Hi everyone! So this is my very first story, because season four is coming and I was rewatching Sherlock again (or, more specifically, The Scandal in Belgravia) and I really needed more Adlock in my life, so here it is! Try to be understanding, as I've never written anything like this before! I've already written all chapters, so updates should be quite regular! I hope you'll enjoy this and have fun reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, everything is based on BBC's Sherlock

Chapter 1

Somehow, in between searching for Moriarty's network and solving accidental crimes in different European cities, Sherlock Holmes found himself in Budapest, feeling irritated and stuck in a case he couldn't solve. It'd been only 24 hours since he'd managed to convince the whole police department to let him just help, by revealing all the delicate and private secrets in less than a minute, but it had already been too long for him. He might have been dead but, after all, he was still the great Sherlock Holmes, the only one consultant detective in the world and even he needed some entertainment from time to time. Feeling helpless and stupid wasn't funny at all.

Speaking of death, it felt surprisingly good and refreshing, although sometimes he caught himself remembering good, old times, his flat at 221B Baker Street, the rush of London's streets and the thrill of the new adventure. Sometimes he even missed his dear friend, John Watson. He'd never expected he would ever be capable of such feelings. People usually meant nothing more to him than bones, skin, blood and brain, which most of them seemed to lack. He had been taught, not by his parents, but older brother, that caring about others was one of the biggest disadvantages of human nature. But John, John also had a heart and although he'd never managed to find out whether Sherlock had one on his own, the brilliant detective somehow admired it - the ability to care, to feel, not to be afraid of losing his greatness due to any emotions. Deeper, more personal feelings still were a weakness for him. Love and sentiment were just a chemical defect, the error of human nature. All that mattered was his brain, untouched by the weak nature of love, affection, passion, desire and, what went along with that, pain and sentiment that would make all of his walls he'd been building up for years go down. He didn't want to risk, but hadn't he done it already? The day he'd decided to share a flat with John and take him to the crime scene he'd made a commitment and a friend, of whom he'd cared about since then. As Moriarty had pointed out, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and even Molly, who'd helped him survive the fall, they all had mattered to him in some way and they'd never made him weak. When he was thinking about it that way, he saw himself as a hypocrite. He'd never loved anyone, not in a romantic way and he'd never felt the need to love, just as he'd never felt the need to have friends. But then they'd come, unexpected and uninvited and changed his life, even a little bit. That didn't mean he lost himself in his feelings for those people, so maybe with love it would be just the same? Sherlock didn't really want to think about it, it was stupid and he knew what love did to people. He could live without John by his side for a couple of months now, but would he survive a broken heart?

He knew the time would come, sooner or later. He couldn't be dead forever, there were murderers to catch and cases to solve. England needed its detective just as much as he needed his country. But the time hadn't come yet and he surely wasn't going to rush things. Right now, he tried to focus on the case, before he would have to leave Budapest and follow Moriarty's network. He knew exactly where they were heading and what they were planning and decided that he could use a break and make them feel more confident, before eliminating them once and for all. Solving a case in a busy, Hungarian city seemed like a good idea to do so.

Holmes took his violin and stood by the window, looking at covered in snow streets of Budapest. He started playing the melody, but felt like his hands, without him having any control, played the song for him. The detective closed his eyes and let the notes run through his body to the very end of his fingers, he let it fill the air in the room with a gentle sound, which brought back the memory of a well-known smell and deep, female voice, that often spoke to him in his mind. He knew the melody so well and although the song itself was quite sad and nostalgic, the man smiled, as he opened his eyes and watched the stars showing on the dark, night sky in the New Year's Eve and thought about the time this melody had meant a lot. It was a reminiscence of a great mind, someone who was almost as good as he, though he would never admit it to anyone. The memory of a woman, the woman, who'd brought the whole England to its knees and truly impressed the great detective. After all these years saying her name out loud still felt quite weird, Sherlock wasn't used to it, but he liked the sound and the bitter taste of wine it had left on his lips. After all those years, sometimes he still sat with his eyes closed, thinking about the past and, more specifically, thinking about her. He also still had her phone, hidden in a pocket of his coat. It was probably the only thing he'd taken from his flat before the unfortunate events on the roof of the St Bart's hospital. Irene Adler was special for him and sometimes he was close to thinking that both John and his brother had been right. But then, again, his mind was all he had and he didn't want to risk all of it for something that was still a great mystery to him. The one he couldn't and didn't want to solve. Even though, in the past, he'd gotten a taste of it, he was aware that chances of this happening again are low. But did it make him sad? Did he want to see her again, hear her voice, not as a distant sound coming from the inside of his brain, but real and live voice of the one woman that occupied his mind more often than anyone had ever done before? The answer wasn't so simple, even for Sherlock Holmes, the man who knew answers to all the possible questions. Maybe in all those years when he'd been trying to find out the truth about anyone else, he'd forgotten to sacrifice some time to get to know himself?

Soon he realised he was no longer focusing his mind on the case. He let it drift far away from the streets of Budapest, from a mysterious murder, from Moriarty's network and his own death, so he decided to take a walk instead, just to breathe some fresh air and clear his mind from all the thoughts he had. It was great being a genius, but even for him sometimes his head was a real burden. He had to admit, it was different, maybe even more difficult, to solve crimes without having John by his side. Even though his mind wasn't that bright and, after all, was kind of limited if it was about observing and noticing things, the presence of Watson in some way inspired him to do better. Obviously, John wasn't Ms Adler and Sherlock had never wanted to impress him as he, subconsciously, had wanted to impress her, but having someone admiring his work had made it more exciting. He'd already forgotten how it had felt to be completely alone and although having some 'time off' from his regular life in London felt great, that particular night he felt distracted, like there was something in the air...

After he'd put the violin in the case and put his timeless coat and scarf on, he left the hotel room and headed towards elevators. With annoying music playing inside, he tried once again to bring his mind back to the case, but in this environment it seemed pointless, so he just waited till the door would open and he would be able to get out of the building.

Sherlock felt it right after he left the lift, before he even managed to go into the hotel lobby. The smell of well-known female perfume tickled his nose, as he inhaled deeply, for a moment closing his eyes and having a feeling that it wasn't just a coincidence that one of the guests, whose noise came to him from the distant restaurant where apparently people were celebrating the New Year's Eve, had the same perfume. It brought back unwanted memories and something more, a feeling that he didn't really want to think about right now. He had more important things that should occupy his mind and he wasn't in the moo –

'Well, well, well' the deep, female voice struck him from behind, breaking the chain of his thoughts and the man stopped himself in the middle of the hall, looking towards glass door in front of him. The lobby was lighted only by a few lamps hung on the walls, but most of it was covered in the darkness. He recognised the voice just as he recognised the perfume, but he would have never expected to meet her. Not here. Not know 'Isn't it the great Sherlock Holmes?' the woman asked and Sherlock could tell she was smiling, as he turned around and saw her slim figure walking slowly towards him. The sound of her heels on lobby floor seemed so loud among the quiet of the night. She was dressed in a simple, black, slinky dress, with long, brown curls falling softly on her bare shoulders. The women stopped close to him, but still keeping a reasonable distance between them, with a gentle, almost invisible smile on her lips and her blue eyes observing him carefully.

'Ms Adler, what are you doing here?' Sherlock asked in a cold, emotionless voice, as he looked straight into her eyes. It felt strange seeing her after a long time, after saving her life in Karachi and then leaving, to live their separate lives. He was pretty sure her presence there wasn't a coincidence, but somehow he knew she was the only person that could ever surprise him, although he would never admit it to anyone. She'd done it before, she'd amazed him with her intelligence and cleverness and, somehow, that really seemed to matter to him, as he really valued the mind like hers.

'What a nice, warm greeting, Mr Holmes. I'm flattered' she answered in a mocking voice, with a smile on her red lips 'I'm visiting a friend' Irene added after a short second, apparently having something more on mind.

'We're not friends. We've never been'

'Oh no, Sherlock, don't be so confident. I wasn't talking about you' she smacked her lips as she would be talking to a child 'But what a marvellous coincidence, don't you think?' Irene widened her smile, making one step closer towards the man.

'I highly doubt it' he knew she was slowly invading his personal space, but didn't move and didn't let her know it affected him in any way. Because it didn't or at least that was what he was telling himself.

'Don't tell me you're not happy to see me, Mr Holmes. It's been a long time since we-'

'Yes, I remember' he interrupted her not wanting to go into details of their last meeting in Karachi. He'd never told anyone, not even John, about saving her and what happened after. Especially about that. Irene just laughed and he could notice this specific spark in her eyes.

'Anyway, how's being dead going?' she tilt her head a little bit to the right to express her curiosity. Irene Adler wasn't sure how she felt about the meeting. It'd been years since they saw each other, but she hadn't forgotten him even for a one day. An extraordinary woman of even more extraordinary profession had had in her life many partners of different sex, but none of them had been really worth remembering. They'd always been just clients, people who came and went, left her money and some precious information that made her even more valuable in some communities. Sherlock Holmes was special for her, with his mind, but also his attitude, his cold heart and the sacrifice he'd made to save her from terrorists. She'd wanted that meeting. If she hadn't, she would've never followed his tracks, waiting for their paths to cross in a weird coincidence. She also remembered the last time, how could she ever forget. She'd wanted it since they first met, not in terms of love or any other, more complicated feeling. Of these she knew he wouldn't have been capable and, if it was about her, she wasn't sure about that either. She'd loved someone once, a long time ago, but this person had hurt her so much that she closed herself to any possible emotion. She created the new Irene Adler, the dominatrix, the woman, who could have everything and everyone she'd ever wanted, who controlled the situation so she would never get hurt again. And when she couldn't have Sherlock, or at least when it wasn't that simple to get him and required some more sacrifice and attention, she felt frustrated. Irene Adler didn't believe in love, maybe even more than Sherlock himself, but for the whole lot of different reasons. She'd wanted to beat him, to challenge him, to show him that he, just as any other person, had some hidden desires, but she'd never wanted them to commit to any kind of relationship. Had she managed to impress him in a way that had included not only her mind? She wasn't sure, you could never be sure about anything if it was about Sherlock Holmes and so she didn't know if he'd enjoyed their last meeting as much as she had. She'd always thought that there was no such thing as too much, but seeing him again made her feel like maybe that one time she'd definitely crossed the line.

'Fine. Boring' the man answered, trying not to involve too much into a conversation. His thoughts at that moment were very similar to Irene's ones. Just as she wasn't sure about his feelings about this experience, he wasn't sure about them either. He'd never really tried to deal with it or think about it after she'd been gone and he'd come back to London, to his regular, daily lifestyle. It'd been like he had built a wall around all that concerned this one night after saving her and decided to forget about it, in case it could have brought any troubles. Sherlock had never let himself enjoy anything other than solving crimes and humiliating people, any other pleasure had simply been unknown and hostile to him. After that he'd only asked himself one question. Why had he done it? Why had he stayed with her that night in a hotel room, why had he let her kiss him, with her lips tasting like wine she'd just been drinking? He didn't know, even now, when he asked himself the same questions again and again, he didn't know the answer. There was something about her that made him feel like a moth lured by the light of a candle. She was trouble, she was the only person, after Moriarty, that could ever really destroy all that he'd been working for. And there she was, standing right in front of him, looking absolutely stunning and beautiful. He couldn't hide from himself that he was thinking about her the whole time and that, for him, she was always the woman, the only woman who had ever meant anything to him. Not necessarily in terms of any deeper emotions. She had a great mind, she was smart and brilliant and that had always impressed him, because he hadn't met many people of such great intellect. And that, coming from Sherlock Holmes himself, was quite a thing, as he considered her almost equal to him.

'Well' she smiled and made another step, with only millimetres separating them from each other. He could feel her warm breath on his face, as she put her hand on his chest and slid it down to unbutton his jacket 'I can help with that' she whispered, moving her face towards his so close that their lips almost touched. Sherlock opened his mouth, but for a second he couldn't get any sound out of it, not knowing what exactly was happening.

'I'm afraid I need to decline your offer' he moved a step back and buttoned his jacket.

'You haven't changed, but we'll get to this... later' she raised her head to look at him and with a mysterious smile she winked at him.

'There is not going to be any later'

'No?' Irene sounded disappointed, but the detective knew it was only a game. With her it was always just a game 'I was going to ask you for a dinner. It's New Year, after all. We should celebrate'

'I thought you were meeting a friend' he didn't know if he wanted to have a dinner with her. Or rather, he didn't know if it was a good idea to have a dinner with Irene Adler, knowing what effect she could have on him.

'I am. Well, I was. So? Will you have dinner with me, Mr Holmes?' suddenly her voice sounded strong and official, way different from the mocking, teasing and somehow sensual voice she'd used before.

'It's late, everything is probably closed' he tried to resist her, forgetting about the fact it was New Year's Eve and people were going to celebrate the whole night. At the same time he knew she would never give up. She was stubborn, just as he was. Maybe, after all, they both had more in common than he'd ever suspected?

'Come on, Sherlock. You know I know places. Or, more specifically, I know people'

'You mean you know what they like' he corrected her almost immediately, what brought a wide smile on her lips.

'You know me so well, Mr Holmes. You impress me more and more every time' Sherlock knew she was also referring to their last, quite intense, meeting, but he wasn't going to comment on it.

'Fine' he agreed after a long second 'After you' he pointed the door and followed her into the night.