She leaned in and inhaled his scent. He smelt like home, a place unfamiliar to her and a place she barely remembered from her childhood. Her childhood had been short-lived, being kicked out of the family 'home' at age 15; Irene Adler had to grow up fast. She rarely settled at any one location for long, constantly moving to avoid detection of those who were seeking her out. But that was a distant memory now; however one thing remained the same, Vulnerability. She felt so vulnerable back in her younger days, so alone and afraid; so scared. That had led her to the whole dominatrix act, the needing to be powerful and in control. But it was just an act, and it seemed it was only the pale-skinned, dark haired man she lay in the arms of now that could strip it from her, who could expose what was under the mask, the vulnerability that had never really removed itself from her being. Yet here, the vulnerability was not in a scared manner, she wasn't frightened. She was so vulnerable because she was so in love with him, she would risk her life for him now, something she never thought she would do for a man. She felt like a child curled up in his lap, listening to his heart beat and watching the amber flamed dance of the logs in the fireplace. She felt so helplessly in love that she didn't know what to do. She knew she would have to leave the safety of 221B at some point, but she didn't want to think about that just yet. She wanted to curl up in his arms and forget. Everything. Except for her love of Sherlock Holmes.

He picked her up and laid her down across the leather armchair opposite. She collapsed across the chair, head rested on one arm, her body curled up in the seat and her shoeless feet hanging from the other. She was as weightless as a ragdoll and seemed only half conscious.

Sherlock rose from his stoop and strode over to the door, where he put on his coat and looped his scarf around his neck in his trademark fashion. Making sure he had the flat keys and his phone, he looked once more at the sleeping woman who was laid on his armchair.

Who, quite frankly, was no longer asleep.

She was curled up on the seat of the chair looking at him with eyes similar to those of a small dog, curious to where his master was going, head cocked slightly to one side and eyes filled with questions.

'Where are you going?' She queried

Sherlock hesitated before giving his answer

'Out'

The truth was that he had no idea where he was going. He just couldn't stay around her for too long, it drove him insane. He couldn't read her like he could the others; John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. She was a mystery to him, almost as if she had a switch somewhere to deactivate her ability to be read, and he just couldn't find where to reactivate it.

His chain of thought was stopped in its tracks as he felt her wrap her arms around him. Without her heels, she was smaller than him; he estimated about 5"4. Her arms were pressed around his waist and as she gazed up at him in the amber light she looked as gorgeous as she ever did, even stripped free of makeup and fancy garments.

'Don't go…' she pleaded, looking up at him all doughy eyed and sad. But Sherlock was used to this, and persuasion had not effect on him anymore. He just gave her a tap on the nose and wriggled free of her grip, muttering something about not being long and shutting the door behind him.

Feeling a sense of defeat, Irene curled back up in the armchair and gazed at the fire. Even though he had only just left, she still missed him. Every waking moment she spent without him her heart ached. She gazed vacantly at the fire for a while, watching the flames until she heard the warm, familiar voice whisper in her ear.

'Unless you have a better offer...'