Sherlock jolted awake and sat straight up in bed. He sensed something. Something in the flat that wasn't normal. He turned his head to look at the door and began listing in his head what it could be. It didn't take him more than 8 seconds to remember the events of last night and the early morning. He sighed quietly as he mentally kicked himself for not remembering this right away. His brain was becoming slower, it seemed. He blamed the woman.
Last night a woman had been in danger. She had begged for a man's help. "I was just playing the game." A man she trusted and she didn't even know why. In her line of work she had been used to dealing with all sorts of men (and the occasional woman, for that matter), why was it that this man was the only one that she could not fully understand. The only one where she didn't know "what he liked". Last night that man had known where she was, and the imminent danger she was in. Thinking she would never see him again, she told him goodbye. Yet, here she was in his flat. Sitting on his couch, while a Dr. John Watson made the two of them tea. A violin was resting on a pile of books and papers to her right, the bow lying adjacent. She hadn't known he played the violin; and of course, she knew it wasn't the army doctor's instrument.
She sat there, observing the room like she hadn't before. Her hair was down lay gently down her back and shoulders. They way she always put it up, one would had never guessed it to be so long. She had no make-up on, but her skin was still flawless; no lipstick and her lips were still rich and dramatic. She had on an overly simple, black, long-sleeve T and loose black pants and around her arms and shoulders was a fainted, blue robe. Sherlock's robe. She had been cold when they returned to the flat at 3 in the morning, her clothes having been thin. The only thing he could think to give her was his robe, the one her wore every morning and every night. She had put it on, remembering the last time she had worn it.
John brought the tea over on a tray to the chairs by the fireplace. "uhm, would you mind coming to sit over here instead? Its an awful mess over there, what with all Sherlock's books ad things."
"Yes, its not very 'neat' around here, is it?"
"Not exactly."
Irene sat down in the chair opposite from John. Sherlock's chair. He handed her the tea and added a sugar to her request. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before John stopped looking at her quizzically and asked his question. "So", he began. "You're not dead."
"Not quite."
"What exactly happened, again? Because when Sherlock came home last night and burst into my room saying we had a guest. I wasn't quite sure what was happening. Especially when he said it was a woman."
Irene took another sip of her tea before saying, "Is that what he told you when we came back?" John looked at her with another slightly confused look, wondering what question he had asked to get that irrelevant response. "uh, yea." He replied. She nodded her head.
"As I recall, I told John that our guest wasn't a woman. It was the woman." Sherlock stepped into the living room taking them by surprise and advanced toward where Irene was sitting. She looked up at him and gave a slight smile. He bent down to face her at eye level, placing both hands on each arm rest. "Miss Adler," he began quietly in his low-tone of voice. "You're in my chair."