Hi guys! This is my first fanfic. I hope you guys like it, but make sure you review it so I can make it better!

Chapter One

Sherlock wasn't stupid.

Well, of course he wasn't. He was a high-functioning sociopath. As far away from stupid as one can get. Nor was he average. If he was average, he would've died.

But Sherlock had planned his fall precisely. How to fall, how to land, when to jump off the hospital roof. Timing played a major part in his survival. As did the help of Molly Hooper, without whom he would be cold and dead in the ground. His plan was so good that he realized he even fooled himself when a single tear slipped down his cheek.

The tear and the emotions that followed it were strange. He felt an aching in his heart, but that didn't make sense. Why would his heart ache? Nothing extraordinary had occurred that would cause his heart to hurt. And a gaping hole was left in the pit of his stomach, which didn't make any logical sense either.

For a moment he imagined that he actually was going to die. His death didn't bother him so much as leaving John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. His friends. The only friends he'd ever had. Who'd ever accepted him.

"Watch me, John," he repeated over and over again. John's face was confused, yet even with his far less superior mind he knew something bad was going to happen.

It pained Sherlock to see John like this. His best friend had to watch him die. It was all so cruel. Something in Sherlock's chest started to ache terribly. He wasn't quite sure what the feeling was, but he knew it had something to do with love. Or the loss of it.

If Sherlock waited any longer he wouldn't do it. And he had to. He had to jump. For everyone he loved.

So, after whispering his final words to John, he felt himself falling, arms flailing. The ground rushing up faster and faster to meet him. Fear didn't cross Sherlock's mind. He had allowed himself to feel enough emotions, it was time to shut them all out again.

And then there was a crack.

Sherlock stood in the dripping rain, waiting for the door to be opened.

After his great death, he needed to visit an expert on disappearing. Someone who had fooled even him once before. Sherlock was most reluctant to see her, but there was no other option.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes," Irene Adler purred, leaning against the door frame with a satisfactory smile on her thin, red lips. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I would prefer to discuss it inside," Sherlock answered.

Irene stepped aside, and Sherlock crossed the threshold of The Woman's house. Despite the difference in location, the house was quite similar to her house in London. The expensive rugs, spacious rooms, winding staircase, even the same brand of black and gray wallpaper.

"This way, Mr. Holmes." She sauntered up the stairs, her hips swaying enticingly. At least, it would've been enticing to any other male besides Sherlock. A black skirt hugged her bottom and mid-thighs and an almost transparent white blouse hung off her shoulders. She was obviously expecting him and, judging from her movements and looks (swaying hips, revealing clothes, long and deliberate movements), was trying to impress him. So far it wasn't working.

Irene turned a corner and gestured into a wide room with cream colored walls, a brown shag carpet, and expensive leather couch.

"Have a seat."

"Thank you," he drawled, not really listening to Irene, but taking in every single detail of the room. He sank into the couch, which was firmer than it looked, then stared into Irene's brilliant blue eyes.

"Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "I should ask the same of you. Why move to Russia of all places?" It took a few weeks to track The Woman down. She was very clever in hiding her recent activities and whereabouts. That and the fact she chose one of the most small and obscure places in Russia to reside in.

But, after interrogating her more recent clients, he found her.

She narrowed her eyes. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Obviously business, but you came here for something more as well." Sherlock knew why of course, but he enjoyed being mysterious and withholding his deductions. He like to hear things from the person's (in this case Irene's) own mouth. And Irene knew exactly what Sherlock liked, so she played along.

"An old friend of mine is coming to visit and I knew he needed a place that was easy to disappear in."

"How did you know I was coming, Ms. Adler?"

Irene examined her nails and picked them absentmindedly. "A little friend of yours. I knew what she liked." Molly. How did Irene contact her? Even more mysterious was how Irene knew of Molly in the first place. But Sherlock supposed he shouldn't be so surprised. Irene was capable of the same things he was. Gathering information was second nature to them both. The Woman suddenly turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Why are you still alive?"

Sherlock cracked a smile, but said nothing. Some things were meant to be kept secret and this was one of them. A secret for just Molly and himself.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I guess I'll just have to use my brain and think."

"I need place to stay, Ms. Adler," Sherlock interjected.

"So I've noticed. Not many people housing a dead man, eh?"

"Precisely. And I need to know how you did it."

"Did what? Convince even the Holmes boys that I died? It was quite simple really. I-"

"Yes, yes, I know. You knew what someone liked. Was that someone Jams Moriarty?"

"Maybe." She smiled. "Or maybe not."

Sherlock scowled. "How boring. It obviously was."

"And how did you deduct that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Anyone could've deduced it. At the time you were still, shall I say in league with Moriarty. Who else would you turn to? And Moriarty was capable of causing someone to disappear. His connections and ability to think proved invaluable didn't they? I also think the two of you enjoyed watching me struggle with your little 'puzzle'."

"Oh, we enjoyed it alright. But I'm afraid you are partly wrong, dear. It wasn't just Moriarty who helped me."

Sherlock sighed. He would figure out her enigma later. What did it matter now, anyways? All he needed was to disappear. Irene could help him with that. "Irene," he began slowly. "I require your-" He cleared his throat, "help." The word tasted like vomit in his mouth. Sherlock Holmes did not ask for help. Especially from The Woman.

Irene grinned broadly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I'm not saying it again," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "You know how to disappear, which is what I require at the moment. And a place to stay. Chadan, Russia. How quaint."

Irene shrugged. "The perfect place to- get away."

"Indeed, Ms. Adler. And make sure not to tell anyone of my existence. It is imperative that, at least for now, I remain dead. This must remain between you, me, and Ms. Hooper." No one could know the consulting detective was alive. Sherlock had a plan and it involved pretending to be six feet underground.

But something unexpected resulted of his plan so far. He had this strange ache in his chest right where his heart was. And it was painful for him to recall memories with John, Lestrade, Molly, or Mrs. Hudson in them. Was he actually feeling sentiment?

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Mycroft's words echoed in his head. Maybe Mycroft was wrong and caring wasn't a disadvantage. Nor an advantage, but maybe something else that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to call.

"Brilliant idea, by the way," Irene said, interrupting his thoughts. "having two supposedly dead people living under the same roof."

"Well you've done a remarkable job of being dead so far. Tell me, what to do they call you here? Ledi?"

Irene narrowed her eyes. "No, Sylvia Peterson."

"You have a new background, I presume?"

"Naturally."

A moment of silence passed between them. Nothing was said, yet, at the same time, something was. Only a language Irene And Sherlock could speak. A language that was just a few cries away from telepathy.

They stayed this way for some time, gazing at each other's features, trying to decipher one another's mysteries. Sherlock could tell by the way Irene held herself and the intricateness of her appearance that business was booming. She had obviously gained back her protection, even without her old camera phone. Of course, being dead must have some insurance as well.

But, her posture was definitely haughtier than usual. She was clearly more pleased about Sherlock asking for assistance than she let on. This bothered Sherlock. He didn't like to be dependent on others. He preferred to rely on himself and his mind, which always came through for him. People were unreliable and liars. The rare times Sherlock trusted anyone other than himself, he only confided in John or Mrs. Hudson. Never The Woman. However, this time, he had no choice. He was dead to all the people he trusted.

"You know, you should think of an alias, too, Mr. Holmes," Irene said abruptly.

"Peter Gromeier," Sherlock drawled. Did she think he was stupid? Of course he had an alias. And a background. Peter Gromeier worked as a policeman and was Sylvia was a secretary for a newspaper. Peter had proposed to Sylvia last November and they had been living together ever since. They were supposed to be married that summer in Moscow.

Sherlock knew Irene wouldn't be able to turn down an opportunity to assist the great Sherlock Holmes, so he devised a story around Sylvia's. His insurance that she would accept his asking for help? Her pride. Never in a million years would she turn down a chance like that.

"Well, I must leave you. I have some business to attend to." Irene stood graciously in her chair before winking at Sherlock, then strutting out of the room.