Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

AN: Ok, so I played with the idea about Irene Adler being part of Season 3, returning with Sherlock. So…AU, characters might seem OOC…BTW, NOTHING to do with my other story 'Wedding Dance', though the reviews there made me try this out…:)

Prologue:

'Time to come back, brother dear.' Mycroft pulled back. 'Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.'

'Bungee cord, Molly Hooper?' Lestrade's voice was disbelieving as he snorted. 'Yeah, Anderson, and I'm the Queen of Britain. Forget it.'

Anderson tried to make Lestrade see the logic behind it. 'But he's still alive!'

'Well, Philip, I'll tell you what it means. It's guilt. You're guilty because you sent him to his death.' Lestrade picked up the styrofoam cup, and handed Anderson another. 'Sherlock Holmes is dead, and there is nothing you can do to bring him back.'

He walked towards the group of reporters.

'Sherlock Holmes, after much discussion, had been found innocent, and Richard Brook had been a creation of Moriarty. The whole Court is in uproar about this, but all of it comes too late for the detective, who jumped from St. Bartholomew's roof 2 years ago.

'The only thing on people's minds now is: Why did the police let matters get so far?'

Lestrade sighed, and raised his cup to Anderson. 'To an old friend.'

Anderson, though reluctant, raised his cup and mimicked the move. 'To Sherlock Holmes.'

Both of them downed the cup in one gulp.

John sighed as he stared at his best friend's grave. Even 2 years after his death, he still couldn't help the immense guilt that was settling down on him.

He sighed, and reached out for Mary's hand.

Mary.

Thank God for her, or else he would have sunk into a pit of depression. He had actually considered going back to Afghanistan to fight in the war again, but was, surprisingly, stopped at it by no one other than Mycroft Holmes.

John had ignored the man, as always, but had taken his words into account, and then bumped into Mary, and things had quickly escalated from there.

Mary kissed his cheek, and looked at the grave. She had heard many great things about Sherlock Holmes from John, and had tried her best to keep his spirits bright. She wondered briefly whether she and him would get along. From his stories, she and Sherlock would have.

Unknown to both of them, a woman, with her brunette hair tied in a bun, wearing a dark black jacket and some jeans tucked into winter boots, turned and briskly left the graveyard.

She took out her phone, and texted him.

Both still grieving – IA

Both? - SH

Mary and John. We have to get his moustache off him. He looks ancient. – IA

Agreed - Sh.

'You've been busy.' This was directed at the Consulting Detective lying down. 'You got yourself in deep trouble there with,' Mycroft idly flipped the file, finding the name he needed. 'Baron Maupertius. Quite a scandal. But you're safe now.' There was a silence as Sherlock lay there, clearly thinking it through.

Sherlock merely hummed in agreement. Mycroft continued. 'A Thank You would go amiss.'

'What for?'

'For wading in like that. Without me, you wouldn't have gotten out.'

Sherlock scowled. 'No, I got me out.' He sat up. 'Why didn't you interfere sooner?'

'I couldn't blow my cover, now could I?' Mycroft asked, only to be interrupted.

'You were enjoying it.' Sherlock was studying him now, carefully, with a hint of menace in his eyes.

Mycroft snorted. 'Don't be absurd-'

'Definitely enjoying it.' Sherlock spat, before lying back down again.

'Listen, Sherlock, do you have any idea what it was like to go undercover? The noise, the people!' He huffed, and sat back down.

'I didn't know you spoke Serbian.'

'I didn't. But the language has a Slavic root, with frequent German and Turkish loan words. Took me a couple of hours.'

Sherlock snorted. 'You're slowing down.'

'Middle age, brother mine. It gets to us all.' Mycroft sighed. 'But to our next subject.'

'The Woman.' Sherlock sighed as well. 'I told you already, Mycroft, that you can't interrupt everything into your own liking.'

Mycroft scowled. 'I know you rescued her.'

'Only now, brother dear?' Sherlock asked in a mocking tone. 'You're slowing down. Terribly.'

Mycroft frowned. 'What is she doing in London?'

Sherlock sat up once more. 'The only thing Irene-'

'Oh, are we on first name basis now?' Mycroft interrupted mockingly, but Sherlock ignored him.

'The only thing that Irene had to fear was from Moriarty's Network, because of all of her history. Now that the government had seized control of it, it means that the only thing she has to fear of is the British Government.' Sherlock shot his brother a meaningful look.

Mycroft sighed. 'Have you grown sentimental, younger brother?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Well, you have to take care of Irene.'

'And why would I do that?'

'Because she has-' Sherlock cut himself off as "Anthea" entered, carrying his suit. For the first and possibly only time in his life, Mycroft cursed "Anthea's" presence. He sighed as Sherlock left to get dressed, and turned to Anthea, who handed him his folder.

Sherlock came back soon enough.

'I need you to give this matter your full attention.' Mycroft faced Sherlock, who was tucking in his white shirt.

'What do you think of this shirt?' He stared in the mirror.

'Sherlock!' Mycroft snapped. "Anthea" came in now, seeing that she needed to intervene.

'There is going to be a terrorist strike on London. A big one.' Sherlock frowned, and turned away. 'One of our men died getting this information.'

Sherlock scowled, before turning to Mycroft. 'I'm busy.'

'No, you're not.' Mycroft interrupted, increasingly frustrated. Sherlock probably saw it as he smirked.

'Don't worry, Mycroft. I'll look at your "Terrorist Strike".' Sherlock assured his brother. 'Now, where is it?'

'Where's what?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shot him a look. 'You know what.' Someone cleared their throat at the door, and all of them turned, to see Irene standing at the door, holding Sherlock's coat in her hands. Sherlock smiled at her, and put it on, before exhaling deeply.

'Time to go back to London.' He turned and offered the lady his arm. 'Coming, Ms. Adler?'