'I know you're alive. Let's have dinner -IA'

'Pass. -SH'

'I want my camera-phone back. -IA'

'Of course. -SH'

'Let's have dinner. -IA'

'Thirty minutes, you know where to meet me. -SH'

'Of course. -IA'

For the clock had just struck 12:00a.m. and the full moon cast eery silhouettes and shadows across London's terrain. Two mastermind manipulators planning to meet on agreeable terms to exchange an item that was really of no use anymore. Despite the camera-phone being wiped of all its data, Irene still wanted it; a matter of sentiment, of course.

Irene Adler stood strong and powerful at the headstone of Sherlock Holmes' grave. She was in a sleek, form-fitting black dress and a matching ebony jacket; with gray faux fox fur lining its hood. Under the moonlight she was devilishly gorgeous. Irene naturally drew people to her presence, like light to a moth; people were attracted to her confidence and her daring persona. The dim luminance of the moon was only slightly shrouded by a few sparse clouds that were worn thin, and the stars were not out to play for the night either. A soft cool breeze blew and she felt the presence of another being. The woman turned to see an approaching figure of a tall man in a trenchcoat.

"It's about time, Mr. Holmes. I thought you planned on leaving me here all alone." Irene put false hurt into her tone, but you could tell she was merely uncaring about that.

"Four clues and only one guess." Sherlock stated in his smooth baritone voice. He had a certain monotone way of forming words, they drawled out and bounced off his tongue with such ease; going at a very fast speed when he was making deductions. Irene stepped forward, raising an eyebrow; and waiting for those four clues. "First clue: Tell me something you know about me."

Irene brought herself to the full height of 5'9, as she was wearing her 6 inch Louboutin heels on this night. She brought her head up, the darkness making everything so contrasted; near black and white. Her lips, eyelashes, hair, and clothing were dark while her eyes and skin were of light. "You're a consulting detective, you label yourself as a high-functioning sociopath; but we both know that's not quite true.." She began, then stopped to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"You can do better than that and you know it." He smirked smugly, trying his best to intimidate her without causing her to lash out in any way. He knew that she wouldn't hesitate to drug him and have him awaken strapped to a bed while she got a riding crop to beat him with. Sherlock nearly grimaced at the idea of being in a vulnerable position as such explained within the blackest corners of his massive mind. "Your friend is John Watson, you faked a suicide out of sentiment to save three important people, you consider yourself above human emotions, yet.. Yet you saved my life, as well." She saw the smallest curl of his lips as he replied calmly with "An eye for an eye."

She then brought up another subject, wanting to get her beloved detective to speak. "I saw John at the top of St. Bart's Hospital not too long ago, he was really going to jump. How sad, he was such an amiable follower of yours. Without you, he's really gone downhill. So I assume that means you haven't told him that you're alive?" Sherlock scowled at her, also at the thought of John killing himself. Of course he knew the man was depressed now, he'd seen him recently; Somewhat overgrown hair, shaggy appearance, messy clothing, circles under his eyes, recently lost about 15 pounds or so. Sherlock heaved a sigh and nodded "It's too soon."

"Next clue." Irene chirped, beginning to circle around him like a tiger going in for the kill. Hunting her prey. She was pure poison, absolutely venomous to Sherlock; like another drug for him to get hooked on. Everything about her just tested his resilience to temptations, and although he kept his composure around her; she knew that internally he must be longing.

"One word; Desire." Sherlock mused, putting his hands behind his back and watching her go around him; keeping a stoic posture and his eyes fixated on her. Irene circled in on him, nearly brushing against him as she cooed into his ear. "Desire?" She inquired, voice airy and gentle.

"He misses you, Sherlock. I wouldn't wait too long to return home. For all you know, he might not hesitate and your brother may not stop him next time." She bounced back to the subject of John Watson. Sherlock shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. "He wouldn't, it's an initial reaction to loneliness. He'll get over it." But you could tell that the man really did care, by the way his eyes shifted to the ground and filled with an expression of sorrowful woe. It was almost as if Sherlock was saying that to convince himself that John would be fine without him. As if the man didn't actually care for him to the extent he did; Sherlock had been his best friend. He'd gone into a trance of thoughts and then he felt her breathing near his neck. "What's the next clue?"

"The moonlight shines down on the item you desire the most."

Irene raised her eyebrows and returned to her initial stance in front of him, right on top of the buried casket of 'Sherlock Holmes.' She thought; What did she desire the most? Of course, she yearned for her power, and her control, and her protection. Then her brilliantly colored eyes traced the moon, and to where it shone. "It shines only on you and I. That means either I have it or you do." She began to amble around him again, her hips brushing against him as she got closer. Like a predator ready to pounce, she went in for the kill. "You're so predictable, Mr. Holmes." She grinned, a bit sinister. "I know where it is."

"Where?"

She whirled around and pressed her body against his chest. "What do I know about you? Key word; Desire. The moonlight shines on what I want the most." She repeated his clues back at him.

"You're forgetting the final clue." Sherlock growled, in an animalistic fashion.

"And what would that be?"
There was a pause before Sherlock spoke, and he subconsciously stepped back from her; being awkward with such levels of intimacy. "It's something you've stolen." He wryly said in a hushed tone. Then all the clues began to click as Irene stepped forward once more. Her nimble fingers traced across his chest and she purred into his ear "I know."

She slid her slender hand into his trenchcoat and into the pocket of his white button-down shirt; The pocket on the left. She felt her skin brush against a familiar mass, and pulled her camera-phone out coolly and sliding it into her own coat pocket.

"Your heart."