It had been a week since she had seen the first newspaper with the story Sherlock's suicide on the front page. She had been walking back to her flat after popping out to get a quick lunch before she met with an old friend who just happened to be a government official. She had been living in New York City for eight and a half months and had come back to London for a visit. She was supposed to be dead and in hiding, but she could never stay away from London for long and she had every intention of returning soon. That's what the visit to London and her lunch with the government official was all about. And it wasn't as if the British government would want to try to take her down again. After the incident with the jet, they had finally realized it was better to let The Woman have what she wanted.
Irene could remember the day that she found out about Sherlock's death perfectly. A few blocks from where she was staying, a newspaper stand with a crowd of people buzzing around it. Irene caught a glimpse of the front page and saw the detective's name. A smirk danced across her lips as she pondered what he could have done this time to make headlines that attracted crowds. Intrigued and curious, Irene pushed her way through the crowd to buy a copy for herself and add it to the stack of others that Sherlock had appeared in. It was her only way of keeping tabs on him without raising the suspicion of the very bitter Mycroft Holmes. But when she broke through to the front of the crowd, she regretted being so curious. Everywhere she looked, she was bombarded with pictures of Sherlock in his funny hat beneath headlines proclaiming him fake and dead by his own hand. The crushing blow of his death was only amplified by the whispers of those around her.
"I knew he had to be a fraud," one man said disparagingly. Irene wished the man knew how lucky he was that he hadn't crossed her path while she was wielding her riding crop.
"He had to be a nutter to believe that someone like that Moriarty man could really exist," a woman behind Irene said. Irene wasn't sure if she should slap her across the mouth for being so naïve and believing crime could ever occur without someone orchestrating it or laugh and tell her just how real Moriarty is and that in a past life, Moriarty was one of her customers and eventually her lover. Or as close to a lover as Moriarty could get. Irene wanted to show her the scars on her shoulder from when he sank his teeth in to her the first time they had sex and tell her all about how he helped her almost topple the British government. Of course he was real. He was everyone's worst nightmare personified in to the darkest man London will ever know. How could anyone even question his existence? But no matter how many people she could make believe the truth would be enough to bring Sherlock back to life.
Irene quickly paid for a newspaper and bolted from the stand, tucking the paper in to her purse as she hurried away. She walked back to her flat as fast as she could without making it obvious that beneath her stone exterior, everything inside her was breaking. When she arrived, she headed straight to her bedroom with the newspaper in hand. She barely had the door shut before her eyes devoured the cover story about Sherlock. The more she read, the more her once indestructible heart cracked and crumbled as she read about Moriarty successfully turning everyone against Sherlock while disguising himself as a man called Richard Brook and now both of them were laying dead on a slab in a morgue somewhere. One one of the inside pages where the story continued, the publishers had included a picture of Sherlock laying dead on the sidewalk where he had landed after jumping from St. Bart's roof. At the sight of his his body lying limp and broken with his dark curls soaked in blood, Irene lost any composure she had managed to keep. As the tears began to fall, Irene squeezed her eyes shut and let the newspaper fall to the floor.

Suddenly everything about Moriarty made perfect sense to Irene. He didn't involve her in his plan to destroy the Holmes brothers because he trusted her or needed her. He wasn't her lover because he wanted her. He knew that if anyone could get to Sherlock Holmes, it was The Woman. Irene was his way of seeing just how vulnerable Sherlock was, despite his apathetic appearance. And she had done exactly what he sought out for her to do without ever knowing. Irene was Sherlock's one and only distraction and the target on the weakest part of his armor, just like he had been for her. And that had lead both of them to their death.
But when Irene had a sword at the back of her head, it was luckily Sherlock holding it there before burying it in the abdomen of the executioner he was disguised as. After he saved her, they ran as fast as they could to his Jeep and drove from Karachi to a tiny airport a few hours away. Nothing was said to each other as they drove or as they boarded the plane that took them to Paris. As they rode in the back of a cab together to a hotel that Sherlock could only have afforded by using Mycroft's name, Irene understood why he wasn't taking her home; why he couldn't. He wasn't going to save her without tearing her down, too. Even though he saved Irene Adler, he made sure that The Woman had met her untimely demise. He had made sure to beat her in a way that could never be avenged. The Woman was no match for Sherlock Holmes after all.
At the hotel, Irene showered while Sherlock smoked on the balcony. She guessed that he was on his third cigarette by the time she finished and sat at the end of the bed in only a dressing gown to watch him blow smoke rings in to the night sky. It was so strange to see him in a pair of dark jeans and a plain t-shirt instead of a suit and she couldn't take her eyes off him. She knew that he felt her gaze trail along his body and she knew that he would ignore her until he decided he wanted to talk. He looked so young, After ten minutes and one final deep inhale of smoke, he dropped what was left of the cigarette and put it out with the toe of his shoe then made his way over to her.
"Do you remember when you asked me if this was the end of the world, the very last night, would I have dinner with you?" he asked quietly. His voice was softer than she had ever heard it and it sent a cold chill rippling through her.
She hesitated for a moment but with a small grin she answered, "yes."

"Yes," he said and stepped closer to her. Irene furrowed her brow and tried to make sense of what he said. Then it hit her; that was his answer to the question Mrs. Hudson interrupted that night. And it was his way of telling her goodbye. These were their last moments on their last night together before he went home to his life and she went where ever she decided to start again.
Irene cocked her eyebrow and let a smile spread across her face. "Then let's have dinner, Sherlock," she said smoothly. Sherlock smirked, then his lips where on hers and his hands held her face as her hands ran through his curls. Scraps of clothing fell to the floor until they were completely intertwined, skin to skin. When they were finished, they climbed under the covers and held on to each other to prepare for the end of the world.
When she woke up the next morning, Sherlock had already gone and Irene wasn't surprised. She knew that the idea of waking up and seeing him still sleeping peacefully beside him was a fairytale. He probably waited until she fell asleep before quietly slipping out of bed and gathering his things so he could return home to John. She reminded herself that she got what she wanted, that she had him for one night, and forced herself out of bed. But she would be lying if she said she wasn't disappointed that he had left before she could tell him that she wanted to start over with him, that she was tired of playing games. Irene picked her dressing gown up from where it was tossed the night before and wrapped it around herself then walked in to the bathroom. On the counter next to the sink was a neatly folded pile of clothes and a small stack of cash under a piece of folded hotel stationary. The piece of folded paper was a letter from Sherlock explaining that the clothes where from her flat in London, the money was to help get her by, and that she had the hotel room for a week to give her some time to find somewhere to go. He concluded it simply with Goodbye, Irene. -SH.

"At least we're finally on first name terms," Irene chuckled to herself halfheartedly and tucked his note in to the pocket of her dressing gown. Her more credulous side remained hopeful that this wouldn't be the last she saw of Sherlock. She would just lay low for a while then come back to London and start over with him when she could. But that side of her was wrong. Almost nine months after the end of the world, she would see the headlines, buy a newspaper with a picture of his dead body inside, race back to her flat to read it, and shatter. She would feel guilty, convincing herself that if she had come back sooner he would still be alive. He saved her, so she could have saved him, she told herself. And she would cry until it was impossible to. Then in the middle of the night she would take a cab to his flat and break in so she could sleep in his bed, wrapped up in his silk dressing gown, saying the same prayer that John Watson was in the next room; Please don't be dead, Sherlock.

It had been a week after the headlines and the spent night in Sherlock's room, and now Irene stood dressed head to toe in black at Sherlock's grave as the sun set. Tears slid silently down her cheeks but her expression remained blank and she held her head high. Irene Adler was the living, breathing definition of stoic in every way you could imagine. She had planned to come and tell him goodbye but she couldn't form any kind of rational way to do so. Nothing she could say would come close to the goodbye they shared in Paris. Nothing she could say could erase his name of the headstone in front of her or exhume his body from beneath her. So instead, she thought about all of that; night in Paris, her time in America without him, the day she found out. When her tears had run themselves dry, she laid the flowers she brought for him down in front of his headstone and left.
When she returned to her apartment, she traded her black dress for the red silk dressing gown she swiped from Sherlock's flat and sat in her kitchen with a glass of wine and the day's newspaper. Inside was a small story about Sherlock's burial, still referring to him as 'fake genius'. With the words hitting a sore spot, she folded the paper back up, stood with her glass of wine in hand and tossed the paper in to the bin. She drank the rest of the wine in her glass then went over to her wine cabinet to refill it. As she poured she heard her phone beep, signaling that she had received a text. Her watch told her it was too late in the evening for business calls, but then again her clientele did sometimes forget that she was at least five hours ahead of them. She sighed and picked up her her phone, punching in the passcode in to her phone quickly and checking the messages. When she read the message she just received, she couldn't believe her eyes.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.
SH

Irene's jaw dropped and for a moment, everything around her came to a sudden halt. She couldn't breath, she couldn't speak, she couldn't look away from the screen of her phone. A part of her wanted so badly for it to be a mistake or a cruel joke. She had already mourned for him and her mind had filed him away as loved, lost and never to return. It would just be easier for him to be dead. She would go back to New York and resume business as usual as if she had decided not to move back to London after all and her life would go on. But nothing with Sherlock was ever simple or easy. She knew the text was from him and that somewhere, he was alive. What she didn't know was how she was supposed to respond to his text or what this meant for her; for them. Did he come to find her and she whisked him off to America with her so they could live happily ever after? Of course not. You are not in a fairytale, Irene's mind told her, and he is nowhere near Prince Charming.

If he was coming to find her, it would be to collect on his debt. She had told Moriarty all about Sherlock so that he could destroy the detective without a hitch. Now it was time for her to reveal all that she knew about the consulting criminal so that Sherlock could return the favor. She wasn't sure if that meant Moriarty was still alive too or if Sherlock was just cleaning up the mess he had made, but she had a feeling she would find out soon enough. She set her phone back down on the table and put her face in her hands.

"So much for having a holiday," Irene said to herself in frustration.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," someone said said from behind her.

Irene lifted her head slowly but didn't turn to look behind her. What would be the point? She knew exactly who's voice it was and she wasn't sure if the smirk that was undoubtably would be tugging at one corner of his mouth would make her want to kiss him or slap him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said smoothly. Without saying anything he crossed the distance between them until he was directly behind her and bent down to kiss where her neck and shoulder connected. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked him as she lifted her hand and tangled her fingers in his hair. She could feel him smirking again against her neck before kissing his way up to her jaw.

"I heard you were back in town," Sherlock whispered.

"And I heard you were dead," Irene echoed.

He chuckled and wrapped his hands around her hips. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear," he told her and spun her around. He stood in front of her as statuesque as always, dressed in one of his perfectly tailored suits. He tilted his head as he looked her up and down and raised his eyebrows. "Is that my dressing gown?" He asked, running his hands up her arms.

"You didn't need it. You were dead," she reminded him, pulling him closer to her by the lapels of his jacket.

"I would ask you how you got it since I left it in my flat but I know you're no stranger to breaking in," he said. She winked at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "How's John?" he asked solemnly.

"You mean he doesn't know?" Irene asked. She had assumed John knew and had been holding Sherlock in a cupboard somewhere to keep him safe while he played dead. John had always known everything about him and his insane schemes and she knew that John was one of the few people he trusted and one of the fewer that could keep a secret like this. Maybe she wasn't the only weak spot in his armor.

"No," Sherlock answered and swallowed hard. "He doesn't."

"Someone has to be tucking you away somewhere," Irene said. She knew it was almost impossible to hide yourself away when you have no one to help. Luckily she had Kate when she took off and started a whole new life. So Sherlock had to have someone too.

"A friend of mine from Bart's," he told her. "Molly Hooper. She's been quite vital to me as of late."
"Was she now?" She asked with a hint of jealousy coming through. She had met Ms. Hooper before when she was one of Jim's playthings and didn't think much of her. Molly was pretty, yes, but she was also mousy, shy, and far too nice. Irene remembered Sherlock mentioning her a couple of times but she never pinned him as the the kind of man to like timid girls. Then again, he loved to be the dominate one.

Sherlock shrugged. "Someone had to be there to let me out of the body bag," he replied.

"Has she domesticated you yet?" Irene inquired sarcastically.

"Is now the time to be jealous, Irene?" Sherlock asked softly. She cocked an eyebrow and said nothing. Sherlock sighed and answered, "no, obviously not. She helped make my suicide believable and lets me sleep on her couch for the time being."

"That doesn't explain why you're standing in my kitchen," she pointed out.

"We'll worry about that later," he assured her before leaning down to kiss her. The kiss was soft and sweet and over so quickly, Irene couldn't be sure it really happened. "Have you eaten yet?" He asked before turning and opening her fridge to inspect the contents.

"I thought you wanted to have dinner?" Irene asked.

"Of course I want to have dinner," he answered. "But first I need a decent meal. Molly isn't exactly the best chef."

Irene rolled her eyes and shooed him away from the fridge. After a ten minute argument about what they were hungry for, they compromised on just ordering take out. The two sat at the table with boxes of Chinese and a glass of wine in front of each of them. While they ate, they gave each other updates on what they had been doing since Paris. Irene told him that she and Kate moved to New York together and acquired jobs in the upscale adult industry. Sensing that Sherlock was a bit concerned that she was back in the sex industry, she quickly explained that she hadn't taken up her old job again. Instead, she helped the rich and famous find where to go to get what they liked where their anonymity would remain intact. As always, Kate was her faithful assistant.

When it was Sherlock's turn, he told her about cases he had solved and places he and John had traveled, always carefully avoiding any mention of Moriarty or his "suicide". When Irene asked, all he told her was it was the only way to keep his friends safe and to have any chance of tearing down the tangled web of criminals Moriarty had built up. He told her that the only people that knew that he was alive were Molly and Mycroft, and of course her. Molly helped him fake his death and to conceal him and Mycroft paid his half of the rent and kept his eye on John along with helping Sherlock cover his tracks.
"And what is my purpose in your grand scheme?" Irene asked.

"I told you, we'll worry about it later," he replied.

Sherlock's secretiveness worried her. Before he had always been up front with her and now it was almost impossible to get a straight answer out of him. Whatever his reasoning for being there was, he knew it wasn't going to be something Irene liked. She knew that for now he was going to be sweet and charming to get her on his side then he would hit her with whatever it was that he was holding back. Chances where he was aware that she would know all this and if he did, he would also know that it would work. Irene had learned to take Sherlock any way she could get him even if it was conditional upon her selling out Moriarty.

"And until then?" she queried.

"You did promise me dinner," Sherlock told her. Before she could protest or ask any more questions, he rose from his seat and scooped Irene up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck while he held the small of her back. "Bedroom? Or are you going to make me sleep on the couch too?"

Irene laughed and gave him directions to her room. He carried her there while she traced his jawline with kisses and small bites. The two fell on to the bed with Sherlock landing on top if Irene and seeking out her lips with his. Suddenly Irene's small flat felt like the regal hotel room in Paris. Lips on lips, skin on skin, hands intertwined, celebrating another successful escape from death. And just like in Paris, when Sherlock held her as she drifted off to sleep, she worried that in the morning she would wake up alone.