This is a behemoth of a story that has been stewing in my brain for a while now.

I stumbled upon a story about Irene Adler. I talked to the author and they led me to more stories with her and another character. I haven't read all of them yet, there are quite a few. Some are extraordinarily long and dense and amazing and brilliant. They're in my bookmarks if you want to read them. (PLEASE DO!)

I decided that I would like to try my hand in this universe as well. I can only hope my story does them justice.

The bulk of this story will take place a few months after "The Final Problem", but there will be flashbacks to the end of "A Scandal in Belgravia". Spoiler warning for the whole series.

There will be sexual situations (nothing overly graphic), talk about medical procedures that could be considered graphic, and adult language. Please read at your discretion.

I have finally found a beta, the lovely and talented Hoosiergirl81 on , so this story should be a lot better than my earlier fics, I hope.

This is my first ever multi chapter Sherlock Holmes story, so I hope you all like it.

After the events of Musgrave and Sherrinford, Sherlock Holmes was ready to get back to what he considered a 'normal life'. But when Irene Adler comes back into the picture, bringing a long held secret with her, his world is once again turned upside down. Things may never be 'normal' again.

"Blest be the tie that binds our hearts." -John Fawcett, 1782.

Xxxxxx

Chapter 1

Sherlock sighed and fell back into his black leather chair, running a large hand over his face. John would have called today a 'danger day'. He had to find something to do. His mind was racing too fast to concentrate on reading, Greg had stopped responding to the texts that he had been sending every 15 minutes asking if there were any dead bodies to investigate. And his favorite 'crap telly' shows wouldn't start for another couple of hours. He was running low on options. Unconsciously, his thoughts wandered back to the events of several months ago.

The world had stopped turning with the revelation that he had a sister, and the subsequent days were

filled with terror and dread and memories from long ago, He had buried them so deeply that even he couldn't find them on his own.

They survived the trial by fire, but not unscathed. Even as new bonds had been forged, others fractured. Mycroft had lied. He had been lying since Sherlock was 5 years old. Even Mycroft's attempt at self sacrifice deep within the bowels of Sherrinford wasn't enough to dull the sting of his deception. Trust, once lost, is hard fought to win back.

Since the events of Sherrinford and Musgrave, Sherlock had seemed more alone than ever before. Communications with Mycroft were few and far between, and John Watson was back to living in the flat he had shared with Mary- busy between work and raising a child. It was a rare delight when he visited Baker Street, and rarer still when they partook in the thrill of a chase or the satisfaction of solving a particularly tough case.

So far he had been able to resist the siren's call, the rush of Dopamine as the needle hit his vein and the entire world slid away into a sweet, utter nothingness. DI Lestrade had refused to give him cases for the first two weeks after the incident. Sherlock had nothing- not his brother, and not his blogger. He'd literally had the needle to his skin several times, but his better judgment had prevailed. He knew if he relapsed now, there would be no one to stop him from dying. Finally, Sherlock was able to convince Greg that it would be better for his health if he had cases to work on, and to his utter relief, Greg agreed.

Slowly, languidly, life returned- mostly- to the way it used to be. The flat seemed empty with no John to bounce ideas off of, but at least he still had the artificial high of solving cases. It wasn't nearly as intense, and it didn't last as long as the needle, but any high was better than the alternative. Death was preferable to boredom.

A few months after Sherrinford, Sherlock found himself attempting to deal with a rather humdrum Monday. John and Rosie had visited the day before. Rosie had already been crawling, and was now starting to pull herself up to a standing position, which meant that soon walking would be an inevitability. What had been a pleasant weekend had bled into an unconscionably dull Monday. He could feel those urges returning. A 7% solution would brighten up this dreary day.

No.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't fall back into those habits.

His eyes wandered around the apartment. Since he never knew when John and Rosie would show up, he tried to keep the apartment- or at least the living room— as tidy as he could. As soon as the child became upwardly mobile, there would be no stopping her from exploring every nook and cranny. It was undeniable. There was simply no way to baby proof 221B, but he did the best that he could under the circumstances.

This also meant that he was going to have to be a lot more careful about where he placed his stashes, both of cigarettes, and harder things. He would sooner die a million deaths than have Rosie stumble across anything that might harm her. He'd love to say that he could just get rid of everything and not have to worry about it. But he knew better. He had tried to clear his flat of all of his vices many times in the past, and he always acquired more. Even if he didn't use it, it was some sort of terrible comfort, knowing that it was there if things became too much to bear. So many times he had almost reached that breaking point, and then pulled himself back from the breach.

His eyes darted over to the kitchen table, where a box of nicotine patches lay torn asunder, already plundered of most of its booty. There was only one patch left. He loathed the thought of going out to get more, but his body craved the drug . His fingers, usually rock steady, trembled under his dark gaze. Sherlock's phone lay ignored on the table beside his favorite chair. The distinctive noise that heralded a text from his brother had sounded several times, but the messages lay unread.

He steepled his hands under his chin, closed his eyes, and went to the only place remaining, his mind palace. It was dangerous, he knew, but he wanted to try to explore some of those perilous doors that had been opened at Musgrave. He desperately needed to remember more about Victor Trevor, even if recalling those memories was as hazardous as playing with a bear trap.

The sun had reached it zenith and was starting to fall behind the tall buildings in London's skyline, and still Sherlock sat, unmoving– his breath steady, his body stiff, his breathing steady. The world turned around him and he paid it no mind.

That was, until he hear the telltale creak of the third step. The footfalls were light, much lighter than John or Greg's. It was clearly a woman, but not as delicate as Mrs. Hudson's. Besides, she knew which step to avoid. His eyes popped open and he turned his head, curious as to who would be visiting this late. Perhaps a new case. He could only hope for something interesting enough to take.

What he got was so much more.

There were two quick raps at the door, but whoever was behind it didn't wait for permission before opening it and walking right in. Her high heels clicked on the wood surface, He first saw a shapely leg in a dress cut up the side to allow for movement. Impeccably groomed, blood red nails tipped the long, thin fingers that wrapped around the edge of his door.

Time seemed to slow. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears. It couldn't be.

"Mr. Holmes."

That throaty purr. It was the same as all those years ago. His body stopped cooperating, he wanted to say something, but his vessel was staging a coup at the worst possible time. Her scent, it was the same– soft bergamot and rose, with an undercurrent of spice. Her body was more well rounded than it had been in the past. Was that simply from age, or had something changed in her life? Even after all of these years, she was an enigma to him, which both frustrated and intrigued him.

She carried nothing other than a small black purse clutched in her right hand. He could tell that she hadn't been getting a lot of sleep lately. She tried to cover it up with makeup, but he could see the darkness under the folds of her eyes. Something was definitely worrying her, though he couldn't get any clues about what it might be.

"Ms. Adler." He raised an eyebrow as she made her way over to the couch and made herself quite comfortable. She sat down and made a point of very slowly crossing her legs, sending a spike of warmth through Sherlock. He had forgotten what she could do to him with as simple a movement as crossing one's legs, though he would never admit it. "I never expected to see you here."

"I never expected to come here." The soft, inviting smile she had been wearing immediately dropped. He'd always admired that about her. Much like himself, she could wear whatever emotion she needed to at the moment, and drop it when it it was no longer necessary.

"I am here on some rather serious business." She abandoned all pretense of pleasantries. Sherlock was never one for the droll banter that came with normal conversation anyways. He was quite ready to get to the heart of the matter.

His hands steepled once again. "Serious business." He repeated."It must be of some importance for you to risk blowing your cover here in London."

"Of course I'm not here under my own name." Sherlock didn't take it as the barb it sounded like, only cocking an eyebrow upwards in response. "I just arrived, and I'm leaving tomorrow morning, with or without you."

"Me?" Sherlock let out a low baritone chuckle."Why on earth would I want to leave London with you?" His hard drive was whirring at full speed. What kind of trouble could she be in that she would need him to follow her back to where she came from? It couldn't be something major enough for the police to get involved in, or, more likely, she didn't want the police involved.

He had caught a whiff of her perfume. It was Armani. Could she be living somewhere in Italy now? It was a very popular perfume, so that wasn't a dead giveaway. Her clothing gave him nothing specific either. He was once again, at a loss when it came to The Woman.

"I..." She hesitated, her eyes dropped down to her clasped hands. A minute quiver in her chin betrayed her. Sherlock saw something soflty break on her face. Never before, not even all those years ago in Karachi, had he seen her afraid.

A soft touch...

Fingers intertwined...

The barest hint of deep red lips pressed against alabaster skin...

Sherlock shook his head. Opening his mind palace had brought other memories to the surface, memories that he would rather had stayed buried for good. He saw that Irene was so adrift in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed his brief loss in concentration.

"I need your help." She finally admitted.

Well, she had his attention now. Something had happened since he had last seen her. The Woman that he knew would never have admitted to any sort of weakness. "Help... with what?" A small part of his ego inflated when he realized that she trusted him enough to come to him when she needed help, though he had no idea how he would be able to aid her.

"You might be the only person who can save a life."

It made no sense. She'd started a new existence after Karachi. Why would she risk everything to see him now? If she was indeed now living in Italy, which was his only logical deduction with the limited information that he had, was she in trouble with the mafia? If that was the case, then even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't help her. He knew how to deal with small time crooks and murderers in London, but he knew better than to go up against made men.

"I think you must be mistaken. I helped you die, assisted you in disappearing. There is nothing else I can do for you." That stung her, He hadn't intended it to, but he saw it in her face. It was only for only a heartbeat, then the flinch was gone and she returned to her stoic expression.

"It... isn't for me."

This was getting tiring. Sherlock pushed hard and fast out of his chair and strode quickly towards the couch, stopping a hair's breadth from The Woman.

Bad idea. Long suppressed memories came flooding back.

The caress of skin on skin...

Two heartbeats moving in synchronicity...

A low, throaty moan...

Calls for more... more... more...

Almost immediately he backed away, his hair-trigger anger dissipated by thoughts that he could not keep hidden behind the mind palace room marked as 'The Woman' anymore.

"If it isn't for you, then who is it for?" His voice was low and even, just shy of threatening. He was tired of playing games. It was time to get to the heart of the matter.

One heartbeat of silence, then a second.

And finally a sigh. "My son." If Sherlock hadn't been paying attention, he might have missed it, her voice was so quiet.

Sherlock took a step back. "Your... son..."

"Yes. He... was in an auto accident in Rome. One kidney has been removed, and the other is failing. He is on a dialysis machine. Without a transplant, it's only a matter of time."

There it was. The Woman was stripped bare in front of Sherlock. She had never been this open with him, even in the most intimate of times.

Bodies crashing together...

Ahhh... yes... there...

STOP.

Sherlock shook his head. There were still missing pieces that needed to fall into place.

"If he is your son, why would you risk your safety coming to London to ask for my help?"

Irene didn't answer. She didn't have to.

As soon as the words left his mouth, his brain caught up. There was only one reason.

The Earth ceased turning on its axis. There was nothing except his heartbeat thudding in his chest, beating a steady rhythm. The world melted around him. He forgot how to breathe and how to blink and it could have been hours that he was standing there, but it was only a few seconds. He knew, but he had to hear her say it, to confirm what was already breaking through his skin and melting deep into his bones.

"Irene, why?"

"Because he is our son. Your son."

And everything broke.

"Oh."