The rain ran down the window, flooding the planter that hung onto the windowsill. It was a unique type of rain. The storm had a strange quality about it. Though there were no harsh winds to be felt, the gentle rain still had a firm and sure presence about it. It was unyielding, yet held a certain gentleness that urged the observer to step outside and let the rain consume her.
This rain had an eerie resemblance to someone Irene Adler held dear, and perhaps that is why she was so entranced by it.
Irene hugged her knees to chest with her right arm, while her left hand felt the back of her neck, toying with the loose bun that hung there.
No one in their right mind would recognize me in this state, she thought quietly. Chuckling to herself, she eased her way off the reading nook that she had previously been sitting on. Irene carefully grabbed the now cool cup of tea she had been nursing and made her way to the kitchen of her small, studio apartment.
Old sweatpants, this ratty t-shirt. Some "The Woman" I am. I really am starting to blend into my surroundings though. What a pity that the surroundings had to be in the most dismal country in the world.
Irene gently sat the teacup in the sink, and then walked back to the window, this time looking at the scenery outside instead of focusing on the rain. A large yellow "M" stared back at her.
Some view, she scoffed internally. How typically American.
Irene resumed her spot on the cushioned reading nook, and grabbed the newspaper that had been lying on the floor. However, when she saw the date, a rage filled her, and she flung the newspaper across the room as hot tears stung her eyes.
Two years.
The date had hit her like a ton of bricks. It was two years to the day that she got word of the tragic death of Sherlock Holmes. Though their time together had been brief, something about him had stuck with her. Maybe it was how tall he was, or how sharp his cheekbones were, or the way he carried himself – so strong, yet with a hint of childish nervousness. Maybe it was the way his voice drawled when his eyes began to smolder, or the way it sped up as he came nearer to a conclusion of a problem. Maybe it was the look that they often shared – the look of two people who have never had anyone truly understand them before.
Irene trailed a hand up to her collarbone and unclasped the locket that hung there. Inside was a picture of Sherlock. It was her favorite picture – one of the ones she had been sent while he was on his way to Buckingham Palace, wrapped in a sheet.
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek as thunder rolled outside. Irene quickly wiped it away, shaking her head to remove the fog of reminiscence from her mind. But she couldn't help the catch that had formed in her throat. She had hoped that Sherlock's suicide had been nothing more than her beheading – a hoax. But when she had visited 221B to laugh at such a dramatic fake death, the tears in John Watson's eyes were enough to convince her of this horrible truth. The only man she had every truly loved was gone from this world, forever.
As Irene closed the locket, she heard a noise behind her. The tiniest of creaks, something that any average person would dismiss as the groans of an old building. However, Irene was no ordinary person. She had surveyed this flat hundreds of times, and the noise that she heard was unmistakably the sound of an intruder.
That sound was so close, they must only be one or two feet away, she thought, her heart pounding against her chest. Irene reached under the cushion of the reading nook, grabbed the knife that she kept there, and spun around all in one motion, until her knife pressed threateningly against the intruder's neck.
The neck was long and slender, smooth and pale. Her intruder had his face up towards the ceiling, so she could only see the bottom of his chin with how tall he ways. Yet that neck was so familiar, and so inviting. She looked down and found herself face to face with a very warm looking scarf, draped so perfectly in front of the intruder's heart. It matched the coat almost perfectly.
Irene allowed herself to breathe for the first time in what seemed like ages, and her nose was filled with the scent of cologne and fresh rain. A gentle hand grabbed Irene's grip around the knife, and slowly lowered it to her side. The intruder's chin lowered, and Irene found herself staring face to face with a pair of two grey blue eyes. Sherlock's eyes.
There was a clatter as the knife fell from Irene's hands onto the floor. Sherlock gently took Irene's face in his hands, holding her as if she was fine porcelain, and would break if he gripped too tightly. Irene found herself stepping closer, slowly closing the little space that was left between them. Sherlock lowered his head gently, and let his lips descend upon Irene's. His hands snaked their way down her body and rested gently against the small of her back, as Irene ran her hands through his curly black locks. Their kiss was gentle and inoffensive, yet with the passion of a wife welcoming her soldier home from war. Irene felt the tears pour down her face, as steady as the rain that still fell outside. She felt something else on her face – tears that were not hers. Irene pulled away gently and this time, cradled Sherlock's face in her hands. His face showed that he too had shed more than one tear. He smiled at her and then pulled her into a tight embrace.
Sherlock's lips kissed from Irene's mouth to her ear, where he stopped and whispered the two most perfect words she had ever heard.
"Not dead."