ghislainem70: What Happens in Paris What really happens when Sherlock and Irene spend a
ghislainem70:What Happens in Paris What really happens when Sherlock and Irene spend a weekend in Paris…Irene watched Sherlock somewhat furtively as he restlessly paced their opulent room. Her time with Sherlock had been very instructive. Her training in the Science of Deduction, begun during their heady battle over the secrets held in her precious mobile, had continued after Sherlock had rescued her in Karachi, and at unpredictable intervals since. She never pressed for what she knew he could never give. Now, she thought she could deduce from his posture, his expression, the quality of his silence, what Sherlock was thinking. She sighed. Their visit to Paris, ostensibly for a case, was not going according to her carefully laid plans. She scolded herself for uncharacteristic timidity. When had she ever failed to accomplish something when she truly set her mind to it? Sherlock showed no signs of wanting sleep. In this, as in so many other things, Irene was just the same. Sleep was a waste of time, to be kept at bay. There was so much one could accomplish, if one could master something as fundamental as the need to sleep. She had disciplined herself over years, and now she could easily perform alertly and with precision on as little as two or three hours’ sleep every 48 hours. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Irene admonished herself. She stretched out her manicured hand and placed it gently on Sherlock’s own. And was unsurprised when his hand literally flinched under her own. He pulled his hand away. “Irene,” he said, his deep, velvety voice even now having the power to do strange things to her heart rate. “Must you?” Keep reading -- source link