Clandestine

by Rainless Thunder

"Of course, your precious ego is all you have to protect you," Irene neared him, stopping once the tips of their feet touched. "Why save a girl like me then? Love?" WIP

1. Chapter 1

This is officially my first Sherlock fanfic, and I kind of just testing the waters a bit. So it's kind a one-shot if you will until I get some feedback. Irene's actually not present for the second half of this chapter. So I honestly hope this goes well.

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own BBC Sherlock

Clandestine

4 Years Later

John watched in disbelief as the cars swerved, the red Volkswagen polo spinning quickly out of control, the blue Chevelle hitting it head on in what seemed to be in nauseous slow motion, the sickening crunch of metal pierced the night air followed quickly after.

"SHERLOCK!" John whipped his head in the direction of down the street. Where is he? "Damn, this is bad." John began a brisk walk, almost a run down the street. Where had they gone? He clutched at the gun in his coat. John searched the congregating crowd, a handful of people pulling out their phones to call authorities, most in a frightened silence.

Sherlock was supposed to be down the street, waiting for John's signal, which admittedly wasn't a shriek down the street. But actually a perfectly timed call with the smashing of the vehicles. However, Sherlock wasn't there to receive either. John stopped in his tracks and looked at the wreckage.

"You can't be…" John was lost for words. Sherlock was supposed to have abandoned the car, letting it go on its own.

"Damnit!" he headed back to site of the crash, Sherlock couldn't be?…John had just had Sherlock back and he about to loose him again. He if had a choice, he wouldn't let it happen a second time. He rushed headfirst into the crowd.

"I'm a doctor-is anyone in the cars-! Please let me through!" His forceful push through the crown jostled him relentlessly, everyone there was too stunned to really call him out on it.

"Sir, this is unusual, but there in no one in either of the cars." A member of police kept John back with a firm hand to his chest.

"What? What do you mean?" John breathed a sigh of relief.

"We haven't found anyone, like these cars drove themselves…"

"Alright.." John backed off, and turned back to the sidewalk. Albeit quite a bit more relieved than when he entered the crowd. His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. John pulled it out and put to his ear without hesitation.

"Hello?" he said quickly.

"Come to the flat, now." her voice had waned, "please." It was weak and vulnerable, seeking any help she could.

"What happened?" John began walking the street to find a cab, where there wasn't traffic.

"He's still here." she whispered and the phone cut out.

4 Years ago

"Should I feel flattered? Or ashamed?" Irene removed the hood.

Sherlock fought his urge to grin smugly, but gave in to temptation only for him to fortunately be hidden by the dim lights of the dank room they were hiding in.

"Don't be. But why ashamed?" Sherlock loosened his collar.

"Ashamed that the detective came all the way out here to rescue me. I could have handled myself-"

"You were seconds away from death, if that's what you meant by you could handle yourself, I must have been severely misinformed."

"You're disappointed that I'm not kissing your feet, fawning over you-"

"Of course, it always comes down to my ego."

"Of course, your precious ego is all you have to protect you," Irene neared him, stopping once the tips of their feet touched. "Why save a girl like me then? Love?"

"Don't fool yourself, I don't love you." Sherlock snapped back.

"I can always dream-"

"Dreaming does nothing, action does. Had I only dreamt about saving you, your unmarked plot would have been patted down and abandoned."

"Boredom, is that why you bothered? You needed some action in your life? Something to distract you from the swirl of thoughts in your head? Are you asking me to take a risk at getting you to fall for me, or rather, the other way around? Better for your ego, I'd wager-"

"In the meantime, we'll be leaving for the airport at dawn tomorrow."

"To London?" Irene's eyes flickered up to his.

"Oh ho, don't kid yourself, you'll be caught if you go back to London. So in the meantime, everything's in order for you to be sent comfortably to France instead. Start a new, crime free life-"

"Well we all know I couldn't keep that up for long. Misbehaving is my business."

"On the other hand, however, I will be going back to London to alert my colleague at Bart's of your condition and fortunately she's quite adept at providing bodies when I need them…"

"You're faking my death?"

"It's the only way Mycroft will quit the search, and believe me he's thorough, it would take a detective like myself to fool him." Sherlock gripped the phone in his hand.

"You're protecting me, yet again? Maybe I should be flattered, you're really laying it on thick-"

"Don't complain, do you want me to deliver you to Mycroft, personally?"

"Threatening me now, are you? For one, I don't believe you, you're not the type to tattle-tale, and you wouldn't just give away the fruits of your precious labor would you?" She lifted her hand to his face. Her fingers ghosted over his cheek.

"So, no complaints to the trip to France I take it?"

"I guess not."

"I'm due back to London before noon, John doesn't know I left." Sherlock said offhandedly.

"Oh so your allegiance is to Doctor Watson?"

"What-"

"Oh, don't say it like that, you know I heard you. You have a curfew, why not…rebel?" Her words were soft and they threatened him. They told him eagerly of things he could do had he simply just diverged from his "normal" schedule. Case after case. It told him of the sudden spread of nostalgia from uni, all the experiments with drugs….sometimes Sherlock craved it, but he'd never tell anyone. It overwhelmed him, how easily he could go back to it, and that thought tingled his spine.

"I'm perfectly capable of deciding things myself, thank you." Sherlock said in a clipped tone.

"Doesn't seem like it. Then why not?" Irene abruptly pulled away, she stared him in the face for a second before heading over to the mottled mattress on the floor. She sat down. "Live a little Mr. Holmes." Irene yawned, putting her back to the mattress and proceeded to stare up at the cracked ceiling.

The discolored and peeling wallpaper gave way in places to a gritty grey foundation. Those walls enclosed them from all sides, the only exit was a small window in the corner of the room that let in little light from the rapidly setting sun, the small stairway in the other corner hidden behind drapes of old cloth that led down to the ground floor as well as another rickety stairway that stood opposite that led to the rooftop. These grey walls that protected them from the unsafe territory that was the outskirts of Karachi.

"You just wanted to prove you could," Irene went on in a subdued accusatory voice, "you seek the thrill Mr. Holmes…and I don't blame you." she breathed.

"Just what do you mean by that?" Sherlock said picking up a dull colored blanket marked with small holes in hand from its draped position on the stairwell. He made his way to her.

"Maybe I couldn't have made it out of there had you not shown up." she chuckled bitterly, "I had no plan and I'm not going to convince myself that I ever did." Irene grabbed his small duffle of belongings from his side of the mattress and adjusted it behind herself as a makeshift pillow.

"You know," Sherlock sat down next to her, a reasonable distance between them, "had I not found you, though the odds of that were low, nevertheless I would have had headed back to London, just as content." Sherlock stated, "You're not special."

"Oh, I'm not am I?" She lifted herself to her elbows, "You're lying to me Mr. Holmes. I can see it in your eyes. Why go through the trouble of fabrication when you can just admit you don't want to see me dead again?"

Irene had replied in such a rush to get the words out, all the while with a bite in her voice, Sherlock was actually silent for a few moments, as if lost for an immediate comeback. When he opened his mouth, he spoke in a husky whisper.

"That bait was clever. Too clever almost. It bordered dim-witted. And I took it."

"So you're calling yourself dim-witted? Where's your ego now? Hiding away behind those ghastly drapes?"

"Not in the slightest. Only you would pull something like that, and for that I see the flaw."

"And I forgive you, had I seen your body, assuming it's in fact the real one, I too would have pulled the covers all the way down-"

"Is that the first time you've used death as an escape?" Sherlock tossed the blanket to her, it landed across her waist.

"Oh no Mr. Holmes. I've used it a few times, not often, only when absolutely necessary." Her eyes flicked up to his, "One of these days, I'm sure you'll use it too. Just remember, when you do, you got it from me." Sherlock looked down at her, her face flickering in the half light of the sole candle to her left.

"Not entirely, people have faked their deaths to squirm their way out of tough situations for centuries, I very seldom doubt you were the first person to keep that option in their arsenal." Sherlock picked up a loosened bit of gravel from the crumbling floor and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, examining its contents. His brows furrowed.

"Hmmm, I guess you're correct," Irene sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist. "So, why did you save me?"

"Sentiment." He dropped the gravel and rubbed at his temples. Eyes squeezed shut. "Are you happy?"

"A bit less than thrilled." She pursed her lips and took his wrist in her hand. Sherlock turned his hand to look at her. "Your pulse is quickening, is it not?" Irene asked slyly. "What gorgeous blue eyes you've got Mr. Holmes, trying so hard to take all of me in…" She leaned in closer to him.

"I could easily say the same for you Miss Adler." Sherlock did the same, their noses almost touching. "I suggest you get some rest, big day tomorrow." Sherlock dead panned, pulling away then scooting over to the opposite side of the mattress. He sighed, "God, I need a cigarette."

"I'm afraid God can't help you in those endeavors. I heard you quit."

"Cold turkey as John says, but it's not easy without constant distraction."

"Oh, well maybe the long listless plane ride will help you." she smiled bitterly before lying down again, her back to him and pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "Goodnight Mr. Holmes." She said at last, her voice exasperated as if she'd decided to say that at the last second. Irene leaned over and blew out the candle, leaving them in complete darkness before lying back down on the mattress.

"Night, Miss Adler."

OOO

"Oh the city, never thought I'd miss the sight of something…something so chaotic." Irene fastened the buttons to her coat. She looked ahead towards the large building that was the Jinnah International Airport. Small tinted windows spanned the front and glinted in the sunlight of the high afternoon.

"I thought you worked well in chaos."

"Only when it's me causing it."

"Oh, no wonder you didn't enjoy your almost decapitation, come on, inside." Sherlock said hastily, ushering her inside.

The departure lounge was a bland room lined with red seats on one end and a few pale green sofas back to back on the other side. Sherlock quickly took a seat and placed his duffle in his lap.

Irene seated herself next to him, her eyes intently on the bag in his lap.

"What's in the bag? Passports? Tickets?" She flipped open the flap of the bag with her hand, "You want to get rid of me this quickly? Oh, I was beginning to think you actually enjoyed my company." She smirked with her pale lips.

Sherlock lifted his head and stared her in the face, "Sorry I was unable to bring you your usual blood shade. Your mouth does look a bit small, but who's to say that isn't because I'm not used to your watered down appearance." Sherlock rose an eyebrow then returned his attention to the bag.

"Oh, it says here-" Irene snagged her ticket from the duffle, "That I must be going by half past ten," she turned her head, pivoting until she spotted a large iron-wrought wreath across from them, it hung toward the top of the enormous ceiling, in it's center large numerals. "And look at the time, it's ten."

"Maybe you should go-"

Irene took a deep breath, "Maybe I should, Mr. Holmes. I'm so eager to find out what a life full of good deeds and innocence will do me."

"Surely a bit better, don't you think?"

"Possibly, but not nearly enough misbehaving could." She leaned in, "I mean it this time, goodbye Mr. Holmes." Irene gave his hand a gentle squeeze before standing up and facing him with a final look before heading to the terminal.

OOO

1 Month Later

"I'm off for some milk, alright?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied nonchalantly from behind his newspaper, gently swinging the foot of his leg bent over the other.

"Alright then," John added from the doorway, "you need anything?"

"No." Sherlock said with finality,

"Okay, see you." John spared Sherlock one last look, rolled his eyes at the fact that Sherlock hadn't looked up at all then closed the door behind him.

"Have fun on your date." Sherlock said sharply, raising his eye brows, the newspaper folding backwards in his hands.

ooo

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." The words rolled from her lips in velvety pools. Her fingers curling gently around his wrist.

"It certainly is," Sherlock stared into her face, the long dark lashes half covering her truly blue eyes, dim in the lamp light. Her lips red and plump, moist from having licked them with her tongue only moments before. He hadn't expected her to show up. A text only moments before John had announced he was leaving alerted him of her potential company. Sherlock was a bit thankful John hadn't heard it. Sherlock placed his hand gently on her waist, her own lying on his shoulder. Not that he didn't want to take advantage of this opportune moment, but he always found it difficult to succumb to human pleasures such as this.

"Come on," Sherlock said lowly, abruptly leaning down, his lips almost hitting hers, Irene stared at his mouth with half lidded eyes, "Not here, your bedroom…I like privacy." She mulled her phrasing over in her head, "however, if you just want to lift me up onto your desk…" She drifted off suggestively.

"Nope," Sherlock said immediately, "Never with my work, the bedroom's certainly preferable."

ooo

"Oh, afternoon." She smiled at him a few seconds, "Oh, sorry, come in." She stepped back and gestured for him to come inside.

"No worries," John smiled back, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before closing the door behind them. He sincerely hoped nothing unfortunate would happen on this date.

"Well, as you can see, I'm not entirely ready yet." She scratched her head.

John looked at her, the half done makeup, pale thin lips and light blue eyes. Her round face leading to a gentle sloping neck. Her faded blonde bangs hung slightly in her face, the long thin tresses spread down to the small of her back.

"I still think you're gorgeous really." He said sincerely.

"You really think so?" She kissed him on the cheek.

"Anytime," He replied, "Now go on Mary, we should leave soon."

"To the theatre? What movie?" Mary asked, smoothing back her hair as she headed into the hall.

"Some romance flick whose name has escaped me." John chuckled a bit. It was a good advance for the third date he believed. The first was a simple picnic date and the second a lunch meeting, he wondered why he didn't bother to take her to dinner on this one.

ooo

Sherlock sat on his bed, Irene standing between his parted knees. Her arms cradled his head, their foreheads touching. Sherlock's hands beneath her bum, the crème colored dress she wore drawn up in bunches around his forearms. The intimacy, though Sherlock was pressed to admit it, it helped ease him into the more familiar grounds of sex.

"Believe it or not, this is very inconvenient-" Sherlock gripped her thighs a bit tighter for emphasis.

"We don't have time for you to detest this." Irene kissed him.

"That's not what I meant, and besides, how long does it take for you to climax? John's on a date right now, and from what I saw, he's taking her to a movie. Therefore we have at least an hour." Sherlock was simply pointing out the fact that she had come at such an inconvenient time, no "real" case was present, however he still found no time for this.

"With you? Fairly quick. But I could use the extra time," She stated unabashedly, her fingers playing with his hair. "Who said this had to be convenient for you also?"

"I did Miss Adler. And if you have yet to notice, please do. But, the one detesting this is the one who could ultimately decide what happens-"

"Don't be so conceited Mr. Holmes," She purred, "But if I'm not mistaken, you could have easily stopped this whole meeting had you not answered my message." Irene's eyes dropped down to his chest as she unbuttoned the first button of his white dress shirt. "So, in my opinion," she reasoned, "You want this just as bad as I do." Irene lifted her left leg onto the other side of his own. "One word." Irene kissed his forehead, "That's all you had to say." she bent down lower and kissed his lips. "No." Irene pulled away, "Or yes." She punctuated her words with a sudden knead of her hand to his crotch. Sherlock's hips jerked upwards in an abrupt response. He snarled.

ooo

John held the cab door open for her, "You first."

"Thanks," Mary ducked her head and entered. Seconds later, John sat down next to her. He told the cabbie the location of the theatre, then sat back and settled next to her.

"So, you had any other boyfriends recently then?"

"Slow down Dr. Watson, it's only the third date." Mary grinned, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"Don't get all worked up Mary, I was kidding." John chuckled. He took her hand in his.

"Don't tease me John Watson, I'm not one for practical jokes." she fought back a laugh.

"Then we're just perfect then." John smiled to himself.

Mary took a deep breath of the crisp evening air as she stepped from the cab. The heels of her boots clicking against the asphalt outside the theatre as she stopped behind John who closed the door for her.

"All ready?" He asked her.

"Of course," she smiled sweetly then took his arm. "So tell me what this movie is about again?"

"It's called, uh," John riffled quickly through his pants pockets and clutched the two tickets in his hand, John brought them up to his face then squinted his eyes slightly as he read the title, "uh, Breathless. It's called Breathless." He said with certainty, "A tale of forbidden lovers in a story that was never meant to be," He finished, "What a load of waffle." John pursed his lips.

"Don't down play it John, I heard it was good." Mary looked at him, "Come on, I'm sure it'll be worth it." She gave him a quick kiss and led him into the theatre.

ooo

"Mmm," a low growl slithered through his lips.

Irene intertwined their fingers in front of her. Her hips grinding slowly against him. Sherlock's fingers squeezed hers tighter with every move of her lower body.

Sherlock suddenly sat up, his body now against hers. Their lips lingered together, hot breath swimming between them. With measured fingers, he lowered the wrinkled dress she wore from her shoulders, his fingers lingering against the newly revealed skin. At this point it was purely a nuisance, no longer something used to seduce. There was no way to get completely off her without her standing up or a complete change in position. Sherlock settled for the latter. His hands suddenly took hold off her arms, and he shifted quite quickly, burying her beneath him.

With hasty hands, he unceremoniously pulled the dress from her then dropped it carelessly to the side. Irene scooted backwards, allowing him to lay completely on the bed with her. With wet lips he adorned her throat with hot kisses, her soft groans vibrating against his mouth. His warm, calloused fingers explored the curves of her breasts and navel. Her powdery, sweat mixed scent filled his nostrils and the damp feel of her underwear further excited him. His cock twitched noticeably, only to him. With her eyes clamped shut and her hips working, Sherlock knew for a fact, the only thing Irene was doing was feeling.

Irene's chest heaved and her eyes opened, Sherlock had stopped moving.

She gave him a questioning look.

"Remember what you said about me being conceited?"

"Of course, who could forget-" Her mind went blank as a lithe finger dragged itself slowly, so slowly, along the flesh between her legs, Irene felt she was going to drown in her loss of breath. Sherlock stared at her with greedy eyes, scrutinizing every facial expression, every sound, Irene knew it was difficult for him to completely drop the habit. It was just the way he was.

Ooo

John was happy to say he was enjoying himself, he had yet to have a time when he didn't enjoy himself around Mary.

Her head rested comfortably on his shoulder and their fingers intertwined, John smiled to himself. He honestly felt he'd finally found the right girl. Though, she did have yet to meet Sherlock. And with that thought, his smile quickly faded. The dark movie theatre readily hid his turn of facial expressions and John was thankful for that. He was sure there was more than a handful of people like him, just waiting for the movie to end.

To him, the movie really was a load of waffle, the dialogue was almost too sappy for him to stomach and he suddenly wished he'd picked a horror movie or something. At least that would keep his mind from wandering.

John opened his mouth to speak, however at the last minute decided against it, he'd tell her so after the movie. John squeezed her hand briefly, and she nuzzled against him a bit more.

He truly believed he loved her, he knew it time to tell her.

ooo

"Sher-sherlock!" Irene gasped, she was reduced to a moaning pile of soft sweaty skin.

As Sherlock thrust mindlessly, something he didn't do often. In all of this, it was the only way for either of them to enjoy what they were doing. To see each other so shamelessly and vulnerable, was to let their minds shut down, to not think. Only touch, feel, taste and hear. All the senses that didn't require specific thought. And it was difficult for Sherlock to overcome that initial hurdle, the first time, the only thing he wanted to do was measure how loud she moaned, how the temperature of her skin increased when he did something, or changes in her pulse or facial expressions. Every wrinkle, what it meant and what it entailed. The way her eyes dilated when she looked up at him, her mouth in a perpetual O.

During sex was the only time he really noticed her façade slip, she wouldn't call him 'Mr. Holmes' anymore in that curt tone. It was Sherlock, raw and breathy, her mouth finding difficulty in forming coherent words.

Irene's cries were increasing in volume and his were too. His moans sounded so foreign to him, he didn't like the sound of them all too much, so he settled on listening to hers instead, which he greatly preferred. Sherlock slowed down, he wanted to draw out the last of it as long as he could without imploding himself.

"Miss Adler." He breathed, leaning down and kissing her as he rocked against her.

ooo

"Hey, I actually liked it-" Mary chuckled.

"It was rubbish, don't deny it!" John teased as they reached the street side.

"At least I try to see the bright side of things!" She shouted through the night air.

"Well sometimes, I swear you try too hard." John retorted, laughing lightly, "Cab!" He held up his arm into the oncoming wave of cars. A cab having caught his gesture slowed down to a stop right in front of him. 'Come on, let's get you home." John took her hand and helped her into the cab.

Once again, he was then beside her, smiling widely.

"Did something happen, something you wish to tell me?" Mary looked at him, she looked expectant.

"Not yet Mary, just you wait." John settled next to her once again and stuck his hands into his jacket pockets resolutely.

Ten minutes passed quickly and the cab slowed to a stop outside her flat.

"Could you wait here please?" John said quickly to the driver before following Mary out of the cab and behind the building to her flat. The small cobblestone path was lined with petite potted plants, colorful flowers inside them, iron looped fence, a few inches tall protected the plants from straying feet and this time of night lit up with tiny lights intertwined through the fencing so one could still see the path.

John stepped up the stairs to the mat outside her door.

"So, uh, did you have an alright night?"

"It was wonderful, though I kind of wish we could have stayed out longer, maybe dinner next time?" Mary smiled slightly.

"Dinner, right." John patted his pants pockets.

"What about you?"

"Brilliant."

"So, there was something you wanted to say?" Mary added at last.

"Yeah, there was." John paused, he took her hand, "Mary Elizabeth Morstan, I think I love you. In fact," John added quickly, "I have my mind set on it, I do love you." John's face burned and he wrung his hands together.

"John?" Mary's brows furrowed and she took on of his hands in hers. "John H. Watson." She laughed nervously, her eyes lit up, "I love you too." She smiled with her pink lips, and they kissed.

"Um, have a good night Mary." John took a step down from her door.

"You too, darling." Mary stepped forward and kissed him once more. She gave him one last delightful look before closing the door behind her.

ooo

Sherlock brought his head back, sweat plastered against his forehead, throat expanded and hollowed with satisfactory moans.

"Irene!" He growled, gripping her hips with sweaty hands. The way he said her name, only when he was about the complete showed how much self control he possessed and single handedly turned her on as well as quicken her rate until climax overcame her. Irene rapidly did so, as soon as the thought passed, her nails digging into the firm skin of his torso, tearing red burning streaks down the plane of his stomach as a final shrill cry emerged and her hips slowly rocked to a stop.

Sherlock took hold of her teetering body and brought her down to rest on top of him. He breathed hard and deep, his chest rising and falling with such severity, Irene was clearly rising with him. Three short minutes passed before they both simultaneously shifted, Irene unseating him, his flaccid cock falling from her to rest lazily across his navel.

"Come on Mr. Holmes, we haven't got long." She said breathlessly, picking up her clothing and placing them in a pile of his bed.

Sherlock sat up, he opened his mouth to retort, but instead sighed loudly before standing up. Picking up his own clothes quickly as his brain began to function rapidly once again.

Sherlock zipped up his trousers and began working on the buttons of his dress shirt, finally finishing with the cufflinks. He tapped the tip of his shoes against the carpet, getting comfortable as Irene approached him, turning around so he could zip up the dress.

Irene slipped on her shoes and smoothed back her hair into a neat bun before following Sherlock out into the main room. He settled in his armchair and picked up a newspaper.

"Oh, I guess I should be gone already." She grabbed her coat from the door hook and put it on rather slowly.

"Well yes, you should be, John should be back soon and I'd rather you not meet in these circumstances. So, chop chop." Sherlock feigned a brief smile before lifting the newspaper to his face once again.

"Alright, I'm going Mr. Holmes. Nice seeing you." She opened the door.

"Wonderful." Sherlock replied, she closed the door behind her with a gentle thud.

A quarter of an hour passed before Sherlock could hear the tell-tale footfalls of his flat mate, could he hear a slight spring in his step?

"I've got the milk." John said exasperatedly, gesturing to the gallon in his hand.

"Good." Sherlock said shortly, gently swinging the leg he had bent over the other.

"Alright, I think I'm off to bed. I'm exhausted." John headed into the kitchen.

"Surely, purchasing milk doesn't take that much out of you. Or I'll be unable to take you with me on cases now, fear you might sit in the evidence…"

"Fine, Sherlock I know where you're heading. Alright, I admit, I was on a date."

"That honestly didn't take much coaxing John, I'm disappointed."

"At least I don't sit in a chair for three straight hours analyzing the same newspaper with such severity I'm sure you pin-pointed the location of the ink."

"Flint Ink, France." Sherlock answered instantly, John rolled his eyes and closed the fridge after placing the milk inside.

"Sherlock, surely you could do something else, not that you don't do anything, I'm just suggesting-"

"Suggesting what? I quit consulting and "spread my wings" as you would say-"

"No, no, no," John shook his head, "Just," he sighed, "Never mind, forget it, there's no way to sway that stubborn head of yours…" John began to head up the stairs, "See you at breakfast." He said as he ascended.

"Alright."

Next Morning

"Is there anything?" Sherlock inquired, tea in hand and robe billowing behind him as he headed to his armchair.

"Hmm…" John eyes scanned the screen of his laptop. "Ah ha! Email from Lestrade. Sent for you this morning, some woman's apparently been murdered on her wedding night."

"Boring." Sherlock's eyes widened, "Was there anything else?" Sherlock pulled the lapel of his robe and sniffed it briefly. He scrunched his nose, it still smelt of Irene, he'd somehow forgotten to throw it in the wash after she'd worn it.

"There's more Sherlock, the woman, this woman had something tattooed across her back."

"And what is that may I ask?"

"A name."

"Come on John, if you're trying for tension, you're failing miserably."

"Alright, alright, Sherlock. She had the name Moriarty tattooed across her back."

"And how is this supposed to interest me again?"

"I thought you were after Moriarty, it's definitely a lead."

"Who's to say there aren't other people in this world under the name 'Moriarty'? This could easily have been a name of a past lover she particularly cared for, that's why she didn't bother to cover it up or get it removed…"

"Sherlock, the name was carved into her backside the night she died, which incidentally was last night-"

"And my observation still stands John! A jealous lover! Nothing about this says 'Moriarty' what about this would interest him, much less me." He stood up abruptly and began pacing, stopping in front of the window. "Then again, what if it is Moriarty, the James Moriarty, I must entertain the idea. If he's just playing, he does get bored…" Sherlock reasoned, "What if to convey a message. Through a dead body would be the only way he'd do it…" Sherlock drifted off, his fingers touching in front of him, John could see the tension in the tendons of his hands. The ever focused eyes, looking beyond what was in front of him and the way his brain seemed to work effortlessly to suggest every possibility.

"John, I must go, if anything, this will become some dead-end. An imitator or just some normal murderer." Sherlock frowned at the thought. "…much too easy…" Sherlock mumbled. He rushed to the door and grabbed his coat, "Let's go John, get this over with…"

"Oh, we're going now." John stood up and followed Sherlock out the door.

OOO

"So, look here Sherlock, I've got you ten minutes at best, use it, get what you need then leave the rest to us," Lestrade crossed his arms, "If there's something amiss, we'll contact you, alright?" Sherlock had already begun walking towards the scene, "Sherlock? Sherlock! Are you even listening! Don't do anything rash alright?"

"Of course." Sherlock replied quickly without really heeding the advice. He headed without ado into the room.

The curtains had been drawn shut, they looked as if they had been that way since the scene was found, untouched. The fallen bride lay face down on the bed, the back of her nightdress stained in blotches of blood. Sherlock neared her.

"Anyone find a purse, her personals perhaps?" He looked around, a hesitant employee took a small tan colored handbag off a nightstand against the back wall and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock faked a smile at the employee before turning to the bag without further ado.

He riffled through the contents quite quickly. Thoughts in fragments swirled rapidly through his head. Smart phone. An older model, what she could afford with the income of a ?. Make up. Condoms. Wallet. Lucy Etheridge. Twenty-five years. Cautious. Planner. Red pen. Teacher? Doctor? A small handmade bracelet. Definitely a teacher.

Sherlock tossed the bag to John who wasn't altogether paying attention to Sherlock's meticulous habits, but managed to catch from his peripheral. Sherlock stood up and began looking at the body. Right handed. Apparently killed by a forceful blow to the back of the head.

"I'll assume the murder weapon hasn't been found." Sherlock looked back at the hesitant employee. "You're new aren't you?" He narrowed his eyes at the employee, "I've never seen you before." Sherlock's eyes saw immediately past the mousy brown hair and taped glasses. Some kind of intern, without a steady income…just out of college….Sherlock turned back to the body without waiting for an answer.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John quipped from the end of the bed.

"What? I'm kind of in the middle of something if you don't mind." Sherlock replied roughly.

"Oh, nothing just wondering what you're coming up with. Care to share?"

"Of course, you're not going to receive the information any other way." He stood up straight from his bent over position. "Lucy Holt formerly Etheridge, a single child and grade school teacher. Cautious, very cautious. A pushover at best. If not literally. Her cautious nature contributed to that need to please. Murdered by a blow to the back of the head. Her new husband is nowhere to be found. Therefore right now, until we have more leads, this husband, is assumed to be part of this murder or missing. But if he is missing, then why not take Mrs. Holt too. Why leave one body and take the other?" Sherlock spun slowly on the spot. His hands knotted in front of him.

"You have any leads?" John asked, "Are you sure there isn't anything? Anything at all?"

"There's this." Sherlock retrieved from his pocket a crumpled napkin. He unfolded it. "Found it in her purse. There's a number on here. A perused her phone and found one Evan Colton."

"And how is that number important?"

"This note is dated the twenty-sixth of march, last night. Also, there's an insignia on it, it's the Maddox club in Mayfair. There must be connection with this meeting and what proceeded."

"And what if it's just a meeting between close friends before her wedding? There's nothing wrong with that is there?"

"Precisely John, that one reason to do so. But instead of close friends, let's substitute that with lovers for a moment. Once we do that, there are many motives-"

"Wait didn't you say she was ridiculously cautious? She wouldn't have a lover, it would be against her nature."

"And that's why she received his number, she wanted to think it over. Obviously, she chose her fiancé, and this other man might not have taken it well. But that assumption if for further investigation to solidify. Also, the matter of having Moriarty's name across her back. If this is Moriarty, what is he possibly communicating to me?" Sherlock's brows furrowed quickly, staring into space, John could tell he was thinking to himself.

"Sherlock?"

"Ah!" Sherlock brows unknotted, "Enough of that for now, on the other hand, we're going to this club tonight."

"I never thought I hear you say something like that ever."

"You know why John, for investigation. Why else?"

"Oh, forget it Sherlock. So, as seeing it's only three in the afternoon, and I'll assume this club opens later in the day, what are you planning to do in the meantime?"

"Hmmm, nothing in particular, maybe some crap telly?"

OOO

That Night

John could already hear the slight sound of the bass a block down the street from the club. He turned his head down the street away from the club, Sherlock walking briskly away from him. John huffed quickly before speeding up his stride to meet Sherlock.

The brisk walk forced John to breath in the crisp air, burning his lungs.

"Sherlock, the club is back there!" John shouted to Sherlock who was a full block away. He stopped in his tracks then turned around to face John.

"We can't just walk in there, it's member exclusive. Come on, stop complaining, I've already got the solution." Sherlock kept walking and stopped promptly at a plain spot of wall between two shops.

"Alright what is it?" John reached Sherlock, breathing hard, his hands in his knees, he looked up at Sherlock.

"We're going in through the top." Sherlock said like it was the perfect explanation, anyone could have thought of it, it was common sense.

"And just how are we doing that?" John said breathlessly.

"You'll see come on," Sherlock resumed his brisk stride, "Like I said, you can enter anywhere if you'd just wait for the proper moment." He said to John over his shoulder, "Up here if I remember correctly."

A block passed in silence when Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of a clothing boutique. The indoor lights brightening his tense face. "We've got to reach the roofs." Sherlock said quickly before opening the doors with a flourish, John at his heels.

Sherlock looked at the stairs that stood opposite the doors and without a second thought began ascending them. The warm air that enveloped them in the shop was quickly lost as Sherlock whisked open the door that granted them access to the rooftop.

From the top of the building, the tight-nit roofs stood together to produce a smooth path across them to reach the club down the street. Sherlock's stride slowed down, they had obviously passed the more stressful part of gaining access to the tops of the buildings.

"So what now?" John said walking alongside him.

"We find the opening of the club from the top, no membership needed." His own breath was visible in the dark.

John stared around, what the darkness looked like above all the light pollution, the slight sight of the star if he craned his head, the miles of roof top in every direction, and none of it would have been possible had he not met Sherlock. He felt sure of it, that he'd probably still be limping around had Sherlock not been mentioned. John smiled to himself.

"John?" Sherlock said sharply, John turned in his direction. "Right here." Sherlock held open the door, "quickly." with a whoosh of his coat, Sherlock was already descending the stairs.

"Are you sure this is the Maddox?" John gestured to the peeling white walls and the scratched up floor.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, no one goes up here, this leads to the kitchens, if I'm correct, which I should be, the stairs to the bar should be close."

"How do you know they didn't talk in the restaurant?"

"The restaurant uses cloth napkins, these," Sherlock took the paper from his pocket, "are the type they use in at the bar." He continued, hastily stuffing the napkin back into his coat pocket, he ducked behind the banister, John followed suit.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the area, the heat of multiple stoves stifled the air, it smelt heavily of metal and seared meat. Without a further sign of contemplation, he dashed from behind the banister to the next set of stairs a few feet away, next to an open trash bin.

"We should come out near the employee quarters I guess, judging by these second hand stairs, not fancy in the least…" Sherlock hurried down them, the thrumming bass was quickly shifting into clear beats that rattled the bottom stairs, and vibrated continually against the walls.

As soon as they met the open air, the music was deafening. Tables and leather booths framed the room, electric blue lights hung on the ceiling. Throngs of people were on the dance floor as well as seated at various tables, drinks swirling precariously in their hands.

They quickly immersed themselves into the crowd, Sherlock's abrupt turns as he thought of the next step quickly lost John in the moving swarm of bodies. John turned suddenly, running into Sherlock who was turned the other way.

"Oi! Sherlock!" It was difficult to hear anything other than the loud music.

"Where to start….no witnesses…no witnesses…" Sherlock lifted a thumb to his lips, "no witnesses….oh wait!" With a whoosh of his coat, Sherlock had dashed off, the crown consuming him once more.

"Sherlock!" It didn't matter how loud he happened to shout, the doll voice of woman crooning over hard bass was the only thing he and he was sure anyone else could hear. It was becoming unnaturally loud.

"Sherlock!" John tried again, but it was no use. An arm swung to his left and in the sea of bodies, it missed his head by a mere inch. John ducked his head. Someone's dancing a bit too carelessly. He thought to himself. He was beginning to think he was too old to be here, everyone looked to be young adults, the twenties crowd. Too many drinks. Though, admittedly, John believed if this went on any longer, he himself would need a drink. John stood up on his toes, looking hard through the many towering arms and heads, Sherlock was no where in sight, the heat of the club was almost smothering.

"John Watson." John whipped his head to his right, he swore he heard someone whisper it, even above all the music. The voice was so familiar, however, the sound was quickly lost.

"John Watson." He heard it again, this time he caught sight of a pair of light blue eyes across the room, it was right then he realized Mary was calling to him.

"Mary!" John without pretense, began pushing his way through the sea of people. His shouts were drowned easily by the music. John fought wildly through the crowd, whatever it took to reach those eyes. An elbow, seemingly out of nowhere hit him squarely in the temple. John staggered. His eyes lost focus and he fell to the floor. He was sure it wasn't an accident. And that thought worried him. Where was Sherlock? What if he'd been ambushed also? They were in danger and they had to get out. And then, where was Mary? Was she in danger too? Or did she just happen to be there and see him? John prayed it was latter, that she didn't have anything to do with it.

He clapped a hand to temple, "ahhh," the beat did nothing but contribute to the pulsating headache he was rapidly developing. "Sherlock!" He breathed painfully, his eyes scanned the crowd of anyone, whether it be Sherlock, Mary or the attackers.

"Mary." John moaned.

The heat was overwhelming and his head was throbbing painfully, he was beginning to blackout, John tried hard to get back up, but he staggered helplessly back to the ground. Sweat beaded his forehead, and one of the only things he could think of was the fact that no one seemed to notice he was lying there. He closed his eyes and succumbed.

The blurry lights of 221B met his eyes and John squeezed them shut.

"John? You're awake?" Sherlock said from his left.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John opened his eyes slowly, "I was attacked on the dance floor-" He closed them again and settled into his armchair.

"I know John, Mary's here-"

With that, John eyes snapped open, "Where is she-what happened to you?" He looked at Sherlock. Liquid soaked his blazer and shirt. His dark hair damp.

"Why, I have her resting up in your bedroom, figured she should stay here tonight for safety," Sherlock replied, "I had a drink thrown at me, for no reason at all!"

"I hardly believe it was no reason at all." John grinned.

"Apparently, I was giving the bartender a hard time." Sherlock added, pursing his lips, not seeing the fault in it.

"So, that's where you got your scoop, isn't it? The bartender? Were they in last night?"

"Yes, I actually thought she wouldn't be, but fortunately, her hours we're just solidified last week."

"What time is it Sherlock?"

"Ten past two."

"In the morning?"

"Does it look like the afternoon to you?"

"Fine, what happened to Mary?"

"You were both targeted, to get to me I'd wager, but then again, it could have been a mistake where they meant to attack me. But I found you both out back actually, knocked out, but the attacker had fled. Probably after realizing their mistake of hitting the wrong man, and woman by extension." Sherlock paced the room, "then we must determine who this attacker was, maybe it was friend of Evan Colton's, if not the man himself, we need to find his address. There's some information, that's crucial to identify and to do that, we must find this young man, there must be something he or whoever this is doesn't want us to know-"

"Did the bartender tell you anything?"

"She happened to serve them drinks. Lucy and Evan had shown up to the club around nine last night, they were both regulars, the bartender had seen them around often. But as the night went on, their body language went from very open to reserved. They ordered drinks, but barely sipped at them, meaning a very important matter was at hand, and either would hate to loose their tightlipped manner of speaking. They talked throughout the night, Lucy looked visibly torn apparently, a difficult decision. But, she soon left after. Evan stayed for another hour, apparently downed his drink and picked up another girl and left with her. An obvious sign of rejection, he'd look for something to distract him."

"So Lucy rejected Evan, and left him to pick up another girl. So you're going to find this guys flat tomorrow?"

"Yes, a proper step to solving this and possibly finding out if Moriarty's trying to convey to me a message. But that can wait until tomorrow, why don't you go join Mary upstairs, I'm sure she hates being alone up there." Sherlock stopped in front of John's armchair.

"Of course!" John stumbled out of his chair.

"Slowly," Sherlock pressed, "You're not exactly ready for overexertion."

"Right, see you in the morning." John fumbled slightly through his words.

"See you." Sherlock waited for John to head up the stairs before making a swift entrance to his own bedroom, closing the door behind him. Sherlock shed his coat and hung it on the door hook then took his phone from the pocket.

So I heard you were in London last night. Sherlock sent the text then tossed the phone onto his bedspread.

He unknotted his scarf and dropped it onto the floor, his blazer soon followed. Sherlock had begun working on the buttons of his shirt when he heard the familiar text alert. The one he'd never bothered to alter. Irene's own moan, though admittedly, Sherlock preferred hearing it for real instead of through a speaker.

Of course I was in London, I was with you wasn't I? Was her reply.

Stop playing, I heard you were spotted in a club last night, not being so secretive now are we? Sherlock placed the phone at his side and continued unbuttoning his shirt, he dropped it onto the floor, he'd launder them tomorrow, they smelt strongly of single malt scotch whisky.

So I wanted a drink, you sure didn't let me have one at your place, is it a crime now? Her alert went off.

Stop being so careless. Sherlock stood up and kicked off his shoes.

Won't happen again darling. He could practically hear her purring with defiance. Sherlock placed the phone on his nightstand then relieved himself of his trousers. He ruffled his hair before pulling off his socks. Removing his briefs, he spared one last look at his phone before settling into bed and pulling the covers over himself.

OOO

Sherlock's fingers skimmed with measured accuracy across the frame of the door. His eyes narrowed.

"Either no one's entered or left for a day or two." Sherlock surmised, he placed a slight pressure against the door with his hands, then added a bit more, the door fell open with a slight creak.

"Are you sure you should be breaking into someone's flat?" John followed Sherlock into the living space. He watched as Sherlock, arms out, his body turning and eyes scanning with practiced precision determining goodness knows what.

"I'm not breaking in, the door was unlocked and I just wanted to pop in and have a look around." Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "You brought your gun, I take it?"

"Yes, I thought-"

"No, I was hoping you'd have it, just in case." Sherlock continued through the area, looking at the dishes and the dust quantity on the cabinets.

"Is that running water?" John asked quietly, listening hard.

"How could I not have heard that?" Sherlock dashed into the hall, he pushed his weight against the bathroom door. "If not the front door, why this one?" Sherlock jiggled the lock before throwing his weight against the door. Sherlock turned his head and took one look at the room, as the bath water began soaking his shoes.

"John call the police."

OOO

"Evan Colton, 27, apparent suicide of slit wrists, and by look of him, only a few hours ago. " Lestrade noted, closing his pocket book. "Anything else Sherlock?"

"The fact that this is actually a suicide, is what's bothering me. What was he trying to hide, if not, then why kill himself. Have you found Mr. Holt yet?" Sherlock faced Lestrade.

"About that, we received a call this morning, of a car that fit the description. A blue 67 Chevelle, it was found fourteen miles out of London, near Teddington, fortunately Mr. Holt was inside it."

"Where is he then? We must question him!"

"About that Sherlock, he's dead."

"How?"

"Another suicide apparently, poor bloke shot himself in the head."

"There must be something that connecting them, if not their suicides, something or someone's bringing them to his point."

"Friends of all three saw nothing suspicious about any of them before any of this happened. This Mr. Colton was one of the happiest when Mrs. Holt announced her marriage."

"That wasn't real joy, he tried to talk her out of it, before her wedding night, a bit late if you ask me, so it must have been an idea, planted by someone, and he had to act on it, his life depended on it." Sherlock teetered on his heels. "Do you happen to find his mobile by any chance?"

"Right here," Lestrade handed Sherlock a transparent bag, the mobile at its bottom. "Thought you might ask for it."

"Any recent texts…" Sherlock mumbled to himself, his gloved fingers pressing at the keys. "'Your wife is dead, kill yourself now, or take the blame.' Has anyone looked through this yet?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, but I decided to wait for any conclusions you'd draw from it."

"Good choice." Sherlock looked down at the phone, dated the twenty-sixth of March, ten-fourteen pm. If I'm not mistaken, then the number of the sender is the same number of the deceased in this room. Evan Colton, sent this message after her death, telling as it does, he chose not to face it obviously."

"So, as seeing Colton's the murderer, this case is a wrap-"

"No," Sherlock interjected, "There's still the matter of why the name Moriarty was carved into one of the victim's back and not all three. The name isn't present in any of their relatives or friends, what could it be….?"

"What murderer leaves behind evidence like that?" John said from next to Sherlock.

"A stupid one," Sherlock replied, furrowing his eyebrows, "or a smart one,"

"And just what do you mean by that?" John rose an eyebrow.

"Maybe he's trying to tell us something. Has anyone found a note anywhere in the house?" Sherlock asked the room at large.

"Not as of yet, it's beginning to look like he didn't bother to leave one." Lestrade joined Sherlock once again.

"Killed himself out of guilt, maybe a stupid one after all-"

"Actually Sherlock," Lestrade took hold a paper from one of the employees, scanned it with quick eyes then handed it to Sherlock, "This was found beneath the bath mat, a bit soggy but still readable."

Sherlock's eyes consumed the writing, every loop and cross what they meant what they entailed, he did what he could for it only had four words:

This'll be you soon

"And just what does that mean?" John said next to Sherlock.

"I'd wager it was from the actual murder, the one who brought on, who premeditated this in the first place. If this is in fact Moriarty, then the case for now is closed, if he wanted to be found, he would have made it so." Sherlock replied in a rapid whisper only loud enough for John to hear.

"Colton was the perpetrator who attacked you in the Maddox last night, he'd been drinking last night, you can smell it on his breath, the same type of single malt scotch whisky that was thrown on me. He drunk himself, tried to silence us, then went home and committed suicide, the guilt was simply too much." Sherlock explained to Lestrade. "The case is closed, Colton was the murderer of Lucy Etheridge-Holt and drove Timothy Holt to kill himself after urging him probably at gun point to drive away."

"What did he happen to mean by carving-"

"Ah, the name! It's irrelevant, a mislead. This case is closed Lestrade please carry on with the paper work." Sherlock headed for the door, "Come on John."

"This may be a lead to Moriarty, Sherlock-" John said hopefully, walking alongside him down the street to hail a cab.

"I know, I'm almost sure of it this time, no ordinary man can force another to drive miles out of London to then shoot himself, he had others watching, there was a deeper threat present. Maybe other relatives, family, I'm not sure but Moriarty did it all to tell that 'it'll be me soon,' I highly doubt that…" Sherlock drifted off, "so what are you planning to call this one, save the back carving, The Adventure of the Blue Chevelle?" Sherlock smiled to himself, "half past ten," He looked down at his watch, "fancy some breakfast?"

OOO

Four Months Later

John climbed the stairs to 221b, each step a deeper death sentence. He took hold of the door handle and took a shuddered breath. He pushed open the door with a steady hand, the place looked just like it always looked, scattered newspapers and books, scraps of parchment and beakers and chemicals. But the one thing missing was the man who owned it all.

The empty air of the flat seemed so lifeless, John had no idea what to do with himself. He plopped down carelessly into his armchair, he looked around the room, anywhere but at the seat across from him, he couldn't bare to. Nothing was going to be the same again, John could bet on it. He was still disbelief, everything was so quiet, the silence was like torture. Sad slow torture. It forced him to think, to think and think, stew in the thoughts, the images. It was cruel and John felt like he deserved it all.

All the things he could have done differently, damn it, had he not taken Sherlock's bait, maybe he could have prevented it all. The number of his therapist laid crumpled in his hand, the number John thought he'd never have to call again, he thought he'd the perfect and lasting remedy. Sherlock was what truly helped him, John could never lie about that.

It had only been minutes since he arrived back from the tragedy in front of the hospital. Everything was fresh, Sherlock last words, Goodbye John. The second his own heart stopped as Sherlock dived, his coat catching the wind with an unnatural grace, he was a literal falling angel, a broken bird. The blood, oh god, the blood, John couldn't understand why this sight seemed to unnerve him so easily, he'd seen blood hundreds of times, why was the sight of blood, Sherlock's blood, able to force him into incoherency?

In those minutes of complete silence, John's mind flitted quickly between stewing in the realization and taking the plunge himself. The pain was becoming unbearable, a wound he couldn't close. Maybe death was preferable, the pain would stop and it would all be better. He considered the possibility that that was why Sherlock jumped. But that wasn't Sherlock at all, he didn't give a damn about what anyone thought. John knew Sherlock jumped for a different reason entirely. And that was why John felt he had to live and move on.

That bastard, why did he do what he did? Why was he so selfish? John shook his head bitterly, he couldn't even badmouth Sherlock after he'd abandoned him. It only seemed right, when Sherlock was there to hear it, to defend himself. That time had passed, Sherlock couldn't defend himself anymore, the onslaught of rumors and media traffic to 221b was about to reach a fever pitch. John knew he had to leave, he didn't think he could stand to be there when they come to force themselves on their, his, flat. Surely Ms. Hudson could probably handle it, it'll only last a few days at most. After that it will fade, they will loose interest, Sherlock will become old news and everyone will forget about him and go back to their lives. No one will give a damn about the lonely doctor left in its wake.

OOO

Fifteen Minutes Earlier

"Oh, Sherlock!" Molly said, startled. She rushed to him, his head was down, following her feet as she sort of guided him by walking backwards in front of him.

Sherlock stumbled to the counter and sat down at its base. Molly, locking the door behind him before rejoining him on the floor with a small ceramic bowl off the counter.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Molly squatted, taking a clean cloth from her lab coat, she looked at Sherlock who hadn't moved since he'd sat down.

She observed the blood blotching his face and matting his hair. The small pool that had soaked through his scarf.

"Sherlock?" Molly reached for his scarf, she pulled it gently from around his neck.

"I-I-I'm fine Molly." His voice shook and that told her otherwise. That strong assertive detective she knew to be like a colleague of sorts wasn't as certain as he usually was, like he was making the plan purely as it came to him from that moment on.

"I know it wasn't easy," Molly said soothingly, "But, it's over now-well not all of it of course-I meant-"

"Focus Molly," His voice was low, tired.

"Of course." She breathed deeply, if Sherlock wasn't the level headed one in the situation, then she knew she had to be. "Sorry." Molly shook her head slightly.

"Don't apologize Molly, it'll do nothing to help the situation." His voice became stronger, though still a mere ghost of his usual pretension.

"I-" Molly breathed deeply once more, "I'll just stop." she became silent. Removing his coat was easy, after she began dabbing at his face with the cloth. It was his blood, but he'd had it drawn just moments before jumping from the building. The most he had suffered was a bit mild bruising to his head, and probably a bit worse on his back. However, Molly expected the worst, broken bones, a concussion, anything was possible after what he had just done.

Her small fingers traced down his throat, catching blood trickling down beneath his jaw line with the cloth. Molly had no time to feel flustered, she had a job to get done and that job was to get him clean and then get both of them out as soon as possible. She brought the cloth back up to his face and dabbed at his temple, a mild bruise surfaced once the blood had gone, but Molly knew she could easily remedy that with some ice once they got to her flat. She stared into his eyes, unabashedly, she was unnerved by her own sudden confidence. They were such a gorgeous blue, Molly felt like she could have stared into them for hours. In his eyes, despite the beauty, she saw deep seated pain and uncertainty.

After cleaning up what she could, Sherlock looked fairly normal, save for a few minute streaks of red in his hair she was unable to remove. But no one would notice that except her, and that was because she knew it was there.

Molly stood up, washed her hands in the sink then disposed of the redish tinted water in the bowl. She dried her hands across her lab coat then opened a small cabinet on the side of the counter. Pulling out a small pile of neatly folded clothes, she handed them off to Sherlock, who held them up in front of him, staring at them a bit bewildered.

"Your shift is almost over yes?"

Molly nodded, "You have to change if that's what you're wondering, you know it too, it's much too risky."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he stood up and began stripping, layering his clothes on the counter.

Molly blatantly had her eyes on him as he did so, a concerned look on her face, assessing his injuries was the only job she had, there was no time to be flustered. Sherlock honestly felt like there was nothing worse than faking your death so changing in front of Molly, revealing himself was no big deal. The situation didn't exactly warrant a room change, he couldn't and wouldn't in this circumstance. Sherlock turned his back and Molly saw the series of developing blue and purple blotches grace his shoulder blades. They would get worse, but Molly would ice them once they were safer.

Down to his briefs, Sherlock grabbed the first piece of clothing from the neat pile, a bland dark blue tee and pulled it over his head. Straight-legged jeans soon followed, then a grey pullover. He slipped on a pair of black trainers then turned towards Molly.

"You don't look like you." She smiled a bit, trying to add a touch of humor to the phrase.

Sherlock was silent, he rushed past, his old pair of clothes in a neat bundle in his hands, stopping next to the door, he said, "We should go Molly."

"Yes."

OOO

Sherlock entered Molly's flat like it was his own. Not waiting for Molly, he rushed past her as soon as she had opened the door. He quickly noticed the stacks of medical books and fiction that lined the walls next to the door. The small living space with a bright red armchair in one corner a coffee table in the center, a puffy pale orange sofa behind it. A wall separated the living room from the small kitchen. A litter box, recently cleaned told of one cat. The dining room consisted of a small circular wooden table and a vase of day old flowers in its center stood opposite the kitchen. In the center of the two, a hall led to the one bedroom and a bathroom in the back.

Sherlock shoved off his pull-over and threw it on the couch. Adrenaline was still pumping through him, vicious and unrelenting, he felt like he was overheating, like he should be doing something more productive than sit in her living room and think about his decisions.

"Do you want-should I ice your bruises or should we wait until later if you like?" Molly shut then locked the door behind her.

"Hmmm, morning." Sherlock replied shortly, spreading out on the couch and covering his face with the knitted throw lying across the back of the sofa.

"Alright, then." Molly started for the hall, "Get some sleep I guess."

She didn't have work the next morning so that was fortunate. Molly could easily convert her energy from work to taking care of or watching Sherlock. She knew this first week or two would be hard for him, despite his insistence that he was fine. No one's fine after abruptly cutting off their relations to everyone they knew. Well, she was the exception apparently. Sherlock hadn't been able to inform anyone else, but maybe that was intentional. He didn't like to involve those he cared about, however stubbornly, in copious amount of danger. Especially when their lives were at stake.

"Sherlock?" Molly had woken to the sound of muffled talking the next morning. She had spent the remainder of the afternoon yesterday checking on Sherlock who had passed out on the couch probably from some sort of overwhelming factor, be it physical or mental, she was willing to bet it was mental, this wasn't a problem he could just think himself out of; she read one of her sappy romance novels, watched some crap telly and pet her cat. All of it horribly ironic since she had a man passed out on her couch.

Sherlock was pacing in the dark, it may have been five in the morning and Molly was still exhausted. He stood in front the closed windows in nothing but his trousers, his fingers steepled rigidly beneath his chin.

"Oh, Molly." Sherlock suddenly faced her. "morning." he continued offhandedly.

"It's five in the morning Sherlock, shouldn't you still be sleeping? I heard you were a late sleeper?"

"Since three yesterday? I let myself succumb to the human confines of exhaustion for once and hopefully the last time. I need to plan my next step of action."

"Oh, should I leave you alone then?"

"Yes, that would be preferable."

Molly had woken for the second time that morning, at nine, a bit better into the morning for her. Only to find Sherlock curled on the couch, his eyes closed in what looked like a restless sleep, his fingers twitched in their fists, as well as his toes. His breathing was quickly escalating, loud and heavy.

"Sherlock!" Molly shook him awake without hesitation.

"Huh, Molly?" He faced her.

"You looked like you were having a fright, so I woke you."

"Oh," Sherlock sat up, his shirt in his lap.

"So? How are you feeling?" Molly placed a hot cup of tea on the table in front of him.

"Fine." Sherlock took a sip without premise, scrunching his nose slightly from the too hot liquid.

Sherlock was always tight-lipped. Though he spoke almost non-stop, that was only about cases. Everything else that didn't pertain to a case, everything about him appeared out-of-bounds even for him.

OOO

3 Months Later

"Why here of all places?" Molly scratched at her sleeve nervously, her eyes darting around the room.

"Why are you nervous? You're not the one who's in danger of being recognized and this whole "plan" completely ruined."

"You suggested we go here and why do you say it like that?"

"Because this isn't really a plan in the first place. It's a sort of plan-as-we-go type of thing." Sherlock looked down at her, offering his arm, she took it before they headed into the café.

"And I stand firmly behind my decision, your flat gets quite a bit boring these days." He quipped, maneuvering themselves through the throngs of people and uncomfortably warm air.

Molly sighed, "Sometimes your just so-"

"So what? Honest? Why would you be angry about that?" He stated seriously.

"I'm not," Molly said clearly, "Let's just find a table."

They continued through the crowded room, fragile looking wooden tables lined the walls against the large windows and a few extended towards the middle of the carpeted floor. Sherlock's feet, sure-footed and stable made their way through around various tables and people, his head rotating, surely scoping out for an empty table, Molly still latched onto his arm.

"So why here?" Molly asked, following him helplessly.

"It's crowded, no one should notice us, they'll keep to themselves. No one should overhear us, should we speak either." Sherlock abruptly sat down at a small table in the far corner of the room, Molly could see why it was empty, if the rickety chairs and the obviously cheapened wood that made both the table and the chairs wasn't a clear indicator, she didn't know what was. Sherlock sat down across from her, the back of his chair facing the back wall of the café, while Molly's chair was in full view of the large windows. Molly watched as Sherlock's lithe fingers worked indecisively at whether or not to keep his hood of his pull-over up.

"Put the hood down Sherlock," She hissed across the table impatiently, you'll attract attention looking like that indoors."

Sherlock's look of curious indecisiveness dropped quickly, he scrunched his nose irately before flipping the hood down with an angry finality.

"Coffee?" He said suddenly.

"Uh, yes of course." Molly hurriedly looked up from her lap. It wasn't until she had finished speaking that she realized Sherlock was talking to a waitress.

"Um, yes, of course, coffee, black two sugars, and Molly here will have a milk tea" Sherlock glanced in her direction and she nodded. "That'll be all." He smiled slightly, that smile that Molly could easily see was straining him.

As soon as the waitress had left, the smile faded quickly from Sherlock's face. He sighed, "Social acceptance," he snorted, "to hell with the lot of it."

Sherlock gazed at Molly, her lips were pursed.

"Do you want to go back to the flat?"

"No, you ordered already, might as well sip my tea." She smiled broadly.

"Are you angry at me?"

"Of course not."

"Yes you are, what is it? Was I too honest this time?"

"'This time'? Sherlock you have a knack for being honest all the time, sometimes it's better to just leave it alone."

"Molly," Sherlock was cut off as the waitress approached them. A pregnant silence between them followed, their beverages had arrived and they wasted no time in using them to busy themselves. The rest of the café continued on like usual, the loud animated chatter of the people around them did nothing to puncture the thin wall between them. Not that Molly expected anything different from the people around her, they were all absorbed in their own problems. Sherlock and her were the poster pair of inconspicuousness. They simply looked like a pair of colleagues looking for a peaceful morning before work. Exactly how they wanted. Molly occupied herself with the thought of what Sherlock might have said had the waitress not come. Molly looked down to find she had already drunk half her tea, she looked across the table at Sherlock just in time to watch him swallow the dregs of his coffee then place the cup back down with a muted clack. Though he appeared just like his normal self, strike that, he looked almost nothing like himself.

Nowhere in sight could she see his usual pretension or confidence. In fact he appeared to be attempting to drown all his worries in his cup of coffee. If not something stronger. His hair was flat, not luxurious or a perfect representation of his enthusiasm. As if he didn't really care what he looked like anymore. The dark grey pull-over he wore showed no poise or structure to his form. He wore denim jeans and black trainers. His hands stowed comfortably in the front pocket of his pull-over, he looked less than thrilled.

"Sherlock?" Molly piped, "Do you want to talk?"

"Do I want to? Of course I do, but I find myself in the utmost of dilemmas."

"Well, explain?" She replied timidly.

"Are you my therapist now?"

"Not really, but-"

"Then why are you so interested?" Sherlock's eyes bored into hers.

"Sherlock, for once, please just listen."

"I'm listening." He said awaiting her answer.

"You said you trusted me right?"

"And I still stand by that, what of it?"

"Well, trust means-"

"I know what trust means Molly, no need to explain-"

"That wasn't what I was going to say! Let me finish Sherlock," when he failed to interrupt her, she continued, "Trust means you can tell someone anything, anything at all and they won't cast you out, they'll support you-"

"And you're implying that that's the level of trust I have with you?"

"Certainly, if you don't mind."

"Molly," He said suddenly, "I believe I'm ready to return to the flat now."

"Of course." Molly sprung up from her seat, he stood up as she did so. She then took the crook of his arm once again, "alright come on."

She could see the distance in his eyes when he nodded, as if he wasn't really seeing her. Sherlock Holmes's appearance wasn't the only thing that changed. The way he'd insist to accompany her to work, just lose himself, hide his eyes behind a microscope.

Molly didn't mind taking him with to work with her. Honestly, she worried what he would do had she left him alone. And she constantly worried about it. Working shifts solo had its benefits, so she had no problem locking them in. Locking the lab gave her ample time to hide Sherlock if need be. And it had happened on a few occasions. And on some of those occasions, Sherlock insisted he was done with the whole charade and that he wanted to someone to see him. She tried her hardest to convince him that that wasn't what he truly wanted, that before he knows it, he'd be back in 221B. And each time, Sherlock went silent and followed her instructions upstairs or wherever she could find a place to hide him.

On usual days, Sherlock busied himself with the various chemicals and whimsical experiments like normal. Only it wasn't. He eagerly pushed the world out and let his knowledge consume his very being. Sherlock wouldn't speak until he knew Molly's shift had ended. Always leaving a few minutes before she usually did, enough time to get Sherlock out of the hospital to a block over where she would meet him to then hail a cab.

But today was Tuesday, an odd day for Molly, it was her day-off. Not many people just dropping dead in London, she supposed. After coffee, they arrived swiftly back to her flat. Only to experience a awkward-ness that appeared worse than at the café.

Sherlock hadn't spoken a word since they left the café and Molly just couldn't really find it in herself to figure out why. Had she said something? She settled into her couch and turned on the telly as Toby, her cat jumped effortlessly into her lap.

"Tea, Sherlock?" She called into the hall as she scratched Toby behind the ears.

When she didn't hear an answer, she went on watching the telly, assuming he was probably in the bath or something. He did that a lot, not answering her, she had learned not to worry as much.

"Molly," Sherlock approached her as he emerged from the hall.

"What is it Sherlock?" She sat up, seeing the solemn look on his face.

"I don't mind Molly. I don't really mind at all." All of sudden, the telly was just a noise in the background, something she could easily dismiss.

When she gave him a sudden questioning look, he continued, "I don't mind having that level of trust, I trust you and I regret letting you believe any different."

"What do you need Sherlock?"

"Nothing much this time."

Molly didn't know how it happened, but Toby had jumped from her lap in the adjustment. Sherlock was sitting next to her, his hand on her wrist, she assumed it to be some kind of comforting gesture. And it was, for Sherlock. Then, his head was in her lap, nothing sexual, just there. His eyes bright from the light of the television. Molly just went along with it, one of her hands awkwardly stroking his hair.

"You don't have to Molly, you really don't." She stopped and smiled in spite of it all. It was honestly good he was gaining some of his bite back. He became silent, and Molly didn't press.

The next two weeks pasted in more or less the same fashion. Sherlock was considerably more tender in his actions. Molly could see it in the way he handed her a cup of tea or let her take her time in the bathroom before going out to lunch in a different town. She didn't really mind much, taking a cab somewhere faraway, somewhere where no one would recognize either of them. She had the money for it, for she didn't really leave the house anyway, save for work or the occasional date.

And there was some days he just seemed…temperamental. As if he was expecting something that was supposed to arrive weeks ago. He was irrational, threatening to expose himself to the world. A few times he even suggested he'd run down the street naked if that's what it took. He snapped at her often. Molly even snapped back, only then would Sherlock relapse into his quiet state, curled up on the couch.

And that's where Molly found herself Monday morning.

"Argh! Where is the blasted thing?" Sherlock massaged his temples, eyes squeezed shut. "Two days ago! That's when it should have been here!"

"Sherlock?" Molly walked into the living room, nursing a hot cup of tea. Sherlock had decided against one at the last minute, she still had hot water in the kettle if he still wanted some. "What should have? May I ask." Molly added quickly.

Sherlock sighed, "The passport."

"You're-you're leaving the country?" Molly placed her cup on the small coffee table.

"Correction, I should have already left the county-can you move you cat, it's staring at me." Sherlock peered down at the tabby, whose brown eyes stared curiously up at Sherlock, his furry ears peeling back. It mewled quickly.

"Molly!"

"Sherlock," Molly scooped him up, "it's just a cat," she scratched it behind the ears and it purred gratefully. "I don't understand. Why does Toby-"

"Shh." Sherlock held up his finger abruptly, effectively cutting her off. "What time is it? Ten-thirty? Hmm, ten-thirty this Monday morning? Post-time? Isn't that post time?" Sherlock teetered on his heels, peering out the window and down the street. "Molly, be silent!" He said abruptly.

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock held a finger up to his mouth. The bell continued to ring for a few more seconds. Then silence.

"Not yet." Sherlock mouthed in her direction. Molly watched Sherlock remain in complete silence for half a minute before standing up and looking out the window.

"What was all that about?"

"Why bother with all the signing when it's unnecessary? They leave it right outside the door anyway. Molly, can you get that? There should be a parcel outside your door." He continued offhandedly.

"Honestly Sherlock, is this what you were waiting for?" Molly closed the door behind her and held the small shoe-sized box in his direction. Sherlock scampered to her on light feet.

"Hmm, no return address…it must be!" Sherlock hurried over to her couch and plopped down onto it. Toby jumped off the couch in surprise, then streaked off beneath a chair in the corner of the room.

"Oh, Irene, what took you so long." He said opening the box.

Molly neared him, her brows furrowed, "Who's Irene?"

"This is it!" Sherlock cut in gleefully, a dark colored pamphlet looking thing in his hands. "The passport." He opened it and scanned it quickly with his eyes. "Not exactly the right type of parchment but it'll do. Nero? Nero Wolfe?" He chuckled, "Couldn't think up a good alias Irene?" He mumbled, "Oh, the plane ticket!"

Molly snatched it from his unsuspecting hand, "Tivat, Montenegro? Isn't that near Bulgaria? Why are you going there? What are you planning-"

"Calm down Molly, what I need is isolation, seclusion. Somewhere I could as you would say, lay low for awhile without the threat of someone recognizing me."

"Oh, and who's this Irene?"

"An acquaintance, why do you ask?"

"Nothing important, just curiosity I guess. Hang on, Isn't she the woman I did paperwork for a few months ago?"

"No, an entirely different woman I'm afraid." Sherlock lips closed with a finality that said he no longer wanted to talk about her. "Ah, and a note I take it?" He plucked it from the box.

Dearest Nero,

I can't believe you left your passport at my house last week. And I visited town just yesterday and I can't believe I failed to bring it to you! All our usual hang-out spots, and I failed to see even a sign of you. All of our old friends, I happened to check up on them and they believe you were just resting in. Peace is hardly something I would see you for. But let's not dwell on the bad! Oh, the little soldier is positively moping he misses you so much, that precious puppy! I hope you're glad to know that he's done nothing rash since you left. Also sorry about the delay, I was having the house renovated, only finished maybe a day or two ago, once you've read this. I didn't know where I wanted to put things, I even misplaced your passport once or twice! Just visited my aunt Adria this morning, once again, when you've read this. And she tells me to send for you, maybe come by this afternoon? Hopefully you will and we could have a special dinner to celebrate. I love you my sweet virgin prince.

Very sincerely yours,

Rene

"Not bad, but not terribly good either." Sherlock pouted. "Everyone, except for those I told, think I'm actually dead, that's fortunate. In the current circumstances I guess." "Is that all it says?" Molly asked hesitantly, sitting down next to him on the sofa.

"Brilliant. Though a bit past due. She'd only secured the house last night. Nice to know she chose the coast. She left this morning and would like me to come by this afternoon, as my ticket specifies." He folded the paper neatly and placed it in the front pocket of his jeans.

"Oh, what about the 'little soldier bit'? if you don't mind." Molly lifted her chin from its previous place on his shoulder.

"It's about John," Sherlock paused briefly, "He's depressed, as to be expected, but fortunately he's done nothing 'rash' as Irene puts it. But as seeing we're talking about a woman who 'scolded' others for a living, what's 'rash' to her could be completely different."

"How does she know? Is she watching him?" Molly pulled away even more, her eyes widening, she looked a bit affronted.

"Calm down Molly. Why not, she was in town at an opportune moment, why not utilize her?"

"Is she just an object to you? Isn't she your girlfriend?"

"Finally! Something's happening!" Sherlock stood up, a brilliant smile on his face. He then headed into the hall.

It had only taken him a rushed fifteen minutes to gather all his belongings and deeply impress upon Molly that he had to leave immediately to make the time specified on his ticket. And in a way that hurt her. The fact he was willing to leave so quickly, without a second thought made her feel a bit rejected. That he was leaving her after a solid three weeks for another woman. It wasn't that scandalous in the least, but Molly honestly favored the dramatic side of things sometimes. Just sometimes, but she'd never admit it.

"Molly, I'm ready." Sherlock placed his bags, a small carry on, and a larger one surely filled with clothes and toiletries as well as his other miscellaneous things, next to the couch.

"Don't you think that was a bit fast Sherlock?"

"Why? Do you believe so, I pride myself on being prepared in the shortest of times, Lestrade summoning me…you see."

"No. Uh….not that. Not that Sherlock. You just seem a bit…eager to leave so fast."

"Well, have you seen the ticket? I know you have, you were there when I read it myself, it says my departure time is in a few hours." Sherlock paused shortly, "I thought I was obvious…"

"I'm not selfish or anything, but it just puts me off that you're wanting to leave me so quickly…" her cheeks reddened in embarrassment, we wished she hadn't said what she had, "I understand what it means, I'm just-"

"You'll miss me?" Sherlock stated as if that was the last thing he believed Molly would feel. "I can't change this, seclusion without a likelihood of being recognized. It's opportune." Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"I never said I wouldn't Sherlock, you've just been here for such a long time."

"Two months surely can't be that long? Is it?" Sherlock looked to her for he answer.

"Well, it is when you've gone through the things we have Sherlock." Molly admitted, her cheeks burning, "don't misunderstand me, I know you must leave, I just wish it wasn't so quick."

"Oh," Sherlock went silent. He closed his parted lips in thought. Then, he approached Molly, stopping just short of her. "there's not really anything I can do." He paused, mulling over is next few words, "why is your infatuation so strong?" he asked casually.

Molly was taken aback by the tactless comment, she knew he didn't know the real affect of his words. To him it was just an innocent question.

"Excuse me, why do you call it that?" She couldn't help but sound a bit offended.

"What else could it be?"

"And why do you think that?" she pursed her lips, and crossed her arms.

"Infatuation is the love of fools. An admiration, you don't strike me as a fool Molly."

"I must be one apparently." Molly replied tersely.

"Have I done something?" Sherlock said noticing her tone.

"So I'm a fool, a fool for admiring you Sherlock?" It was more than admiration, there weren't enough words to single out what she felt for him, a stagger between love and confusion.

"I'm certainly not one to be looked up to Molly."

"And I am not a fool Sherlock!" she grabbed her bag a headed for the door, "c'mon, we need to get you to the airport." Molly said shortly.

The cab ride was uncomfortably silent. For Molly. Part of her was fuming that Sherlock had said those things without the slightest touch of sensitivity. But then again, that was how he always was and Molly never let do this to her before, she always found a way to move on. To talk to him the next day, a new chance, a fresh one. She was positive that Sherlock was just assessing his next plan of action. Was he at this alone from that point on? No, Molly was foolish to believe so, the woman who sent him the package. She would surely watch out for him. Molly hoped.

"So, once you get there, I assume there's someone you're staying with once you get there? Well not like you can't handle yourself or anything-I mean-" Molly questioned once they had arrived at the Heathrow airport, facing his terminal.

"Thank you Molly." Sherlock bent down slightly then kissed her forehead, in that kiss contained his every sincerity and regret for saying those things to her. "and yes to answer you inquiry, I am rooming with someone for the time being. A freer environment is crucial now." He sounded distant. "I'll see you." he said it like a guarantee, though Sherlock Holmes was off to grander things, he would never forget the mousy morgue attendant down at Bart's.

So, I didn't really expect it to be this long. But hey, if you love writing why stop. In all honestly, the meeting between Sherlock and Irene right after he saves just seems really redundant, like it's been written over and over in so many different ways and I believe the reason for that is because it's such a pivotal moment for both of them, it really says things about their character no matter who writes it. So there's my two cents please review and the next chapter should be written soon.