There was nothing unusual about that night. Sherlock was leaned back in the armchair, his eyes closed and fingers steepled as John blathered on about his newest girlfriend, Olivia or Lauren or someone. It was all so dull. Sherlock occupied himself by listing names of guns in alphabetical order.

A-91, AA12, AAB, ACR, AB-5.45, AB-7.62…

"Sherlock."

Accu-tek, Adams Mk2, Mk3, and Mk4…

"Sherlock."

Adams-Wilmont, Adasa SMG…

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock met John's harsh brown eyes. "Are you listening to a word I'm saying?!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I am. Tell me more about Olivia." John glared at him, "Her name's Joanne!" he shouted. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a moaning sound coming from his pocket. He whipped out his mobile phone.

1 new message.

Sherlock clicked open the text as John sighed loudly and stomped off to the kitchen. The message read "Come to the corner of Baker street. I need to see you one more time." It was from a hidden number, but Sherlock already knew who it was.

"I'm going out, John." Sherlock called, standing up. "But it's almost midnight!" John said. "I'm perfectly aware of what time it is, and I won't be long." John looked at Sherlock suspiciously. "Fine, just take your coat. It's December for God's sake." Sherlock scoffed at him but pulled on his worn grey trench coat before closing the door behind him.

The street is empty, except for the occasional taxi. Sherlock squints as his eyes adjust to the cloudy darkness. He stands for a few minutes and watches the fat snowflakes float to the ground. He's about to walk back to the flat when he hears soft crunching coming towards him. A woman is walking briskly in his direction. The Woman.

Her usually pale cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and her hair is wet with snow, but he'll be damned if she's not the most stunning woman he's ever laid eyes on. Irene looks up at him. "I have some bad news," she says, "and I'm going to need your help." Sherlock nods silently and she continues as he stares carefully at her bruised, bare arms.

"I've gotten myself into a bit of trouble lately. I had some compromising photographs of a powerful man, and now he's out to kill me." Sherlock raises one eyebrow. "And who might that be?" he asks. "James Moriarty." Irene responds. Sherlock looks surprised. "You know Moriarty?" Irene gives her trademark smirk. "I know what he likes." "So, what are you going to do?" Irene shrugs and looks at the ground between them. "I'm set up with Witness Protection in America. My flight to Massachusetts leaves at seven a.m. I'll be a blonde secretary within forty-eight hours." She looks up at him and continues. "Of course, this means I won't be able to see you again." "I know." Sherlock says softly.

They stand in silence, staring at the ground for a few minutes while Sherlock's mind races at a breakneck speed. She'll be safe. She's going to do perfectly well in America. He shouldn't feel this churning in his stomach. He shouldn't want her to stay. Sherlock has never felt this way about anyone before, and can't find the right way to say how much he's going to miss her.

Suddenly he feels a hand on his coat's lapels. Irene is standing inches in front of him with a sad smile on her face. She stands on her toes to reach him, and before he can do anything, Irene gently pulls his face down to hers and kisses him. He closes his eyes and kisses her back, ignoring the regret that will most certainly come once she leaves. After a few seconds, Irene lowers herself and turns to leave, shivering and holding her arms.

"Wait!" Sherlock calls. She stops and looks back at him. "Take my coat." he says. Irene stares in disbelief. "Really?" "Yes. You need it more than I do." He unbuttons his beloved trench coat and wraps it around the woman's shoulders. She smiles at him again.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

He watches as she walks away from him.

"Goodbye, Irene."