already knew what he was thinking. It was everything Sherlock had been humiliated for her to see. He didn't want John to know that he was weak, that he'd given in to his addiction again, that he'd let himself become so debased and wretched. All of the things that Irene had seen and realised over the past eleven months... well, Sherlock could hardly look her in the eye anymore. And yes, she'd unwittingly inflicted tremendous personal injury on top of that, wounds that she could tell were still gaping open. But his addiction itself was enough to be ashamed of. Of course he didn't want to experience that burden with John. Irene's brow drew up in sympathy and she stayed quiet. It was a moment before Sherlock composed himself and said flatly, "I'm not going to speak to John or Mrs. Hudson until I'm well again."
He says, as if he had a bad cold he didn't want them to catch, Irene thought. Frankly, she was astounded. "So you're going back to London to what, sit in a hotel by yourself and detox?"
"Something like that. I'd also like the chance to observe any new routines or changes with John, as far as I'm able. I've had no news about him since I left. He hasn't even updated that stupid blog of his," Sherlock grumbled, taking a large swallow of water.
Irene's first instinct was to ask why he couldn't stay here and if he would accept her help, but she instantly cut off that line of thinking. He had just killed someone here and, as he said, it might be best to avoid Israel for a while. Furthermore, she knew precisely what sort of response she'd get for such an offer of help. Still, the idea of him sitting alone in some hotel for a further couple weeks, probably going through hell, made her heart twinge again. That was a nasty habit it had picked up over the last year. But really, what was she supposed to feel knowing Sherlock would be suffering on his own? He really ought to ask for John's help. She knew he was worried what his friend would think of him, but Irene wagered the doctor would be fairly understanding. Goodness knew the man was tolerant of Sherlock's other foibles. And John was incredibly protective of his friend, or had been where Irene was concerned. She couldn't imagine him passing judgment on Sherlock now.
But it might not matter. It was enough that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to tell John about it. Irene knew how deeply ashamed he was of all of this. The worst part for her was how badly she'd been enabling him all along. Perhaps even driving him to further use in some ways. When she'd thought about it over the past five months, it had made her feel physically ill. Irene couldn't fathom now how she had ever thought that this was something Sherlock liked. Even the times the drug had boosted his confidence towards her, made him bold enough to express some of what he was feeling, things had turned out dreadfully.
Irene closed her eyes against the volley of images, words, and feelings that came rushing to her unbidden. There was absolutely nothing in it that she felt proud of in the least. She was brought back to the present, thankfully, by the wait staff arriving with their food and setting it on the table. A 'thank you' and a 'more water, please, yes' was hardly enough to fully distract her, though. Once the waiter left, it was her turn to look miserable. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however, now that he had the excuse of his food to focus on. He certainly wasn't going to make this any easier on her. "Sherlock," she said, attempting to get his attention. She hoped he would look at her, but he didn't. "I know I have no ground to stand on when it comes to the drugs. I'm the one who didn't stop you in the first place. Or the fourth, for that matter," she added quietly.
Now he did glance up, though warily, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Well, hindsight," he muttered, taking a bite.
Irene shook her head slightly. "No, it's not that. I knew at the time it was wrong. Every time. I could see what it was doing to you."
Sherlock swallowed and set his fork down slowly. She noticed his hand was trembling. He took a drink of water as if to steady himself before looking up at her fully. "Well if you had such strong objections," he began, his tone terse and accusatory, "why didn't you try and stop me?"
That was a loaded question and he knew it, judging by his tone of voice and the way he was now leaning forward onto the table. Irene had had a lot of time to think about this particular topic and she knew precisely why. There had been times when all she'd longed for was a chance to see him again and to tell him how stupid and prideful she'd been. It was part of what had driven her to follow him here in the first place. And yet even now Irene faltered, seeing the controlled anger in his expression and wondering if telling him would only make things worse now. So instead she said, "I thought I was respecting your wishes. That's what you were paying me for."
Unfortunately, that only made Sherlock more angry. His tone was low and cutting as he stared back at her and said, "And if I'd paid you to mind the door whilst I shot myself in the head, would you have done that, too?"
Irene's brows drew together involuntarily, softening her expression into one of deep regret. She knew the comparison wasn't actually all that exaggerated. But what was more, his deep anger made her suddenly realise a possibility she hadn't considered before. She'd thought his repeated trips to see her were only because he was attracted to her and wanted to be near her. Which was obviously true enough. But what if there were more to it? Drawing a steadying breath and surprised at how shaken she was all of a sudden, Irene asked tentatively, "Did you want me to stop you?"
"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "I only meant that it's massively hypocritical to protest my actions now since you stood by without a word when you were being paid to do so. Clearly the money mattered more to you than my addiction. I knew that. I went to you to experiment and use in relative safety, not because I wanted to be rescued," Sherlock spat, perhaps a little too quickly and vehemently.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Irene said, trying hard to swallow the pain of his accusation that she'd only cared about the money. Sherlock focused deliberately on slicing up his food. From his denial, she already felt like he'd given his true answer. And it cut her to the core. Of course he did want to use in safety, and she was the only person he knew so he had little choice. But he'd already admitted last time that he kept coming back because he wanted to see her. And, she realised, because he wanted her to care for him. Enough that she might stop him. Because he seemed incapable of stopping himself. And she'd done nothing up until the point where he was literally going to die right there in her flat if he injected that speedball. That was comparatively little consolation when she might have stopped him altogether from the beginning, or several times after, before he'd gotten completely back into addiction. God, he had every right to think her cold and indifferent.
Irene swallowed hard, surprised to find her throat stinging and trembling. She wasn't one to show any emotion most of the time. If she had been, things would never have got this bad. And for once, she didn't hide the tremor in her voice. For once, she realised he needed to hear it. "Sherlock, I wanted to stop you." Her tone must have surprised him, because he stopped eating and looked at her warily. She continued, "I swear I did. Every time. I'm sorry."
"Then why didn't you?" he asked, dropping all pretence that he didn't know what she meant. Acknowledging subtly that at least part of him had hoped she would have helped him quit.
Irene smiled mirthlessly. "I didn't want you to think I was being sentimental. I know how much you detest that. And I'm guilty of that myself." Now he was holding her gaze, his expression full of trepidation. "You've always said sentiment was so dangerous-"
"It has been to me. It's been nothing but," Sherlock replied tightly.
Irene shook her head. "No, you're wrong. What's been worse for us both has been denying the sentiments that plainly exist between us. Really, isn't hiding it, trying to keep it a secret, something that's proved a weakness to us both? If we were truly devoid of sentiment, that would be one thing. But that's clearly not the case. We've both known that since London, but we've adamantly denied it. At least I have, out of a frankly idiotic sense of pride." She watched his face to see if he were letting that pride fall now, even just a little, but unfortunately his expression was set into a stolid mask. Irene would have to be the one to humble herself fully, then. "If we'd been upfront about it, if we were like ordinary people-"
Sherlock scoffed, cutting her off again. "Which I have no desire to be, I assure you. And I don't know why you should want to be, either. It would rob you of your best qualities."
"If at least in this one respect we were a bit more like ordinary people and didn't have such a ridiculous commitment to detachment," Irene pressed on, determined now not to let anything stop her. She'd taken the leap in her mind already. Now she only had to get the words out so there'd be no turning back. "We'd have saved ourselves a lot of trouble." She leaned forward, lowering her voice a bit and consciously encroaching on his space. He didn't lean away, just as she knew he wouldn't. His pride wouldn't allow it. "Because the first time you showed up at my flat asking if I could mind you while you shot up, I would have tossed the drugs out the window, tossed you on the bed, and shagged you senseless instead."
Sherlock remained admirably calm, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow angrily. "That's your solution to everything, is it?" he asked lowly. His eyes pierced hers accusingly. "This is what you like. What gets you off. Toying with people, seducing them, knowing you have that power. Which is all well and good. But I'm not giving you that power over me any more, Irene." Then, to her surprise, he pulled out his wallet and tossed down some money, just enough to cover his own half-eaten meal. He stood before she could say anything, probably knowing that now she'd have to raise her voice to speak to him. And she wouldn't want to cause a scene.
He was right about that. As Sherlock strode out the dining room door and onto the hotel's deck, Irene was left scrambling through her purse for some shekels. He might have been hoping she'd just leave well enough alone, but she hadn't dwelled on this for five months just to let him go that easily. Making sure to leave a bit of extra money, Irene collected her purse and walked across the lobby to the doors leading onto the deck.