![]() ![]() She looked at him intriguingly, a glint visible in her stormy eyes. Irene put the book to a close and tucked it at her side, relaxing her back at chair with her eyes not leaving the detective. “Why do you always have to lie to me?” “I’d rather you go back to what you’re reading.” Sherlock commented, eyeing the book. “That’s not my question.” Irene quipped, still smiling. He shifted, trying to look nonchalant. “I wasn’t looking at you.” “Something on my face, Sherlock?” she asked with a smirk, knowing exactly that she caught him in a vulnerable position. Or that was until she looked up at him and caught his eye did he regret he was glimpsing. He was careful to steal glances of her to avoid any conversation that could lead elsewhere, glad that she was occupied with the book she was reading. Arriving fresh from the tropics led her skin to be warmer in colour than usual, her cheeks flushed naturally, and lips unrouged. She sat across him, occupying John’s chair in her usual elegant gait, her hair hanging loosely on her shoulders, body robed in her favourite dressing gown of his. There were whispers contrasting the jeering voices, varying from Mycroft to John to Mary, all of which were telling in him degrees that being alone with The Woman in such an ambiance spelt nothing but trouble. Everything turned quiet, the sound of the flickering flame the only one to be heard, and Sherlock could feel himself slipping unable to handle the calling from within the halls of his mind palace. With the howling wind and the pouring rain fogging up the windows, what was supposed to be a quick visit inevitably extended deep into the night. (Prompted by the lovely trusted me enough with such amazing ideas. I had to dig this out and repost it again after watching Fantastic Beast II. Her expression spoke unmistakably of pride. Long talk with Sherlock was in order, Irene noted as she watched Nero hop on the train. Whispers around her) on Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross. Her suspicion with absolute certainty was the sight of a familiar impeccably cloakedĪnd umbrella-wielding figure (the Minister, apparently, according to the (“The youngest Holmes! Off to learn to become aīrilliant wizard, now aren’t you? Excellent, excellent.” They said.) Strangers (around Sherlock’s age or a few years older) strode over to greet them Trip through Diagon Alley, however, did give her an inkling, when several ![]() Of course, even as Nero ended up choosing Hogwarts over Ilvermorny.) enlightening facts.Ĭome as a surprise when her beaming 11-year-old boy showed her his secondĪcceptance letter that summer, from the prestigious wizarding school across theĪtlantic, a few centuries older than her own alma mater. Or rather, it had been an erroneous assumption to begin with, and Know that a critical premise, one upon which she’d based her interactions withĪnd decisions regarding the consulting detective, was on the verge of She’d declined his subtle and carefully worded suggestions for her and Nero to ![]() Steer away from sentiment and domesticity, herein lies the principal reason why Sherlock has been led to believe, and aside from Irene’s own inclination to The perfect recipe for mishaps to occur on a regular basis in their two-member Throw in the unquenchable curiosity, endless ideas for various forms ofĮxperimentation, plus a generous sprinkle of irrepressible mischief, and it’s Skilfully she keeps her worlds separate, a task proved increasinglyĭifficult by the minute ever since the arrival of their son.ĭemonstrated signs of exceptional magical abilities from a very early age. She misbehaves with grace, taking joy in the best ofīoth sides. Irene has successfully kept from Sherlock.īetween the two worlds as she pleases, sending glows of energy with a slightįlick of her wand, or weaving power networks via a few taps of keyboard on an Her brainy consulting detective is, there is a significant part of her that ![]()
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