Author's Note: This story has been a long time coming. I had the idea for this about 18 months ago, wrote out a detailed plan, and then completely chickened out and didn't write it properly. I told StoneWingedAngel about this idea a few days ago, and suddenly I found this story being written. If it wasn't for StoneWingedAngel, this would never have been written at all. The part from Sherlock's POV is therefore written by the glorious StoneWingedAngel, while the parts from Irene's POV are written by yours truly. I'm sure I'm speaking on behalf of my co-writer as well when I say I hope you enjoy it! :)

The Fake Suicide Club

Irene's got a dead man in her flat.

Well, almost in her flat. The dead man's sitting with his back against her bright red front door, legs bent so he fits into as small a space as possible. Long, bony fingers rest on knees clad in expensive material that's seen better days. His head was down when she first saw him, but even then the curls – unruly, too long – were instantly recognisable.

She's within a few feet of him now, months of keeping a low profile slowing her steps, keeping her wary. The head rises, eyes scanning her from toes to hair. The gauntness of his face, the pallor of his skin – he may as well be dead.

Irene clicks her tongue and shakes her head, hands coming to rest on her hips. "My, my... what the hell happened to you?" She doesn't miss – can't, really – the makeshift bandage on his right hand.

Sherlock gets to his feet, grunting like a man of years more advanced than his own, leaning subtly on the door. He towers over her, but whatever intimidation that height is supposed to provide is ruined by his obvious weariness. "A small setback," he answers vaguely with a wave of a hand. "Nothing I can't handle."

He doesn't look her in the eye at the last; the lie is too blatant. If he could handle it, he wouldn't be here. But his hand does appear to be in need of some medical attention, and that Irene should be able to provide. So she goes along with it in case the truth causes him to bolt, says with a little nod, "I'm sure."

After he steps to one side, Irene twists her key into the lock. She enters the hallway first; her door's the only one on the right. She opens that door as well, deposits her handbag on the sofa without checking to see where it lands. Sherlock doesn't seem to be behind her, and when she pokes her head around her door she sees him staring at the stairs to the second floor, looking sad now he thinks no one can see him.

Irene clears her throat loudly, and his head whips around as if she's struck him. "You coming?"

She leaves him in the hallway to make his decision while she fetches the first-aid box from the bathroom. While she's in there she hears the click of the front door being closed and allows herself a half smile. She finds him sitting somewhat awkwardly at the opposite end of the sofa to the one her handbag is currently occupying. His good hand his tapping a rhythm on his knee.

"I don't know that song. Any good?" she asks conversationally, pulling over the footstool to sit on. He blinks at her. Now that she's at eye-level with him, she can see he's a little broken inside. His eyes tell all, even if he doesn't wish them to. She sighs. "Never mind... why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you?" He frowns at her, giving her the impression that he's somehow taller than her even though right now he's not.

He keeps doing that, how endearing, she thinks to herself. "That you were alive, had joined the Fake Suicide Club," she clarifies aloud. "I made assumptions, of course, but I had nothing concrete."

"Can I have an example?" he questions with an arched eyebrow.

"You didn't text me before you 'jumped'. I saw the article on a news website and just thought: no. He wouldn't. It's not is his character."

"Don't flatter yourself by thinking you know me," he snaps. He attempts to fold his arms, but the movement of his bad hand causes him to hiss in pain.

Irene ignores the petty jibe. Instead she holds her hand out, palm up, expectant. He stares at her hand, her face, for a few minutes before he relents and gingerly lowers his hand into hers. She inspects it. "Your finger's broken," she announces.

"Obviously."

"Trigger finger."

"The gun was shot out of my hand while I was trying to use it," he says in a tone that suggests she should have already worked that out. "Don't worry, I think I managed to hit him back." That's all the information he's willing to offer her for now it seems, as he falls silent.

The makeshift bandage is dirty already, but what it's made out of is quite fascinating indeed. A plastic lollypop stick forms a poor splint, and it's held to the finger with a tissue and some sticky tape.

"Did you steal this from a child?" she asks, pointing at the lolly stick.

He shrugs, gaze flicking to something over her left shoulder, and that's answer enough. She snorts a laugh, can imagine the whole event playing out in her head with ease. Irene carefully cuts away the tissue under Sherlock's scrutiny. The finger is still slightly bent out of shape.

"How long ago was this?"

"Two days."

"You haven't set it properly." And she regrets it, she really does. Of course she resents being left out of the fake suicide loop, but it's understandable. She's a week link, or at least that's the impression she seems to give. But she doesn't want to cause pain that isn't of a pleasurable nature.

"Oh." It's all he has to say on the matter.

"Okay. On three?" He nods, swallows hard. "One..."

Sherlock tenses, probably fighting every instinct that's telling him to run and run far. She grasps the tip of the injured digit as tightly as she dares.

"Two..."

Irene doesn't wait for three. She's already pulled the finger; felt the crack as the bone slotted into the correct position, heard Sherlock's startled cry of agony. She looks at his face; he's breathing hard. A single tear slides down his cheek. She's used to making grown men cry, but not like this.

While Sherlock gets his breathing back under control, Irene makes a quick job of bandaging the finger up properly. She pretends not to notice that his hand is trembling.

"You're brutal," he says at last, while she's securing the bandage.

"But effective," she replies with a ghost of a smile.

He makes to stand as soon as she releases his hand, but he's easy to push back down. "I'll make us something to eat," she announces, folding the first-aid box closed and about to head for what passes as her kitchen.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbles, but she ignores him and he doesn't get up from the sofa. She doesn't hear him leave as she warms some tomato soup on the hob and digs out some bread to make toast. When she enters the living room carrying a tray with steaming food on it, she finds he's fast asleep and using her red leather handbag as a pillow.

She takes a photo on her phone because old habits die hard. She taps him gently on the shoulder and without opening his eyes, he repeats in a mumble, "I'm not hungry."

"You should eat something," Irene insists.

"You're not my babysitter."

"No. Your babysitter's on the other side of the Channel." She lowers the tray so the steam from the soup can enter his nostrils. "Eat," she instructs, leaving no room for further argument. He sits up with some effort, and she places the tray on his lap. She switches on the TV for him but he doesn't seem interested – he's too busy inhaling the food.

She eats a simple ham sandwich by herself in the kitchen, idly flicking through a magazine. The soup was for her, but Sherlock needed it more. This is not how she imagined having dinner with Sherlock Holmes. She's listening for the tink of the spoon against the bottom of the bowl. When that happens, she goes into the living room and takes his tray away. His eyes are already drooping again; he's leaning to one side. She lowers the volume on the TV to a murmur and leaves him alone.

She keeps watch. Sherlock clearly trusts her enough to leave himself vulnerable in her presence - she's not about to betray that.

Irene has watched the sun set, colouring rooftops pink and then gold, when she hears the fist hammering on her door. She's had a few visitors here before, but none of them have tried to knock the door down, and two unexpected visitors in one evening is no coincidence. She creeps into the living room; Sherlock's so deeply asleep he doesn't even stir as her latest visitor bangs on her door again.

She pinches his ear and that seems to do the trick. He's sitting up, alert, in a split second. Taking in his surroundings to check for danger, Sherlock sees the controlled panic on her face that she has made an attempt to hide. He stands, carefully positioning himself against the wall so he can't be seen from the window. She sees the outline of a gun in his pocket just as he grabs her arm and sends her sprinting for the back door.

"Do you always bring a gun to the party?" she asks as they barrel through the door and into her tiny sliver of a garden.

He doesn't answer; assessing every available escape route. "Wall!" he orders as they both hear Irene's front door hinges give way.

The brick wall is rougher than Sherlock had predicted; he isn't wearing his gloves, and it tears through his palms like teeth. But then he's over, hooking his ankles up with expert practice; he's had years to get used to the way his shoes catch the edges of things when he jumps. He doesn't even stumble. Irene is already ahead of him – she's lighter, quicker, although he wouldn't wish to be wearing the kind of shoes she is. The back of the store is dark with grime. His eyes flick, left, right, left, right…

"Lorry."

The fact they both say it at the same time makes him want to laugh, but he's too out of breath, and the jump over the wall has left his injured finger throbbing. Irene's hands are bleeding too as she races to the driver's door and scrambles inside. Sherlock wants to argue with her, but he can see the conversation playing out in his head, and he knows there's no point – he's not stupid, his finger's hurting, and she knows that. She knows far too much, and she's already in the driving seat, already shifting gears.

They don't have time to argue. Much as he wants to drive, Sherlock clambers into the passenger side. There's a half-eaten hamburger on the seat, which he pushes off, nose wrinkling. Information assaults him, but he ignores it. The engine starts up. The jolt throws him into the window, and he cries out as Irene wrenches the small lorry in a full circle. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a dark flash, sees the gun being raised, and throws himself down, reaching out his uninjured arm to drag Irene with him, but she'd already seen, already anticipated, and he ends up pressing into her back instead. There are two bangs. Irene jerks her head up and follows the line of the car park with a panicked look. The man throws himself out of the way. The bullets hadn't even hit the lorry, let alone anything vital.

"He's usually a good shot," Sherlock muses, glancing at his broken finger. Blood is leaking onto the splint. He wipes it on his coat; he's learned not to be fussy about dirt. Not nowadays.

The road they pull onto isn't busy – it rarely is at this time – and Irene has full use of both lanes, but the lorry is obviously much larger than what she's used to driving, and the two shots that follow them aren't so lazy. The mirror on Sherlock's side cracks itself down the centre with a sound like a whip, and then there's a horrible, sickening jolt and a pop.

"Shit!" Irene swears, swerving them to left and right and throwing her foot down on the pedal until the roar of the lorry drowns out her heavy breathing. Sherlock is sweating with anticipation and pain, but he doesn't need to look in his shattered side mirror to know they've lost one of the back tires; the way Irene is struggling to get the lorry back under control tells him that.

"Irene!" he calls, reaching over and touching her arm. Her nostrils are flared wide with concentration and… is that fear? He doesn't think he's ever seen her look scared before, really, truly scared. "They've got one of the tires." He gestures behind him. "You have to slow down, or we'll go over."

Irene nods and reduces the speed. "What now?"

"We can get out—"

"Not a chance."

"Or we can keep going."

Irene nods. "We can try."

Sherlock knows the amount of time they can keep it up without losing the wheel completely is limited, but they might as well get as far away as possible. He takes the time to find the gun hidden in his pocket – there hadn't been any point in using it before now – and checks it. A full chamber still isn't as much firepower as he might have wanted, but it'll have to do. He plans on them making it through the next few hours. They've both died too many times for it to happen to them today.

A car comes past them on Irene's side in a flash of black and silver. Sherlock, out of curiosity, turns his head to see who might be driving at this time of night, and his breath catches in his throat. "Stop!"

Irene's reactions are fast, he'll give her that and more; she slams on the breaks with less than a second's hesitation, and it saves one or both of their lives as the car shoots past and the bullet goes wild. But now they're trapped like worms in a tin; they'll never get the damaged lorry back up to full momentum. The car skids to a halt ahead of them, and begins to reverse.

"Out, get out!" Sherlock reaches for the passenger door handle and throws himself onto the road, stumbles, and falls to his knees. Irene makes her landing more smoothly and offers him a hand as they put the lorry between the car and themselves. Sherlock thinks there's still only one man. That's good. They can handle it, they can…

He presses the gun onto her; his trigger finger is useless and he doesn't trust himself to make a clean shot. "Take it." There's a screech as the car comes to a final halt. They have mere seconds, all of them dribbling through his damaged hands like sand and water. "Six bullets, that's all you've got. Don't waste them."

She looks up at him, then down at his hand, and nods. Her lips are pressed so tightly together they've almost vanished into her face.

There's a click as the man gets out of the door, and Irene throws herself around the side of the wheels and fires twice. Sherlock hears something shatter, and then he snatches a hand and drags her back behind the lorry. The man fires in retaliation, too late. The bullet thuds into the metal barrier at the side of the road with a sound like a gong being stuck.

Irene shakes her head. "I only got the windscreen, perhaps a wheel." Her hands are trembling. "We're not moving targets anymore, we're too easy to hit."

"We should split up," Sherlock replies, speaking faster than his thoughts are flowing. "He can't have many more shots left. We need to draw him out until he's got nothing."

He takes Irene by the arm and pushes her to the back of the lorry, and then presses himself to the passenger door, waiting until he sees her make her way to the end. He needs to create a distraction, give her a clear shot, and maybe use up one or two of the man's bullets at the same time. Hopefully not by having them put into him. He looks for a weapon, but has only the hamburger in the lorry cab and a few twigs scattered by the side of the road to choose from. He decides to go without.

He shifts to the right, edging sideways and allowing himself to be exposed for a second before dodging back behind the safety of the vehicle. Two more shots – neither from Irene – and then… silence.

There is nothing, nothing apart from the sound of his own breath and the running engine of the car, which hums and pulses like a cat. He can't see Irene – she must have taken up position completely at the lorry's rear – and he has the desperate, frantic urge to call out to her, to check neither of those last bullets had hit her. Sweat dribbles down his nose and chin as he bites his lip hard enough to break the skin. The urge to be sick or piss himself, or both at once, is overwhelming. Not that he'd admit it. Pride, damn pride. Even this close to death, he can never quite squash it.

Another shot. Sherlock jerks his head round, waiting for the thud of a body. There is one, and when he hears it, he breathes. It's not behind the lorry.

"It's alright, Sherlock. You can come out now."

Irene's voice is high and reedy, but he catches the tone, and rolls his eyes, half-laughing already out of sheer relief as Irene steps toward him, hand outstretched. The gun dangles between her fingers, limp and distasteful. She looks confident – she always does – but he can see her eyes are moist. He knows she's had people killed in the past, but doesn't know whether she's ever pulled the trigger herself. Most people, when they get desperate, will do it.

He knows that doesn't prepare you. Nothing can. But he is prepared and soon, he'll be running again. But not yet. Not just yet.

"Job done, with bullets to spare." She says it with far more confidence than she feels.

He takes the gun, she sees him pocketing it out of the corner of her eye. Both of them are breathing heavily, he's watching her, Irene's watching her hands. Killer's hands, with grazed palms she's only now aware of. Sherlock's staring, probably recalculating her in his head.

"Um..." Sherlock begins to say something but trails off just as quickly. She thinks he was probably going to say thank you, but he must have seen one of the muscles of her face twitch and decided against it. That was the right decision – if he'd have thanked her for this, she doesn't know if she'd have been able to stop herself hitting him. He doesn't say anything else.

"Yeah," she breathes. A lot's contained in that one word. More than two proud individuals such as themselves, each having saved the other once, would be willing to say aloud anyway.

They're still standing by their hastily acquired lorry in the middle of the road, the man she's just killed lying motionless on the tarmac. The thought that they should probably start running now vaguely enters her head. There's on a hint of light from the still-red streetlamps. Beyond those spotlights are shadows, places to hide.

The absurdity of the situation makes her laugh, but the sound is wet, and stops as soon as it starts. Tears haven't fallen yet, but they're frustratingly close. She wipes at her eyes anyway, annoyed with herself more than anything else.

Sherlock steps closer and she only now notices that his finger's bleeding around the splint and through the bandage. He takes her hand, squeezes it gently. That's his thank you, all she's willing to accept at this very moment. Irene's numb, barely feels it. But she notices when he lets go.

Sherlock offers her a little crooked smile. Irene swallows the lump in her throat, tries and doesn't quite manage to smile back.

In tandem their heads turn as a police siren wails in the distance. They exchange a glance between them, and she nods at his retreating back, waits until she can't see him anymore as he disappears between two buildings.

She sniffs, gathers herself, and runs in the opposite direction. She melts into the shadows like a hundred murderers before her have no doubt done.

Irene Adler? She's dead. Has been for a while now.

The End