Irene Adler strutted into view as John Watson rambled on about Sherlock's behavior, thinking it was Mycroft he was reporting to. "Hello, Dr. Watson."

Long seconds passed in a pale, blank stare. Passive expression, for all intended purposes. The only detail she could find that might have alluded to his dislike of her was the thinly pressed lips.

Calmly, as if she were a patient being told how to live a healthier life, because there would be consequences if she didn't, he spoke. "Tell him you're alive."

He was so sincere. There was a part of her that admired that about him, that vibrant protective side that was present even in the soft tone of his words. However, it wasn't something she could condon. Caring to that extreme was a waste of time, she knew. Nothing good ever came out of caring for someone other than herself.

So she shook her head and stated just as calmly, "He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't."

"Hmm, I believe you." Of course she didn't. One would have to be a fool to not believe Dr. John Watson when he made threats on behalf of the physical and emotional comforts of Sherlock Holmes.

That was when his anger began seep into his voice, scolding her for pretending to be dead, for sending the detective in the funny looking hat into a state of what appeared to be depression. She tried to respond just as calmly as she had before, but there was something in his accusation that quickly forced her into a mode of defense, lowering herself to the standards of the commonwealth so that this man who had earned the place to be Sherlock's side would understand her reasons for acting out in such a manner.

She tried to explain to him that everything she had done had been for Sherlock's safety. It had been a mistake to give the detective her phone, and it was a mistake she needed to fix, because if she didn't, it wouldn't be just her life that would forfeited.

Yet, the doctor was undeterred. "So is this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you." He looked so disappointed in her. Not for his sake, but for Sherlock's. Everything was about Sherlock.

He turned to walk away, so clearly prepared to do as he had threatened. Grudgingly - though she wouldn't allow it to show in her voice - she called out. "What do I say?"

"What do you normally say?" He yelled. She knew she had hit a sore spot, his furiosity fueling him towards her, her eyes fierce and his muscles tense. "You've texted him a lot!"

In the midst of the anger, she was sure there was pain there too, but she couldn't focus on that now. Might take advantage of it at a later date. "Just the usual stuff."

"There is no usual in this case."

It was almost dejected, on the verge of being pathetic, and she found herself humorist him. "'Good morning. I like your funny hat.'" He looked away, caught between being confused and not believing her. "'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.'" That caught his attention. "'Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch, let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.'"

Brows furrowed and the edges of his eyes crinkled, he questioned, "You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

There was a small, if not undetectable shake of the head. "Sherlock always replies, to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?" She wondered, honestly curiously to know where she stood with the detective, but also mildly amused by the man in front of her rambling on about the man.

"I don't know. Maybe."

She reigned in her smirk. "Are you jealous?" Her eyes were on her phone, planning her next move.

"We're not a couple."

Eyes never leaving the screen, she couldn't keep the tiny lift of her lips in a tiny smile. "Yes, you are." It had been obvious to her the moment the two had stepped into her home. So many clues to suggest it. The punch that had been delivered with precision as to not damage any of the finer details of the detective's face, following along with the man's plans though he himself didn't understand what was happening, and taking such good care of him when she had poisoned Sherlock. "There." She finished texting. "'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

Now that she had done as he had originally asked, he had eased back into his casual, false calm demeanor."Who, who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Oh, the poor man. Stuck in such denial. Bad enough that he was devoted to the detective with such ardent fervor in the first place, but to try and convince himself that it was because of a purely platonic relationship between the two….

"Well, I am. Look at us both." Both consumed by the thought of a sociopath who solved crimes for a living. One because of emotions too strong to admit to, and one because of elevated interest (nothing more, she had to tell herself).

Then they both heard it. The sensual moan of a text alert.