Sherlock Holmes in a hospital bed looked unreal, so in the darkness of night, she reached out her fingers and touched the skin around his white bandage. He was real. And warm. He was alive, breathing, asleep, and probably high on morphine. Comforted by the quiet sound of beeping machines that monitored his heart rate, Irene Adler was finally able to set the small vase and red rose on the table at the foot of his bed.

Should she wake him? If she did, she knew she would have to answer for herself—her absence. Perhaps if she woke him, he would think it but a dream and forget her by morning. But no, the rose would give her away. He would know it was from her, so maybe she should leave, just turn around and go, before those piercing blue eyes could stab her in the heart.

One more touch; she'd never been good at denying herself anything. She hoped the drugs were strong in his system as she leaned over and kissed his forehead.

His voice rumbled beneath her: "I was wondering if you were going to cut and run."

She lingered with her mouth against his skin and then pulled back slowly. "So was I." Irene looked down at the man she loved and hadn't seen in over two years. He had aged some, filled out. Not so skinny anymore, and his features, more rugged. She knew she had changed, too.

"You didn't answer me." He sounded furious.

She stepped to the bottom of his hospital bed and smiled. "Did you ask a question?"

"When I came back to London, I sent for you. You didn't answer."

"No."

He tried to sit up, but his face melted into pained wrinkles.

She ran to him, her weakness showing. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back against the bed. "Don't," she said.

She watched him take a few deep breaths, his eyes closed.

"You look different," she whispered.

"I look different? You were blond last I saw you."

She nodded, remembering their time in California. He'd talked as if they had a future then. He'd talked about her coming to hide at Baker Street when he came back to life in London—talked as if they might end up happy. Together.

He looked up at her, and she withered under his gaze. "Why didn't you come back?"

"Who shot you?"

He chuckled, bit at his bottom lip. "Planning a vendetta?"

"Mr. Holmes—"

"Don't call me that."

Irene tried to hide behind her long hair, loose around her shoulders. Quietly, she asked again, "Who shot you?"

"No one." He continued to stare at her.

"You know who shot you."

He was silent.

"Sherlock—"

"Tell me why you didn't come back."

"For goodness sake." She spun away from him and looked toward the hollow, yellow light of the hospital hall. "I never should have come here."

"But you couldn't help it. Still playing a game, Ms. Adler?"

"What game?" She spun on him, and the back of her hands felt hot.

He wore an infuriating smirk. "See how badly you can hurt the great Sherlock Holmes. And I'm in a hospital bed. I imagine a new low for you."

She knew he was being petulant on purpose. He was being mean to make her react and to defend himself, surely, but the words still hurt. The way he'd left her last time, in San Fran—he'd been so tender, so loving, and so … vulnerable. She'd carried that softened image of him for two years, and she knew, he now did all he could to shatter the memory.

"I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I …" She couldn't face him. She still looked toward the hall, arms crossed on her chest. "I just needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I love you, and someone shot you."

"From what I understand of love … if you love me, you would have come back to me when I called."

She shook her head and glanced over her shoulder, knowing the full sight of him would be too much. All the things she'd missed—his hair, his face, his body, his mind—awaited her response. "So I could wait to be a widow?"

"I'm not dead."

"Yet." She approached his hospital bed, hugging herself. "How many times, Sherlock? How many times before you stop?"

A wrinkle appeared above his nose. "I don't understand."

"Almost dying is a yearly thing for you now."

"As if you can talk."

"Look at me." She pulled at the soft lapels of her navy blue suit. "Do I look the same to you? I'm done with the secrets, done with dangerous men. That's why I didn't come back. I'm not willing to watch you die."

"Please." He was disgusted. He looked away from her, so she held onto his chin and made him stare her straight in the face.

"Stop all this. Just stop. If you stop, I'll come back to you. We could disappear, never be seen again. We could grow old."

His brow furrowed. "You never wanted that."

"Not until I met you." She kissed him, and he instantly reacted to her mouth. She felt his hand on the back of her head, pushing her harder against him, and she captured his hair between her fingers. The feelings were all there—as she remembered, as she dreaded: the lust, the yearning, and the horrible, painful love. She felt herself drowning, and she pulled away.

He watched her take steps back, his lips parted and damp. "I can't. I can't stop yet. There's something I have to do."

She nodded. "The person who shot you."

"Yes."

"Then what?"

He looked away from her, and half his face was lost in the darkness. "I need time."

She felt so cold away from him, in the same room but not touching him—God, after so long. How many nights had she dreamt of him? How many nights spent screaming his name? Now, so close, she felt eons apart.

"Give me a month," he whispered.

"It'll be almost Christmas."

"Find me then."

Externally, she did not appear to be running, but inside, she sprinted away from him and the single rose on the hospital table. She looked back, once, haloed in the glowing hospital light, but his eyes were closed.