It had only been a week since John had died. The flat at 221 Baker Street was not quite as you would expect the residence of a mourning person would be; the flat belonging to Sherlock was filled with a quite surprising, and disturbing, noise:
"Don't stop! Keep going! YES! 'Come on almost...there!" A woman's breathless voice reverberates of the walls.
Cautiously rapping on the door to 221B, the purple dress and short blonde hair inquires, "Sherlock? Sherlock, you're being a little vocal, don't you think? Keep it down if you don't mind. Oh, and clean up after yourselves, I'm your landlady, not your maid!"
"Mrs. Hudson, we are not engaging in any sexual relations. I am showing a friend the faults in the CIA's database by using a few simple lines of code in under 1 minute."
Mrs. Hudson walks into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. An woman of average height with a stopwatch in her hand was perched on the couch as if she were watching a suspenseful movie. "But, you said that you didn't have friends. You told him that you only have archenemies."
Sherlock remembered saying this quite clearly, but he asks regardless, "Mrs. Hudson! Who is 'him'?"
"Why, Sherlock, it was John-" The moment she mentioned the man Mrs. Hudson knew she had made a grave mistake.
"MRS. HUDSON! Go back to your flat, NOW!" Sherlock's voice thundered throughout the flat. Watching his landlady scurry back down the stairs, Sherlock repositions a stray, dark curl and turns back to his "friend".
The woman sitting on the couch let dark brown locks cascade down her shoulders, on which a grey t-shirt casually hung, and contacted at the waist with worn blue jeans. On her feet were black high tops and on her nose, rested big glasses that completed the intelligent air that the women held confidently. Her name was Irene Adler.
"Who is John, may I ask?"
"John was my flatmate, that was all." Sherlock feigned indifference with a shrug.
"Only a 'flatmate'? You seemed quite vexed when your landlady mentioned him. If I didn't know any better, I'd have to say that you were-or are-in love with him!" Realizing that she had imposed herself in a matter where her opinion in not wanted, Irene stands up. "Oh! I am so sorry, I just say things sometimes. I should be going now."
Sherlock's eyes filled with a cold hearted bitterness for a moment but soften as he remembers the promise he made to John, the night he died.
"Sherlock, do one thing for me, would you?"
"John, just tell me where you are, I can help!"
"No, Sherlock. Would you do one thing for me when I'm gone?"
"Yes, what is it you want me to do?"
"Be nice; go take Molly on a date, tell Anderson that you like his shoes, Hell, buy Sally a gift card to her favorite restaurant! Just make some friends-"
"You know I don't have any-"
"But for me, please change that. Make friends for me. I don't want you to be lonely when I'm gone. You need someone to lean on. Would you do that for me, Sherlock?"
"Yes, yes John, I'll do anything for you."
Shaking himself out of his trance with a jolt, Sherlock cloaks his grief with a friendly demeanor. "I'd love for you to stay. Do you want to see me solve a rubik's cube in five seconds? That's 3 seconds under the known record!" After realizing how boring he had sounded, Sherlock scoured his mind for a talent of his that would be remarkable to an ordinary person like Irene.
"Thank you, Sherlock, but I must decline your chivalrous proposal; I have to go to work now." With a regretful shigh, Irene walks out of flat 221B and out into the London streets.