Author's Note: This is one of my longer one-shots. It's mostly angst but I also managed to include some fluff, as far as fluff can be included in a fic of this pairing. I hope you like it!

THUMP

The snowball hit the tree next to her head with a dull sound. She turned around and frowned at the youngster who had narrowly missed his friend but had also narrowly missed her in one throw. She resisted the temptation to throw something in the kids' general direction (she was a proper adult after all) and decided to ignore the young perpetrator instead, turning her back to him to give him the illusion she was angry. The kid in question shouted apologies at her back, forming breath-shaped clouds in the cold winter air.

Meanwhile, Irene Adler hid her nose and mouth in her woolen scarf to hide her smile.

She didn't mind the cold, but to say she enjoyed this weather would be a lie. Her fingers were cold, even though she had hidden her glove covered fingers in the pockets of her coat. She could easily blend in with all the other citizens that had dared to go out on the streets of New York in these temperatures.

Oh, she had never had any trouble blending in if she truly had to. She had easily learned the habits and the lingo of the American city, but changing one's identity was never fun, unless it involved role playing of a different kind.

She had left behind that career, and there wasn't a single day when she did not regret her decisions she had made in her past lifetime. Every day she indulged in thinking about the idea of going back to her old lifestyle again, but of course this was simply impossible.

She saw girls every now and then, in the afternoons or in the evenings.

Because she could. Because she wanted to.

And all her lovers thought she loved them, too, and she let them live in that illusion. She played games with people, but it just wasn't the same. This wasn't the life she wanted to live, but she didn't have a choice.

She knew she wasn't the only one in New York who was longing for a past life. In fact, Sherlock Holmes was in her apartment, waiting for her to get home.

(Who was she even kidding, of course he wasn't waiting for her to get home. He barely acknowledged her presence if he was around.)

She turned around the corner and reached the street she lived in. She hurried her pace, even though her feet were cold and she imagined her toes being slightly blue.

The look Sherlock gave her when she entered her apartment told her that he was in a bad mood.

One reason for this could be that one of his experiments had gone wrong. Another option was that he had somehow gotten bad news through one of his sources that she hadn't been able to identify yet. News from "back home".

"Home is where the heart is," Irene thought.

She wasn't privileged enough to know everything about his heart, but she did know more than enough to draw her own conclusions. She wasn't in his heart; she was in his mind, and that was more than enough for her. He cared more about his brains anyway, his heart only got him in his situation in the first place.

"Sounds familiar?" her thoughts mocked her.

She stood in the hallway, still completely dressed in her coat. She hadn't bothered telling Sherlock "good afternoon," because he had never really returned the greeting since he had arrived. She figured things weren't good for him after all.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked her, the timbre of his voice low as ever. She looked up and saw him staring at her intensely, his eyes narrowed and his head slightly cocked to one side.

She imagined she smelled like the city, like cinnamon coffee and exhaust fumes, and like one of her lover's cheap perfume, but she figured the cold was making it harder for Sherlock to pick up on any olfactory or physical evidence to trace back her steps.

She ignored his question, enjoying the moment of superiority because she did know where she had spent her time. She pulled off her leather gloves, rubbing her cold hands together. She looked into the mirror, putting some errand strands of hair in place again, frowning at the not-quite-that-attractive look of her red nose and cheeks.

"Where have you been?" he asked once again, more slowly this time, putting more emphasis on each syllable. She looked around, surprised because he was so persistent. He usually had the ability to figure out the tiniest details in no time at all, but this time she found him failing, a thing she thought to be remarkable.

"Isn't that up for you to figure out?" she replied teasingly, taking off her warm coat at last before neatly putting it back in the closet in the hallway. Because of these actions she hadn't been able to see what Sherlock was doing, and when she turned around she saw his shape approaching her. His posture was tense, and the look on his face could be described as pure anger.

"What's going-," she was cut off by his body moving towards her, hands touching her shoulders in a platonic and rough fashion, and before she knew it she was shoved against the wall forcefully. Her back and head hit the surface with a dull thump. The force of the impact caught her off guard for a couple of seconds, and she could feel the pain in her skull and all the way down her spine. She blinked and tried to keep her composure, but Sherlock's hands had gotten hold of her wrists and pushed her hands far above her head. Her hands and wrists were caught between his hands and the wall, stretching her arms further than she could bear: her joints and muscles protested, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek in order not to grimace. She could barely move her limbs. Even her legs had been rendered rather useless because she had to stand on her toes to keep her arms from what felt like stretching out.

Even in this position she was significantly smaller than Sherlock. He was towering above her, bent over her like a predator would bend over his victim, the only difference being that Sherlock would never approach her like this for the same reasons strangers in dark streets would. This meant it was serious – serious but dangerous, nonetheless. Her first instinct was to fight, but Sherlock was too clever and too proud to let her win this physical fight. She knew what kind of situation she was in, and she knew she was in a losing position. Except…they weren't playing. This was real, and something was completely, utterly wrong.

Sherlock had never reacted that violently towards her. He had been frustrated about her actions, that much was certain, but he had always showed his disdain in a relatively calm and composed way; he had always been capable of concealing his anger towards her. Even if she had been the source of all his frustration, anger, and perhaps even guilt, he wouldn't do this. She knew that he wouldn't, no, shouldn't react like this. Attacking her physically wasn't something that would fit into The Unabridged Guidebook to Sherlock Holmes.

And yet here he was, proving her wrong.

She wanted this to be a dream of sorts, or for this to be the other way around and consensual, but it was neither one of those things. This was real, and the physical pain reminded her all too well of this fact. It wasn't exactly the first time she had been under similar pressure, and she ordered herself to stay calm. As long as he only held her in place she didn't have that much to be scared of. He was stronger, but she had the advantage of a greater agility.

All she could see was his face, and through his slightly narrowed eyelids she could still see that his pupils didn't seem dilated, which could've hinted at either arousal, certain poisons, or drug use. She was relieved (or was she disappointed? She really didn't know) because this ruled out some possibilities. Process of elimination.

She did spot the darker patches of skin under his slightly bloodshot eyes and she figured he had been lacking decent sleep lately. She knew he didn't need that much sleep in order to function rather well. She had been kept awake by Sherlock walking around her apartment in the middle of the night. He wasn't exactly gentle and didn't quite care about her sleeping patterns and much needed rest.

Irene blinked.

Despite his anger Sherlock's actions were still highly calculated. He could've broken her wrists if he had wanted to, but he hadn't done that. Although, just as Irene made this observation Sherlock decided to tighten the grip on her wrists, and she couldn't help the groan that escaped her because of the pain his grip was causing. His nails were short but they managed to dig into her skin nonetheless, and she knew what the marks would look like in the morning.

"What do you want?" she asked, her throat dry. She swallowed.

"Simple. I want you to tell the truth," Sherlock said without hesitation.

"The truth about what?"

Sherlock's frown deepened and he increased the volume of his voice, "the truth about what you've been doing behind my back. I know you've been seeing people, in every sense of the word. I've seen you, meeting them. The woman you met today – she was unmistakably British. What are you doing? Are you trying to get back at me somehow?"

Irene couldn't help herself – a laugh escaped her.

"So you've been following me, and now you – oh dear – you don't seriously think this is about you, do you? Because it's not. It's just fun," she said.

"Oh, so this is your idea of fun?" Sherlock said, spitting out the last word.

There was something in his demeanor told her that they were talking about two different things. She was talking about the people she had been seeing, and it was all just genuine fun. But Sherlock – Sherlock was talking about something entirely different. He clearly felt like he was in danger, nearly panicking, even, and someone in danger could make strange and unexpected decisions. He felt like she was getting back at him somehow, with someone British. Someone she knew from her life in London. To get back at him.

Oh god no.

He thought she was trying to betray him. To get him killed.

He had seen her leave, he had followed her. And somehow, somehow this thought had crept into his incredible head and it had stuck onto the walls of his mind and it had stuck and grown like a cancer.

But how?

"Whatever you think I was doing, it wasn't that," she said, her tone not exactly pleading but close. Her wrists were hurting and the lack of blood flow in her arms had started to make her fingertips tingle. She wasn't going to beg for him to release her. She wouldn't bring those words over her lips, not again. She had done it once and it had meant her downfall, she knew better than to make such a big mistake for a second time in her life.

"Wasn't it?" he replied, his breath hot against her cheek. If she hadn't been in this situation, she'd almost think he was trying to be seductive.

There was something in Sherlock's posture and facial expression that confused her: his physical actions and facial expression told her he was angry more than anything else. She hated that she couldn't figure out why he had chosen to restrain her physically: she knew he wasn't the type to dominate people physically, unless they had attacked him first.

She could feel the bruises on her skin. She had had innumerable bruises in her life, but she was usually the one to bruise and hurt people in any possible way: being the "victim" of physical or emotional pain was a feeling that was foreign to her, not in the least because she hated being out of control of things. She hated being out of control of her physical or emotional state, and she wasn't in control of either of those things at that moment.

She was starting to become genuinely frightened because she wasn't controlling the situation, and Sherlock knew it. He knew it from the way she spoke to him and her body language. She was trapped: trapped and scared because Sherlock was furious, and she knew how anger could bring out the worst in people.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice softer this time, even though her mind was racing, "we both know that you're hurting me, but you don't seem quite like yourself. You've already calculated each and every way in which I could try to escape, and I promise I won't try to escape, but I would like to keep my arms intact, and right now it hurts quite badly."

"I don't see the problem," he said, the anger on his face never fading as he clenched his jaw, "you used to hurt people all the time."

"Not like this," she said, and she swallowed, "not like this."

The implication of her words weren't lost on him. This was no longer about physical pain and they knew it.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, think," Irene hissed, "I'm dead. The world thinks I'm dead. I've tried so hard to cut off all my connections. You know better than anyone how much time and effort it took to even get a new identity, let alone a new life. How would I ever be able to do what you think I'm doing? I no longer have any connections that could be of use."

He blinked a couple of times, taking in that information, but she knew this wasn't enough to convince him.

"I'm not Jim Moriarty. You know my definition of fun, and having people killed is not included in this definition. Having you killed is definitely not on my list of things-to-do, not in the least because it would be simply impossible to be a dead person who wants another dead person gone."

She could feel the grip on her arms loosen just for a moment, as she could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts were racing. The room was silent for a couple of seconds. She had been speaking the truth, and he was starting to gain this insight as well.

She nodded her head, encouraging him to use that bloody brain of his and think. She felt his grip loosen again, until his hands had freed her and Sherlock almost stumbled back, bewildered and shocked, looking at her as though she had grown a second head. He looked around him, and Irene frowned.

"What's wrong? Why are you so paranoid?"

"I'm not."

"In denial, too. You thought I was trying to get you assassinated, to put it bluntly, but you didn't have any evidence. You thought you had evidence, but you didn't," she said.

She rubbed her wrists, the feeling slowly returning in her fingertips. The bruises would form quickly and the pain would remind her of what he had done. She looked down at the damage, at the ugly red marks that were starting to appear on her pale skin.

"I mean, look at you!" she continued, shaking her head, and she wasn't able to hide the disdain in her voice, "you're looking as though people are following you. As though you're hearing voices. What is going on? Sherlock, look at me," she ordered, and he caught her gaze.

"I was just a mistake," he said, and Irene was shocked at the easiness of those words. As though it was a daily routine for Sherlock Holmes to admit his mistakes. As though it was something he wasn't ashamed of.

"Sherlock Holmes rarely ever mistakes," she said, "and he sure as hell wouldn't admit it."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead," he said, and with this he strode to the door, taking his coat with him, and slamming the door behind his back.

Irene sighed and shook her head once again. Sherlock would be back soon, without gloves it would be quite hard to stay outside for a long time. She gave him twenty minutes before the cold would force him to return back to her apartment.

She looked down at her hands and realized they were shaking. She frowned and told herself to stop behaving like this. It didn't help, and it only made her frustrated. She had been in much more life threatening situations than this, situations after which she hadn't been feeling ridiculously weak like this. Perhaps it was the weather.

She laughed bitterly at her own musings.

Get a grip.

She went into her kitchen and started to boil water for tea. Old habits never died.

Where she usually handled most of her own things with care, she slammed the kettle down harder than necessary this time. She cursed louder than necessary and habitual as well. She took her cup full with hot tea back to the living room and settled there, as though nothing had happened. She looked out of the window, where the snow had started to fall again. She realized she was being a ridiculous sap and ordered herself to stop behaving like this. Her brain had definitely been rotting without intelligent stimulation of any kind.

Her eye fell on the violin case in the corner of the room. She imagined Sherlock sitting alone in the living room in the darkest hours of the night, playing ridiculously sad melodies she had never heard before. 4 AM seemed to be Sherlock's favorite hour to compose, and sometimes it woke her up. She had gotten used to it, and she could count the times the neighbors had complained on two hands.

She couldn't blame them, Sherlock had been playing the violin an awful lot lately, so much that it was almost as though he barely even slept at night.

Could he…?

Shit.

She stood up, almost knocking over her tea in her haste to get to the guest bedroom. It was the room she had offered Sherlock to stay in a couple of weeks ago. She opened the door and saw almost exactly what she had expected to see. His bed looked immaculate, not a wrinkle to be seen in the sheets. She knew he never made his bed after he had slept in it, which meant he hadn't touched his bed for at least two nights.

This wasn't good, this wasn't good at all.

It explained the paranoia, the irritation, the illusion that she had wanted to hurt him. Perhaps he was having hallucinations as well. She wondered if this was one of his experiments, or if it was just Sherlock being so goddamn stubborn to think that he could beat something as necessary as sleep.

The sound of the front door opening made her shut the door to Sherlock's bedroom quickly. She hadn't expected him back yet.

The look on his face upon entering the apartment wasn't much different from the look he had worn when he left. She watched silently as he entered. He just stood there in the middle of the living room, watching her motionlessly, still wearing his coat.

"Sherlock," Irene said in all seriousness, "when was the last time you slept?"

"Why, are you concerned about my health all of a sudden? Interesting to say the least," Sherlock replied, shrugging off his coat, and Irene could hear the sarcastic tone in his voice.

"I'm serious," she said as she watched him "you look ridiculously tired. Your bed is still made as it was two days ago, and don't think I can't hear you playing the violin at four AM, because I can. You're staying awake for whatever reason, and it's driving you insane and sooner or later it will drive me insane as well."

"You know I don't need much sleep. I find sleeping tedious."

"I'm not telling you this because I care about your health, but because I'm dreading what will happen if you stay awake like this. You already had me up the wall one time, I don't want that to happen again."

He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off before he could utter a single syllable.

"No, don't say it's not my business, because it bloody well is if you're going to get both of us killed because of your irrational paranoia and aggressive behavior," she looked at him sternly, "tell me. How many hours have you been awake?" she raised her eyebrows while awaiting the answer.

"Eighty hours and seventeen minutes, if you must know," Sherlock said carelessly.

She honestly hadn't known what to expect.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're an idiot," she said, and he didn't seem the least bit touched by this remark. She guessed she wasn't the first person to tell him this, and hopefully not the last, either.

She continued, "you haven't slept for three nights in a row. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"It's just an experiment."

"Well, I want it to stop."

"Look at you," he sneered, "you care so much."

"I can't believe-" she started, but changed the direction of her sentence almost immediately, "yes, alright! I care so much that I'll gladly repeat our first meeting and drug you and beat you if I have to, just to make sure that you get some sleep. That's how much I care!"

"That's an awful lot of hassle to go through to get someone to sleep."

"You should see yourself," she said, not quite understanding the sad tone in her voice all of a sudden, "I saw you avoiding the mirror when you just came in. You look like a member of the living dead, and you know it. Your reflection hurts because it reminds you again of how broken you are. You're still as damaged as the man I met in London a long time ago."

Sherlock remained painfully silent, and she knew she was right.

"People think John Watson has cured you," she continued, her tone getting sharper again, "but he hasn't, has he? He has just temporarily blocked the gateways to your illusions, and everything came back when you had to leave him behind. Your false beliefs haven't disappeared, and neither has your sense of grandeur, thinking you can beat sleep."

She could see Sherlock grinding his teeth again, no longer wanting to listen to her but unable to block out her words. "John Watson" had always been the forbidden word, but she had finally pulled this card, and she could see how much he hated it. Hated it because he knew she was right.

"Because you can't," she said as Sherlock turned his back to her, making his way to the guest bedroom.

"You're only human!" she shouted as he slammed the door behind him.

She rolled her eyes as she heard him lock the door. She could always open the door if she wanted to, even if he had taken her spare key (which he probably had) she had other tricks to open that door if she had to.

She shrugged and picked up her cup of tea that had gone cold and tasteless and returned it to the kitchen.

She hoped he would come to senses or fall asleep out of pure exhaustion. She knew her hopes were futile, and she immediately heard him pacing around the room without breaks. The constant brushing of feet against the carpet made her feel slightly uneasy.

After an hour and a half, sounds stopped emerging from Sherlock's room. Irene waited ten minutes. She waited twenty. Nothing happened, not a single sound. The sky outside had gotten darker and darker, until millions of lights lit up the city covered in snow.

She unlocked the door with a trick she learned before she dropped out of college. She opened the door, not sure what to expect. The situation was a bit like Schrödinger's cat at that moment.

When she had opened the door, she couldn't help but shake her head at the sight. This is what she had hoped for, but she couldn't deny the smile that briefly lit up her face.

Sherlock had fallen asleep on his back on the mattress, . He was still fully clothed, his legs were dangling over the side of the bed, and his floppy curls were partially obscuring his face. The book he had been reading had fallen off his lap and was now lying on the floor opened on pages 142 and 143. She had always heard that reading made people sleepier, but she had never actually seen proof of this assumption.

"You stubborn man, you can't beat everything," she said, bending over him to check if her was genuinely asleep. He was.

She tried to pull him in a more comfortable position, eventually managing to pull his legs on the bed without waking him. She wasn't going to try to undress him, he would be fine sleeping in his clothes.

"Patience, dear," her mind told her, and she grimaced: of course her mind would go from something innocent to something sexual in a split second.

She looked down at Sherlock's sleeping form. He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling, his mouth parted slightly. She felt the sudden need to brush his hair out of his face, then quickly walked over to the curtains to distract herself.

Perhaps Sherlock was right.

Perhaps she did care.

But she didn't care nearly as much as he had given her credit for.

When she had watched him sleeping back at Baker Street she had kissed him on his cheek, just for fun, and because his drugged self had been a great object to play with. This time it was different, but he wasn't going to notice anyway if she did it carefully.

She held her breath as she bent down to his sleeping form, resting one hand on the mattress, trying not to wake him.

Sherlock didn't move as Irene brushed the hair out of his face and placed a soft kiss in the corner of his mouth before leaving the room.

Because she could.

Because she wanted to.