"Don't tell me you didn't like it."

Sherlock frowned and stuck out his elbow. A slim arm adorned with a stunning navy-blue satin glove and glittering diamond bracelet slipped through his, hand resting on on his bicep. "It was predictable."

Irene laughed, her teeth bright flashes under deep red lips. "Only you would go to an opera and find it such, Mr. Holmes."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, but he said nothing. Irene's other hand came to rest on his arm, and his second hand came to rest on hers, and they walked in companionable silence for several moments.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first, just after they'd turned a corner. He leaned in and whispered to her. "We're being followed."

She tilted her head up and looked at him, smirking. "You have a plan?"

He pulled his arm - and her along with it - even closer to him. "Of course."

Then he pushed towards an alley, turned, and began swinging.

The fight didn't last long - there were three of them, but not a single one had brought a gun. Amateurs. Sadly, Irene's coat had fallen to their mercies, and they had not been kind.

She now stood shivering in her strapless dress. It was the same color as her gloves - dyed to match, Sherlock had no doubts - and was somehow provocative yet elegant. It was, in Sherlock's mind, simply the way Irene was - she was so many things that should not fit together, and yet.

He slipped out of his coat and held it out. She looked at him gratefully, slipping her arms through and pulling it tight around her. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"You're welcome, Ms. Adler." He swallowed, his hands trailing over her upper arms, rubbing gently to try and warm her. She stepped in closer.

"What did they want?" She looked beside them at one of the attackers, who was sprawled in a rather undignified way. The rise and fall of his chest was steady and strong, though, so not dead. Dead meant trouble - lots of trouble. Not dead simply meant less trouble, but it was the best they had right then.

"Not sure." Sherlock looked to his left, at the other two who were also laid in truly inglorious ways on the ground. "But it likely has to deal with Moran."

Irene shivered, and Sherlock's hands moved quicker, firmer. It was the only gesture he could give her right then. If her shivering meant cold, he could give her warmth. If her shivering meant discomfort... well, he could still give her warmth.

"We should be off, then."

"Indeed." He held out his arm again - John would be so pleased to know that Sherlock had, in fact, paid attention each time he'd crashed John's dates - and Irene slipped her arm through his again, hands resting against the fine fabric of his tuxedo.

"Have I ever told you, Mr. Holmes, that you look quite dashing whilst saving my life?"

Sherlock looked over at her, eyes wide. "I..."

She smirked, then leant up and kissed him, just at the edge of him mouth. "Let's have dinner."

When she pulled away, Sherlock watched her eyes: pupils, dilated. Pulse was, no doubt, elevated.

"I'm... not hungry."

Her smirk turned into a grin. "Neither am I."

He nodded once. "Alright then. Chinese?"

"Love some."

They stepped out of the alleyway, and disappeared in the late night crowds.