The walls of her new apartment were plain and thin, painted a greying olive-colour that Irene hated. It wasn't deep enough green to be regal and it wasn't grey enough to be simplistically complex like the colour white or black. The furniture was mostly cheap things she had managed to get at a blowout sale from some thrift-shop; the colours hardly complemented each other. On top of that, she missed her old wallpaper. Sometimes she told herself she despised her small, hardly extravagant New York apartment. And for the most part, she did. Officially, it was registered under the name Isabelle Algair, an American woman who spoke with a now flawless American accent- her alias, now that she was supposed to be dead. Again.

The Woman walked into her apartment at the end of the day. She worked as a waitress at a high-class restaurant and figured she much preferred being a dominatrix, but it would draw too much attention to do that. As she always did after work, Irene sat at her desk; made of actual wood, a find which she loved greatly, and flipped open her laptop to check the news in London. It's about 3am in London, Irene mused. As the homepage of the news site loaded, she remembered back to that night when she had sent her last text to Sherlock.

"When I say run; run!" He said that night. The detective- her savior- turned and swung, dispatching those who were about to kill her. After a moment of shock, Irene had leapt up from her kneeling position and had joined Sherlock, going to his side.

"Run!" He said, swinging the sword again. She nodded and ran. Her feet pounded on the dry ground as thoughts flew through her head. Mostly about Sherlock.

And everything else was made of memory clips- Sherlock and her huddled in hiding, his hand around her wrist, dragging her along as they ran for her life.

Sherlock had gained quite a bit of popularity in the last month, Reichenbach Hero they called him. That and Boffin Holmes. But Irene much preferred The Reichenbach Hero. She smiled to herself. The page continued to load and Irene got up to make tea. It was rare that she could get a good cup of tea anywhere except when she made it herself. Americans and their tisanes.

"That's it then?" Irene asked, standing at the doorway of her apartment for the first time as Sherlock walked out. She was dressed in a loose fitting sweater and skirt that she had bought to fit in. They had gotten there and Sherlock had taken her to the apartment, lead her to the empty room with grey-olive walls, given her the ownership papers and keys, and then had just walked- all without saying a word to her since "run".

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked turning, his face was emotionless as he had been when he walked out on her after unlocking her phone.

"You saved me. Now you're just going to-" She looked around in disgust at the unfurnished room around her "-Dump me here?"

"Do you want me to do more?" Sherlock asked, and she wasn't sure if he was being sincere or not.

"No." She said, searching his face, "No. I don't expect you to."

"Good." The detective said, raising his eyebrows. He turned and started to leave again.

"Wait." She said, "Thank you."

He nodded, "Miss Adler,"

"Irene, please." She said. She saw the way he looked at her; calculating. She felt exposed when she was with him. He knew her heart. Sherlocked.

"Irene." He said, and left.

She came back to her computer holding a mug of tea and almost dropped it at the headline that had loaded in her absence.

SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS

Bolded black letters announced the latest scoop. She rushed to sit down, setting her mug on the table beside her. She scrolled down to read the article.

'Early this morning the acclaimed detective Sherlock Holmes threw himself off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital after it was discovered that all of his famous crimes had been faked and set up by the fraud himself. One of the witnesses at the scene was his flatmate and rumored lover Dr. John Watson who refused to comment. It is not yet confirmed if the doctor was part of the crime scheme but there is evidence to support that Watson had also been fooled by Holmes' trick.'

The rest of the article became a blur. Dead. Sherlock Holmes was dead. She sat back in her chair and let the knowledge sink in. Fake Genius. It had said. No, he wasn't a fake. That tall man with dark curly hair and scrutinizing icy grey eyes. And those cheekbones. But most attracting was his intellect. His real, truly amazing intellect. Brainy's the new sexy. She had said.

She knew him. Well, not as well as some, but she knew he wasn't the type to just throw his life away. Not without reason and certainly not this reason. Not this stupid reason that the news was reporting.

It came to her suddenly: Jim. Jim Moriarty. And it was obviously what had happened. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Well he had.

Irene sighed and closed her laptop. Just like that. One moment, she was sure he was alive- the next, he was dead. And the part that made her the most upset was that she didn't even care as much as she felt she should. He was gone and that was that. She picked up her phone and typed out what she told herself would be the last text she would ever send to this number, she kept the tone of it light, trying to pretend to herself that it was just another text he would see but would decide to ignore;

Jim caused you some trouble didn't he?

She typed and she sent. Irene Adler didn't know that in the same instant;

John Watson was silently wishing for the sound of Sherlock's violin as the silence of the flat deafened him to near insanity,

And

Sherlock Holmes was sitting against a cold brick wall wishing for his violin when he got a text – which he saw but decided to ignore.