A/N: The song is 'Night Terror's by Laura Marling. I strongly suggest you listen before or during reading this to fully understand why I think it works so well.

I never refer to Her by name, except for the once, out of respect for her. I don't even do it in the real world. That woman is amazing, all things considered, and though I refuse her with Sherlock, because I don't see it, I accept that she is more than a match for our favourite Consulting Detective.

As in the summary, The Woman gets into 221B Baker Street with the sole intention of showing Sherlock who he really loves.

My friend showed me this song in a Sherlock Playlist, and conveyed her image much like this fic, of The Woman playing for Sherlock and Sherlock joining to show he understands and is grateful.

I wasn't sure it'd work with the TV appearance, but I'm chuffed that it did, and I'm rather proud of this.

Warnings: The Woman is present here. Some M/M stuff, but you knew that, else you'd not click on this one.

Pairings: Sherlock/John (realisation fic). Definitely NOT Her/Sherlock.

XxXxXxX

Sherlock's eyes opened sharply as he heard a noise from the living room, a guitar strumming softly. John couldn't play. He only knew grade one clarinet. So someone else had got in. Who would-

The mystery guest started singing, and Sherlock sprung out of bed. A woman. The Woman. He flung open his bedroom door, mind telling him John was at work, had been for an hour and would continue to be for another five, while Mrs. Hudson was visiting a friend.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Sherlock was hit by a faint aroma. The one She used.

The Woman was in the living room, sat on his couch, with an old acoustic guitar, plain wood, scored by the wood that was chosen and unpolished. It was beautiful, dare he admit it.

She was wearing a suit, like his but feminine, with only the top two buttons undone. Her hair was like it usually was, and her feet were bare, which explained why he didn't hear her.

There was a note in front of the chair Sherlock usually sat on, trapped under a mug with black coffee in it. Sherlock sat down easily, his keen eyes catching the words 'You and him' written in red curling letters.

'I woke up and he was screamingI'd left him dreaming'

Sherlock leant back, holding his coffee close as he let the words and music wash over him.

'I'll roll over and shake him tightly

And whisper if they want you, oh they're gonna have to fight me

Oh fight me.'

Her eyes met his, and Sherlock saw so much sadness, but also a sense of knowing what she was doing was right.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trusting her enough to do so without fear of being knocked out or something. He remembered all the nights after The Pool Incident, when he'd held John through the nightmares, just like She was describing.

'I woke up on a bench in Shepard's Bush Green.

Oh a candle at my chest

And a head on his knee.'

He remembered the days before John, when he'd never known where he'd wake after the new high, and stumbling back to Montague Street, or Mycroft, and later on, to Lestrade. But he'd stopped since John came back. He'd slipped a few times, sure, but hardly what it had been.

'I got up it, was dark there was no one in the park at this hour

How do I keep finding myself here?

Oh, fight me.'

Her eyes met his again, determined, strong, just like they should be. Not sad and distraught.

'If I look back and he is screaming

I'd left him dreaming, a dangerous feat

And I'll run and shake him tightly

And scream if they want him of they're gonna have to fight me

Oh, fight me.'

Suddenly a wave of realisation hit him, and Sherlock looked towards the paper again. 'You and John.' What had she meant?

Over the past year, Sherlock had felt more emotion than his whole life, and he still didn't fully understand it. John had tried to explain, of course, because he thought Sherlock was in love. With the woman in front of him.

It wasn't love. He didn't love Her. He understood that much. She was intelligent, witty, brilliant at hiding any traits from him, and on his level for almost everything. But he didn't love her.

'Someone loves you.' She'd said that, the first time they met. Talking about John not hitting his nose or teeth. It was a good point, John had been careful not to hit anywhere that might be permanently damaging.

Was everyone right? All those jokes about he and John being together, maybe there was something in it?

'Just for the record, if anyone still cares, I'm not gay.' John told Her. He didn't know Sherlock was nearby. If it hadn't been for that blasted text alert, he still wouldn't.

Although, to be fair, he'd rather enjoyed getting texts from her. He wished Moriarty would do that, make his life that bit more interesting, even on the dull days.

Sherlock had never told anyone, spoken to anyone, about what he 'was'. Gay, straight, bi, Ace? He'd always assumed the latter, but... There was something about John Watson.

His thoughts cut short when he realised The Woman was still singing, and his mind rewound to catch up.

'But if I wake up on a bench in Shepard's Bush Green.

Oh a candle at my chest

And a head on his knee.'

Sherlock realised, plain as day, that he needed John. He loved him. And who cared if John loved him back?

Frowning, Sherlock stood up as She carried on singing, aware of her bright eyes following him as he picked up his violin.

'I'll roll over and hold him tightly

And scream if they want him they're gonna have to fight me.'

Smiling, Sherlock brought the bow to the strings and joined in effortlessly, as if he knew the song. The sorrowful notes joined seamlessly with the dry sounds of the guitar and together they were almost enough to make him weep.

Instead, he turned from the window to fix Her with an intense stare, and as she stared back, Sherlock blocked out the rest of the world.

His bow soared across the strings, fingers intricately twisting and flexing to accommodate his needs as he swayed slightly, physically moved by the piece, as it were.

'Oh, fight me.'

She ended, and Sherlock shook the last note slightly, and let it's high sound pierce the air around them.

He dropped the violin form his shoulder and sat back down.

"What are you doing here?" He asked her.

"Always loved that about you. So blunt. Skip dinner, and go straight to the dessert." Her voice was flirtatious as always but her words didn't quite reach her eyes any more.

"Not hungry." He replied easily. He decided this would be what people called 'flirting' and if it were anyone else having this conversation, it would be. But this was different.

"Then let's get straight to the talking. Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Adler." It felt strange exchanging greetings this late into a meeting, but none of this was normal. That'd be boring.

"Do you understand now?" She asked him, folding her hands together and leaning back into his couch. "Do you understand why you need him?"

Sherlock nodded, his mind still reeling from the new fact he'd uncovered.

"Then hurry up and tell him before another poor soul falls victim to his fancy when we all know he should just go for what's right in front of him." She smiled softly.

"How have you been?" Sherlock changed the subject suddenly, ignoring the strange feelings in his stomach.

"Good enough. Got a ferry across to America, protection plan, like your brother lied. I know the driver of the boat, or rather-"

"-You know what he likes." Sherlock cut across, smirking.

"Of course." She clapped her hands together suddenly, standing up. "Well, you're landlady will be back soon and I plan on using your front door for once." She smiled, packing the guitar into a battered black case and fitting a long cherry coloured wig she'd removed from it over her hair. The wig looked suspiciously realistic, but Sherlock knew better than to ask.

"Always a pleasure, Sherlock Holmes." She extended a hand.

Sherlock took it, but instead of shaking, he kissed the back.

"Same to you, Irene Adler." He stepped back, happy to note his deft fingers detected no elevated pulse, and hardly any pupil dilation or unsteady breathing.

The Woman departed 221B, and only ten minutes later, Mrs. Hudson returned, coming upstairs when she heard Sherlock moving about.

Sherlock heard her coming and stashed the note in his trouser pocket, with Her mug (red lipstick smeared on rim) pushed under the couch. He hoped to lay on the leather enough to remove her scent and replace it once again with his own.

"No John?" Mrs. Hudson asked cheerily.

"Not yet. Late shift. Home in a few more hours." Sherlock decided he was too restless and instead stood, taking up his violin and playing the song he'd heard. He took a new sheet of plain music paper and put the notes as he played from memory. It would go in the manilla file under his mattress with the tune he'd done for her.

"Already made another one?" John asked, his voice muffled. Suddenly the world rushed back into his mind, trapping his thoughts once more and almost making his ears pop. He stumbled at the sensation, but John's hands, as usual, caught him.

Sherlock hoped desperately that John wasn't observant enough to catch his out-of-sync breathing, fast pulse or blown pupils.

Though, to be fair, he would most likely think he and Mycroft missed a sudden unexpected 'danger day'.

He watched John predictably change betweenA) He's bloody high again

B) Not drunk.

C) Not High.

D) Not headrush, so not ill.

E) ?

John lowered Sherlock onto the couch, and a strange but familiar scent hit him. Sherlock watched solution 'E) ?' change to Her name.

"Of course she survived." John muttered, eyes downcast as he tried to ready himself for more of Sherlock's silent days, fasts of eating and lack of sleeping.

"She wrote that song." Sherlock started. "She played it on her guitar but I altered it. While she was playing, I realised what she was trying to tell me."

"What was she trying to tell you?" John asked slowly, half afraid of what Sherlock would say.

"Who I love." Sherlock smiled.

"Her?"

"No." Sherlock responded strongly. Definitely not Her.

John discarded any following words as Sherlock hesitantly leant forward, pushing their lips together softly.

'At last!' John thought, gently gliding a hand over those perfect cheekbones, the other hand resting at the base of his flatmate's hair.

Sherlock's own hands were round John's waist and on the crook where his neck blended with his shoulder.

They broke apart and smiled at each other, not moving their hands as something new sparked between them.

"Well, I must thank her." John smiled.

"I doubt we'll see her again." Sherlock murmured.

John remembered every times they'd thought that, and how wrong they always were, but this time it felt right.

They probably wouldn't but if they did, John would happily invite her for a cuppa, just as long as she didn't make and passes at his man.

-Fin.