I had been dead two and a half years. I had been dead two and a half years. The world is a funny place, when you're dead. Everything seems to be an act of rebellion. You've cheated the almighty death. Good for you, Irene. I would tell myself that in the beginning. As the months dragged on though, I grew bored. My entire life I was used to being careful, but this was a different style of careful, a different definition all together. If anyone found out I was alive, then they would end me. No more pretending to be dead.

Sherlock was one of the two people that knew. There was another detective. I know what he likes. He's a friend of Sherlock's actually - Greg Lestrade. We met in a café in Piccadilly Circus one day. He bought me a coffee, I bought him a donut.

Growing bored made me realize that I missed him - Sherlock that is. The man saved my life, and I was never able to repay the favor. And, if I remember correctly, we did have a special something.

"Willa," I paged the new assistant. Losing Kate was a blow, but there was nothing I could do about it. Those Americans - and I had chosen them as my cover!

"Yes, Irene? What is it?"

"I'm going to visit an old friend. Call a cab for me, would you love?"

"Of course, Miss Adler. What will you be wearing? The battle dress?"

I contemplated that for a moment. Should I surprise Sherlock with the very dress we had first met in? It might be a bit much for John.

"No, I better not. He's not necessarily that kind of friend dear."

I heard her click off. She knew me so well, this one. She and I had actually become friends. She came to me one day, dripping wet, mascara streaming down her face. She had no clue who I was or what I did at that point. She accepted me, no judgment. But she was an assistant. And she did her job well. I knew exactly what dress she had chosen.

That afternoon, it was a lovely June day in London, rainy of course, just how I liked it. I missed this place. Germany was a bit too sunny for my liking. The cabbie left me around the corner from Baker Street. I needed a moment to prepare. Truth is, I told myself I never loved Sherlock Holmes. Oh, no I would never admit it - not even to myself. I always said it was lust. He was intrigued by feelings that he had tagged as unimportant and unnecessary, feelings that were a detriment. And to me, well that mind of his, it was magnificent. But I learned that day that I did love him, I wanted him to be mine, and that I needed him.

But that day was also the day I learned I could not have him.

My infamous blood-red lipstick coated my lips like a new fallen snow, a shade that exactly matched the dress I wore. I closed my eyes, slowing taking deep breaths. Irene you need to pull yourself together. He is a man. You are the expert on men.

I marched myself up to the stoop of 221 B. The door seemed slightly faded, the shiny brass had lost its sparkle. I knocked. The paint was peeling. No one answered. I assumed they were out on a case. Sherlock never did like to sit at home. Life bored him.

I turned away from the door. At that moment, I heard a set of footsteps slowly trotting down the stairs within. I quickly whipped around (I even chuckled as I did it - whipping….) and pulled out my phone. It was not the same one as Sherlock remembered. He had kept that one. But I was also positive that he knew exactly what my new phone looked like, it was his after all.

An older woman opened the door. She stared at me. Her face lit up like a child at Christmas. She beckoned me in, asking me to wait at the bottom of the stairs. She scurried up the stairs. I heard her faint voice whisper, "John, there's a lady here. For you! And my, this one is a pretty one!" John mumbled an unidentifiable response.

The woman yelled down to me, "What's your name, deary?"

I had thought this out before I left. John would think he had gone bonkers if he heard I was back.

"Erin Relda, ma'am." I thought it clever. Sherlock would have understood the moment he heard the name - Adler backwards.

John mumbled again. The woman came back down the stairs and gestured for me to go up. She was excited, though I could not fathom why. I climbed the stairs, quite eager actually. I was to see Sherlock again. And this time I was being invited into his flat, not just sneaking in.

John looked scruffy, even from behind. He was sitting in the chair facing the window. He looked to be wearing Sherlock's blue robe.

"Hello, John. Miss me?" I gave him my most dashing smile. He turned around, and looked me up and down, to see if I was real and to see if I was dressed a bit differently than the first time we had met.

"Ire…Irene? Adler? But - no but you're dead!" He rubbed his eyes and forehead, patting down his hair. "Dead, yes." He repeated it, almost as if to convince himself of the truth.

I laughed. "It must be so boring not being me!" At that, his face grew pale and tears filled his eyes. He began to stammer random gibberish.

"Sher-build-hit-blood-fake-papers-Moriarty….." He went on and on for at least a minute, rattling of random words. "Trial-Bailey-jewels-bank-prison-Kitty….." Finally he screamed.

"LIAR!" His head fell. I heard the woman running up the stairs. John shooed her away.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I am fine. Honestly. Why don't you go out and fetch some milk. Yes, we need milk and some biscuits as well. Thank you Mrs. Hudson." The woman scurried away, her hand to her face, shaking her head.

John motioned for me to sit across from him. I got a good look at him for the first time since I had been at the flat. He looked tired, older, like he had a pestilence he could not rid from his being. He looked at me with sad eyes. There was a gun on the table, the handle pointed towards him, as if to be ready to be picked up and fired at a moment's notice. It was unclear to me who would be the recipient of a bullet.

"John. What is going on?" I leaned closer to him, drawing him in. No one could resist me. Not even the stoic John Watson. I looked into his eyes, unblinking. I knew that he saw a ruthlessness, an unwillingness to give in. He refused to smile. I stood and walked towards him, sitting myself on the arm of his chair. I stroked his cheek.

"Come along, John. Tell Miss Adler everything," I whispered in his ear. He swatted my hand away. I was taken aback. Something was seriously wrong here. I looked around. My memory was imperfect, yet I remembered there being science equipment in the kitchen, unidentifiable smells wafting in. The golden smile on the wall had been covered over with a new layer of wallpaper. The door to Sherlock's room was closed. The skull on the mantle had collected a thick layer of dust. Something was amiss.

I stood now, running my fingernail down his face once more.

"I'm waiting, Dr. Watson." John sighed. He motioned for me to be seated across from him once more. He stood and went in the direction of the bedroom. I looked around the apartment. The desk was cleared off, with just John's laptop there, open. I looked over to the screen. I won't deny that I used to be an avid reader of his blog, but something was strange. There had not been a post for just under two years. Why had John not been posting? Surely there had had to been cases? Sherlock would go mad if there were none.

He returned twenty minutes later, clean shaven, wearing his usual jumper, still wrapped in Sherlock's robe. He sat and was quiet. For another ten minutes we sat in utter silence, staring at each other, attempting to read the mind of the other.

"You know, Dr. Watson, this has been such fun, catching up and all." I stood to leave. As a walked passed him, he grabbed my wrist. I pulled away quickly, fearful that he would take my pulse. But that was the past, and that was not the nature of John Watson.

"Please," he whispered. "Stay with me. I promise I will speak. Just one minute more."

Rolling my eyes, I reseated myself. I knew how to play the game. I had only lost once, remember? I was the champion, and I could surely break John Watson, of all people.

"John, where is Sherlock?" I implored. I had been here at least an hour, and he was no where to be seen. John sighed once more and looked up at me with sad eyes.

"Six months after you supposedly died, which I assume now that he had something to do with it or you would not be here, Moriarty attempted to break into the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, and attempted to steal the Crown Jewels. He was acquitted, and he came after Sherlock. He sat right where you are sitting now." He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to flinch. I wanted to evacuate my seat, but I remained stoic. John Watson would not win.

He shook his head and continued.

"Moriarty made it his mission to convince everyone that Sherlock was a fake. His poisonous lies infected first Donovan and Anderson down at Scotland Yard. Then Lestrade, the DI. Sherlock became a fugitive. Moriarty made up the story that he was an actor, Rich Brook, hired by Sherlock to play Moriarty. But it was a lie, I know it was." He paused again, his breath short and heavy.

"One day I received a call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. I rushed here, leaving Sherlock at St. Bart's. When I arrived at Baker Street, she was fine. I returned to St. Bart's. Just then, Sherlock called me. He was crying, Irene. Sherlock Holmes was crying, telling me that it was all true, that he was a fake. He told me that the phone call was his note. That's what people do - leave a note. I watched him jump. I took his pulse. My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead, Miss Adler. Dead, as I thought you were.

"I couldn't come back here, I didn't, up until about three months ago. I sit here, alone, wondering why. Why couldn't I stop it? Why did he do it? Why is he not here? He did not tell me a lie, Irene, I am sure of it. Make what you want of it. Now go, for God sakes. Just please, go." He began to sob silently, his body convulsing quite a bit. I walked out of 221B Baker Street shaking.

John Watson had won this game. He was ready at any moment to be the recipient of that bullet. My pulse was quick, my pupils dilated. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

I had always been careful not to develop sentiment when dealing with clients. Sherlock had somehow slipped through that gap. Surely, he was never a client. It was beneath him, what I did. Or perhaps it was above him - Jim Moriarty always did kid around about that. But all of that was besides the point, and I found myself realizing that as I aimlessly stumbled through the streets of London.

When someone you care for passes on, the sky always seems to seem a tad gloomier. When in London, gloom is the norm. So to me, the sky seemed brighter. I detested it. How could nature dare to smile, when he-. It wasn't my place. John deserved to hate the world, I didn't. I knew him for only a few months. Then again, John only had as well. He had saved John's life. Then again, he had saved mine. I noticed the taste of salt in my mouth, the wetness of my cheeks, the cloudiness of my eyes, all of it - when I caught a glimpse of the white stucco of my old flat in Belgravia.

The door handle was cold - no one had dared lay a hand on it in ages. The last time I had even dared to step foot in this place, he had been here. The safe still stood wide open, full of cobwebs. As I approached it, I stole a glance at myself: the mascara had spread about my whole face. I envisioned Sherlock hitting the ground, the blood spattered about his own face. I spread the black, runny mess across my cheeks.

"Now I look like you did, Sher-" I dared not speak his name. It was like something out of a horror story, a worst nightmare. For the third time in my life I felt vulnerable. The funny thing always seems to be, every time he was the one who made me feel that way. Whenever I was with a client, my battle dress on, I felt most comfortable, secure - despite the fact that I was… defrocked.

"I don't suppose that was much different. You weren't still keeping an eye on me then were you? Just the coloring is a bit off. The lipstick would have been a better choice."

It couldn't be: the snide comment issued with complete neglect for the person it was intended for, the deep, suave voice. This had to be my mind, my innocent, convoluted mind playing a trick on me. I raised my eyes to the mirror once more. There he was, standing there, smirking at me, his cheekbones raised slightly.

I do not understand how it happened. I entered a fit of rage. How dare my mind deceive me. Sherlock was indeed the one who warned me not to let my heart rule my head, that sentiment was a chemical defect. My hand was bleeding. The mirror was on the floor. I fell into his arms.

When I awoke I just stared at him. He looked different. His hair was cut a tad shorter. He no longer wore his usual coat or scarf.

"I see that your interest in thinking has worn off Miss Adler. I believed you would assume that John was permitted to keep my coat afterwards."

At first I laughed. Then I began to scream. I threw obscenities at him.

"HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME? TO GREG? TO JOHN?" I looked around the room frantically, searching for something to hit him with. The riding crop, though stiff, perched on the vanity. Perfect. Three hard slaps to the face, just like the first day we met. He said nothing still.

"Do you know that Greg is on the verge of suicide? He feels guilty for missing you, for feeling depressed that you are no longer here. He thinks John only has that right. He was demoted, Sherlock. So were Sally and Anderson. Did you know that Greg sleeps in his office, drunk every night? His wife divorced him, because of you. She couldn't handle the depression and the obsession. She took his kids and went to Scotland."

His eyes widened a bit. God knows where he has been for two years, and I did not care at that moment.

"And John. Sherlock I saw John yesterday. There is a gun ready on the table. He's been waiting for the right day to join you. You need to tell him you are alive." I shook my head, seating myself on the bed. I knew he couldn't. There was obviously a reason why he had chosen to fake his suicide in the first place. I just did not want to involve myself with whatever it turned out to be.

"Irene. I know more than you think. Every other day, I watch John walk from the tube to the grocer's to pick up some milk for himself. He never can reach the top shelf." I stared at him, mouth agape, dumbfounded. I picked up my phone.

Tomorrow. Go to him. Get him the milk.

I heard my own moan accompanied by a vibrate. Sherlock reached into his pocked, cocked a smile in my direction and began to type.

That decision was made the moment you

walked through the door.

-SH

Three o'clock the next day, Sherlock stood guarded by a stack of bread in the grocer's. John walked in at three-o-six. He held his head high, leaning on his cane as he trudged to the milk aisle.

He looked down, sighing to himself. Putting all of his weight on the cane, he began to reach to the top shelf for the milk. Sherlock stepped out from behind the bread. He was wearing the same clothing as the other employees. I giggled as I watched. He always said the art of a disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.

"Excuse me sir. Can I help you fetch that?"

John was silent as he looked up into Sherlock's face. He recognized him almost immediately. Those cheekbones were ones you could never forget. Sherlock, in return, silently grabbed the milk. Nodding a smile to John he began to walk away.

John grabbed his wrist. I was close enough to see: both of their pupils were dilated.

Three weeks later, John and I stood side by side at Greg's funeral. After the incident at the grocer's, John had taken it as a sign that Sherlock wanted him to move on. Greg saw it as the opportunity to have the right to feel bad for himself. Having John seem to be happy again was the last straw.

John was the one who had found him. Greg knew about the gun that John kept in the apartment. One bullet was all that was loaded. And that was all he needed.

John and I walked out together, arm in arm. There was a man in the back, wearing a pair of sunglasses quite similar to the ones Greg had owned. He was quite tall, with dark and curly hair, a slight figure. He bumped into John on the way out.

"Well excuse me, Dr. Watson. I must not have seen you there." The voice was unmistakable.

"Ah, yes well that's quite alright. I'm sorry - do I know you?" It took all the will power I had not to let out a chuckle.

"I believe we met once or twice." Sherlock chuckled to himself and walked out. At that moment, John's phone went off.

I'm not dead let's have dinner.

-SH

John ran from the church, catching up to the man in the sunglasses.

All I could hear was John calling Sherlock a "bloody git." I watched John punch Sherlock in the face, hard. It was clean and quick. He avoided the cheekbones. And then I saw something extraordinary. John grabbed Sherlock's glasses, threw them on the ground, and did what I was always hoping he would do.

The army doctor kissed the consulting detective.