Things aren't always what they appear to be. Sometimes they crouch in the corner, where no one can see. Other times they're hiding behind something so thick you wouldn't be able to use a crane to get through it. Most of the time, it's right under your nose, laughing at your idiocy. We are blind; it's understood. Men, men like Sherlock Holmes, are just like this- using people to get where they need to be. At least that's what we perceive.

John Watson stirred his coffee, visualizing the sugar dissolving into it while absentmindedly reading the morning paper. To him, ever since the "accident", all the headlines seemed the same. Most were about politicians, though none involving Sherlock's brother. Sadly. Some were about "large" cases. Most were never solved (some speculated that the police department had lost it's "finesse" since Sherlock had committed suicide), and there was a new one everyday. John did this everyday; it was customary. So when he was so rudely interrupted by someone spilling coffee all over him, he knew it was going to be a bad day.

"Oh my! I deeply apologize." The woman's voice was light, but had a twitch of sarcasm to it. John stared at her, wide-eyed. Her greenish eyes stunned him, and for he second he though he recognized her. However, she had ducked her head and was walking away. Little did he know she had a small, crooked smile on her face- one that would blow her cover if seen.

John started to clean up the mess with a napkin when a waitress rushed over to help him. "The coffee's on us, sir. Please, do wash up in the restroom." He nodded, doing as he was told. When he returned, he ordered another cup of coffee, to go, took his soaked newspaper, and headed to his flat.

It was new, his flat, filled with all new furniture. He hadn't kept the old flat; it wasn't his. He wasn't sure who was living there now, but he knew he'd never go back there. It held too much memory, and even keeping his clothes reminded him of Sherlock.

Sherlock. The name rand out in his head, stinging his side, as well as his heart. He'd held Sherlock in the highest regard, and he felt that something- or someone- had compelled Sherlock to do what he'd done. He'd felt the relief lift off his chest when Sherlock hit the ground, and that was what scared him the most. He loved Sherlock; he was John's best friend, almost like a brother to him. There must've been no way out, because if anyone could get out of death, it was Sherlock. A small part of John's mind told him to believe the lies Sherlock had told him on the phone, but John shook his head, pulling him back to reality. There he stood, in the center of his living room, the door behind him still hanging wide open. He dropped his coffee-stained newspaper on his coffee table, and shut the door quietly, locking it. These days, he took no chances. Even though Moriarty was dead, he had many friends. And those friends must know where John was. He took as much security as he could get. Glancing at the clock, and though it said ten-thirty, he stripped his clothes and climbed face first into his bed.

Irene Adler had seen the headlines. She'd seen the news. At first, she couldn't believe that he was dead. Then she read that Sherlock had indeed been a fake. Somehow, she didn't understand that. Jim Moriarty had been one of her clients, and he'd admitted a lot to her in their sessions. To the outside world, she didn't seem at all like the type of person who would cry. But she, Irene Adler, had cried more than twice at the expense of Sherlock Holmes. He'd saved her, and tormented her in ways no other man had. Long ago she'd made a pact to herself to never let a man control her emotions, but Sherlock had taken her to a whole new level without her even realizing. She'd fallen for him, and they both knew it. Irene had planned on making a surprise visit to London, risk her life, and see Sherlock, but now she knew that would never happen.

Sitting on her brand new leather sofa, legs crossed very seductively, she shook hands with a petite business man. He was bald, with circular specs, much like Waldo. He wiped his forehead a lot, and blinked too. He would be a good client, however, this wasn't about sex. She was investing, and she needed guidance. Twenty minutes later, she'd shut the door of her apartment and rang her wrists. It was a risky move, investing, but Irene was going for it anyways. As she poured herself a glass of wine, her phone buzzed. She picked it up off the bar, taking a swig of her wine.

I heard you do special favors.

She smiled. There was always a new client. Irene never said no, she enjoyed pleasuring others.

Per whom?

A friend. In a high place.

I might... If I'm given an address.

Irene gave her new client a time for that night, and entered the address she was given into her phone. She changed into some "fresh" clothes, donned a long trench coat, and headed that way.

The building she entered was very high, but old style like the buildings back in London. The winding staircase just seemed to go up, never ending. The banister was old oak, polished perfectly. Only those with money lived in this building. Smiling to herself, Irene basked in the pay she'd earn from tonight.

Glancing at her phone again to check the apartment number, she climbed the stairs in her stiletto red heels and stopped in front of the door. She knocked lightly, and met the last person she expected to see behind the door.

"Hello, Ms. Adler."

So, I've been wanting to do this for a while. I'm a diehard Sherlock/Irene fan, and I'm a pure romantic. So I've concocted a plot line that will introduce a new villain, as well as more from John and how he'll see Sherlock again. Send in your reviews and lemme know what you think so far!