The Emotional Children

IX

Irene was bored at 221B. There was no doubt about it. On a normal day, she wouldn't have let Sherlock go off into London by himself, leaving her at the flat like some commonplace woman left to tend to the home.

Nevertheless, as she always did, Irene had a reason.

She and Sherlock had returned to the flat after their time at the crime scene, and the two had done nothing incredibly exciting. Sherlock shut himself up (being sure to lock the door for fear of his chastity) in his bedroom and slept. Molly had disturbed his mind, and all he wanted to do was think. Irene was equally employed: she lounged on the sofa looking at her cell phone. Twitter wasn't going to update itself.

Scrolling through the feed made her bored after about a half hour, and she ended up setting her phone down on the floor. Closing her eyes, she stretched out on the sofa and let herself go limp.

Her phone made a pinging noise and buzzed from the floor. Absentmindedly, she reached down to pick it up. The grin spreading across her face was trouble incarnate, and the message she read twisted it into devilry:

Hi. JM x

She laughed under her breath. Her fingers hastened to reply, and they tapped the screen furiously.

Good afternoon.

She kept her phone open, watching as the message was "read" and Moriarty formed his response from the other end.

Is he dead yet?

She let out an agitated sigh and almost felt her stomach cramp. He's not dead, and he won't be, she wanted to say. But instead, she played along.

Good things come to those who wait, dear Jim. 

She waited a few moments, her palms starting to sweat.

Obviously.

Perhaps he needed a bit more convincing. Men often did, and a bit of encouragement wouldn't hurt. She wrote:

I think he's in love already.

She smiled, thinking about the look on his face when she had almost kissed him. Nondescript, yes, but also silently desirous of something more. Her face flushed.

Not like he ever stopped.

This likewise turned her lips upward, and she decided to make things a bit more interesting. She replied:

He's leaving in a few.

Was this a bad idea? She sent it without thinking, and he replied almost instantly:

Oh...?

Best to keep the line running. She wrote:

To St. Bart's.

Well, now she'd done it.

Thank you, darling.

And that signals the end of this conversation, she thought. Replying merely with:

Anytime.

Irene closed her eyes and shut the phone off as she sent the last text. She sighed and crossed her legs. How complicated this entire business was. It was fun, though. Playing two at the same time. She certainly had her fingers in too many pies.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift off.

The door to the bedroom opened an hour later and Sherlock appeared, ready to head to the hospital. He was wearing his coat, his scarf, and his phone was in his pocket. Irene opened her eyes to the sight of him and thought he looked dashing.