Star-Crossed

There's a definite reason why Sherlock Holmes (currently travelling under the inconspicuous name Peter Sigerson) hates any form of public transportation.

He just hasn't figured it out yet.

More specifically, at least, than the fact that he is currently stuck under the city of Washington, D.C., smashed between a very small, pungent man, and a very large, over-perfumed woman. He's given up on turning his head and looks straight ahead until the train finally slows into the next stop. He stands quickly, sits back down to allow the man to get off, then rises again and grimly grabs one of the poles in the center of the car. People disembark, people board, and they're off into the dark tunnel system again.

But wait.

She's hanging onto the pole in front of his, profile to him as she stares out the constricted window. He takes in her black heels, grey pinstriped pencil skirt, silky button-down shirt. Her hair is streaked with brown and blond, her face is more worn than he remembers, and her cheap makeup shines a little. Nonetheless, there's no mistaking Miss Irene Adler.

She catches Sherlock's eye and, in a way most men would find intimidating, flicks her eyes up and down his pale dyed hair, ordinary jeans-and-jacket, challenging the starer to approach. Then, quick as lighting, recognition flashes across her face. She looks away again, smiling to herself.

At the next station, she exits. Well, she gets off, and as she walks to the door, firmly grips a corner of his jacket. He follows her. When they're safely in the sea of mundane people, she looks at him again.

"You look good...for someone who's dead," she says sweetly, in a perfect American accent.

His mind is racing. What does she want with him? "So do you," he replies. He glances at her slightly chipped, bright red nails. "New job?"

Irene's hand spreads out before her face, and she examines them, tsk-ing to herself. "Hm, technically I'm a secretary." Her eyes meet his again, and her mouth curves in a mischievous smile. "But we both know that's not quite true, don't we?"

He stares down at her. Finally he says coldly, "Wonderful seeing you again, must be going, don't keep in touch." And-

"Wait." She pulls him closer to her, close to the wall, where they stop. "Someone's missing his blogger, isn't he," she says quietly.

"Ire-"

"Shh." She tilts her head. "I'm Eleanor, now. You want to go somewhere and...talk?"

Sherlock's only response is an icy glare. He has places to go, a plane to catch...

"Fine then." She leans up, and her lips brush his cheek. "I'll let you know if I get into any trouble...I've got a trip to Las Vegas soon that seems like it might stir some up." Irene smirks a little, letting one hand drag down his sleeve as she begins to stalk back into the crowd. "And don't worry, you're little secret's safe with me." A smile, and she's gone.

He takes a second to think. The odds against seeing her here...

But he did.

It doesn't matter now, anyway. He just needs to get to the airport, get on a flight, and get back to Europe. He can wonder about the Woman later. Sherlock shivers a bit and melts back into the crowd.