Adler watched the front door carefully as she had for days. She rushed to London when she heard the news. It took all she had not to run through the door and corner Watson into telling her the truth, that he wasn't really dead and it was all a mistake.

She saw the front door open and John walked out. He glanced up at the dim cloud cover before tugging on his jacket and hopping down the steps. His face looked sallow and tired. She knew the feeling.

After giving him a wide berth, she began to follow him, though she had little doubts as to where he was going.

When they reached the cemetery, he walked straight to Holmes's shiny black grave. She knelt down a few rows away and began a dramatic prayer with clenched hands. John was ordinarily unobservant, but with her newly blonde hair and sunglasses, she knew she would be practically invisible.

She could hear him speaking as he did every day. Peeking over, she noticed him replace the flowers and straighten them.

"Well," he said, "Mrs. Hudson couldn't come today, it's just me. I was putting away some old journals and found my notes from the case with the racing horse. Remember that? I'm writing it all down for the blog. People still want your stories, you know, your adventures. They don't believe it for a minute. Neither do I. I never will, Sherlock. You know that. You weren't a fake. You couldn't be."

He stopped and Irene felt the heaviness in her chest. She hadn't thought that Watson would actually have been taken in by the lies, but fighting them daily had to be hard for him. He was so easily persuaded.

"I'm going now," he said quietly. "I miss you, Sherlock. I miss you every day. And they tell me it's supposed to get better, but sometimes I don't know if I want it to. Bye," he said suddenly as he walked away.

When he was nearly out of sight, Irene rose and crept over to the headstone. Sure enough, it read SHERLOCK HOLMES. She thought about the last time she had seen him. When he saved her life. If only she had been there to save his.

She reached into her black jacket and pulled out a long stemmed rose. She kissed it once before laying by the grave next to Watson's flowers.

"I miss you every day too."

She rose and wiped the single tear from her cheek as she found her way back to the street. Like every day, Watson would go to eat afterwards and would give Irene just enough time to slip back to Baker Street.

It didn't take her long to get back. She entered and heard Mrs. Hudson coming through the kitchen. Quickly and quietly, she crept up the stairs and grabbed the door handle. It was open. She walked into 221b and was caught with emotion. She could hear Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, so she bolted into Sherlock's old room.

Once inside, she moved behind the door. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson seemed satisfied that no one was there and headed back down the stairs. Irene looked around the room, perfectly preserved right down to the bed that looked slept in. She snuck over to the bed and ran her hand over the sheets. She let her finger lightly pluck his violin, open in the case. Opening one of the drawers carefully, she pulled out one of his many scarves.

Inhaling, she breathed in Sherlock and remembered everything about him. His hair, the color of his eyes, the way he cocked his head when he connected one dot to another. Wrapping the scarf around her neck, she moved to the door and listened. In no time she had snuck down the stairs and out the front door. Moving quickly, she proceeded down Baker Street. There was nothing left for her here. She had been wandering for a while now. Floating from one space to another, never caring about who she was stealing from or who she could blackmail. Yet always finding her mind going back to dreaming about what the British wonder boy was working on.

It was on to Paris. She could take the train there and mull around until someone became suspicious. Yet the thrill of being caught seemed even less exciting now. She waited for the train, practically unconscious of what was going on around her.

Just as she was about to move to get on, an old priest bumped into her.

"Beggin' your pardon miss," he said with a tip of his hat, "Lovely scarf you got there."

Her hand unconsciously crept up to her neck as she hurried onto the train. Once there, she turned to look out the window at the man who had stopped to look at her. There was something strangely familiar about him; about his eyes.

As the train started to pull away, she finally noticed it. There on his lapel was a freshly trimmed rose. Their eyes met for a second before the train pulled her away, heading straight to Paris.

Surely not. Surely it couldn't be, she wondered. Her hand tightened on her neck and she sighed. If anyone could, it would have been him.

Irene couldn't stop the slight smile as she moved to take a seat. Once again, the game was afoot.