Irene Adler (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
begmetwice) wrote2014-06-30 05:37 pm
begmetwice) wrote2014-06-30 05:37 pm
Minsk National Airport [Monday afternoon, Fandom time]
Irene tried not to doze as she waited in the airport, but it was difficult. The cup of coffee she was clutching between her (distressingly unmanicured) hands was helping, and would likely kick in with full force within the hour. It was tempting to relax, to think that this might just be it, but she was too smart for that.
It had been just over forty hours since she had been kneeling on the ground in Karachi, prepared to lose her head and all that went with it. One doesn't recover from such an experience without a little accompanying exhaustion -- not to mention the fact that she'd managed to sleep all of about four hours since, caught in the early hours between her rescue and her trip across the border into India.
From there, she'd boarded a supposed fishing vessel -- 'supposed,' because of course the captain was very happy to smuggle an Englishwoman across the sea, so she had no idea what their real business was, and was too tired to investigate much -- to Yemen, where she had boarded a plane to Belarus.
She idly peeked at her documents again -- the name she'd been using was consistent, though he'd assured her she wouldn't need it once she landed in Baltimore. Sherlock had been adamant that she would be fine to be Irene Adler once she arrived in this Fandom, and that everything had been set up for her. When she'd questioned him, he'd just given her that look she hated (and loved) and pointed out that his plan was already going quite a lot better than hers, wasn't it?
(It was. Even she could admit that. He'd, after all, very literally saved her neck. Even Irene could admit that gratitude was in order, which was at least part of the reason that she hadn't slept as much as she could have. No regrets.)
Irene jerked out of her reverie as her flight was called -- sixteen hours in the air, with a stop in Paris followed by one in Philadelphia, and she would be on American soil, and, more importantly, safe. Sherlock Holmes was many things -- a liar, unflinching, nearly impossible to read -- but he was not inefficient, and Irene was certain that she would not have been rescued in the first place if he wasn't confident that she would be protected where he placed her.
She fished her phone out of her bag, not wanting to rush to the gate immediately lest she draw attention to herself. Instead, she typed out a quick, final text, before deleting the number from the phone he'd given to her. It was risky -- but then, she wouldn't be her if she didn't employ a little risk.
Goodbye Mr Holmes
She drew her trenchcoat around herself, adjusted her sunglasses (even if it was morning and indoors, she certainly looked hungover enough to fake it, if pressed) and strode over to the ticketing agent with a sharp smile.
[NFI, NFB, OOC is welcome!]
It had been just over forty hours since she had been kneeling on the ground in Karachi, prepared to lose her head and all that went with it. One doesn't recover from such an experience without a little accompanying exhaustion -- not to mention the fact that she'd managed to sleep all of about four hours since, caught in the early hours between her rescue and her trip across the border into India.
From there, she'd boarded a supposed fishing vessel -- 'supposed,' because of course the captain was very happy to smuggle an Englishwoman across the sea, so she had no idea what their real business was, and was too tired to investigate much -- to Yemen, where she had boarded a plane to Belarus.
She idly peeked at her documents again -- the name she'd been using was consistent, though he'd assured her she wouldn't need it once she landed in Baltimore. Sherlock had been adamant that she would be fine to be Irene Adler once she arrived in this Fandom, and that everything had been set up for her. When she'd questioned him, he'd just given her that look she hated (and loved) and pointed out that his plan was already going quite a lot better than hers, wasn't it?
(It was. Even she could admit that. He'd, after all, very literally saved her neck. Even Irene could admit that gratitude was in order, which was at least part of the reason that she hadn't slept as much as she could have. No regrets.)
Irene jerked out of her reverie as her flight was called -- sixteen hours in the air, with a stop in Paris followed by one in Philadelphia, and she would be on American soil, and, more importantly, safe. Sherlock Holmes was many things -- a liar, unflinching, nearly impossible to read -- but he was not inefficient, and Irene was certain that she would not have been rescued in the first place if he wasn't confident that she would be protected where he placed her.
She fished her phone out of her bag, not wanting to rush to the gate immediately lest she draw attention to herself. Instead, she typed out a quick, final text, before deleting the number from the phone he'd given to her. It was risky -- but then, she wouldn't be her if she didn't employ a little risk.
Goodbye Mr Holmes
She drew her trenchcoat around herself, adjusted her sunglasses (even if it was morning and indoors, she certainly looked hungover enough to fake it, if pressed) and strode over to the ticketing agent with a sharp smile.
[NFI, NFB, OOC is welcome!]