I've already posted this on Tumblr and AO3 several days ago. I must apologize for not posting here.


One could never truly say that he has known Irene Adler until he had seen every version of her. One could also say that no one has ever seen the real Irene Adler.

Not even Sherlock Holmes. Though he was the most successful in knowing The Woman who was shrouded in the red cloth of temptation and the black cloak of mystery. This is also the reason why no one had intrigued the great detective as much as she did.

She was not only a puzzle waiting to be solved but also a battle waiting to be fought. A gamble. Every mystery uncovered drew great satisfaction from Sherlock Holmes, yet it also cost a part of himself that he had buried deep within his own walls opened only for her blue calculating eyes.

Sherlock understood that people had a fascination with favoritism. Favorite color. Favorite food. Favorite place. These were so dull that he hadn't ever given much thought. But if he was asked which version of Irene Adler was his favorite, he decided it would be this one.

Sunlight spilled from window of his room. The bright rays licking the expanse of smooth skin exposed by the sheets pooling over her hip. The shadows danced from the curve of her waist covered in kiss marks to her unclothed chest with red swollen peaks atop her breasts. One arm was folded under her head while the other laid between them, slim fingers extended towards his direction. Her face seemed impossibly innocent and young under the hopeful beam of sunlight, thin eyebrows relaxed across her forehead, sharp nose outlined by the white light, swollen lips parted in soft snores. Her face bore no mask and no makeup, only the purest Irene Adler could be.

She looked utterly beautiful.

Slowly he watched as her eyes opened, her bright blue eyes meeting his in a soft gaze. Vulnerability swirled in the air, a feeling that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care about. Not when she looked just as vulnerable as he felt at the moment.

This silent truce was rare yet one of the most precious things that he was grateful for. Not many men or women can say that they have been the subject of that gaze, one that was clearly filled with longing and sentiment. In fact, no other man could say that they have seen such a sight.

After all, it was for only one person.

His hand moved across the space between them that seemed small and large at the same time. His fingers tangled with hers in a soft caress.

A small smile crept to her lips, and for once Sherlock could say Irene Adler looked truly happy and radiant just like the sun. He found himself mirroring her smile with of his rare ones as well, just as special as hers.

Indeed, he really liked this version of The Woman.