It was a cold November morning. A man lay in his double bed, in his plain room, surrounded by an extensive accumulation of curious novels, written by an eclectic mix of equally curious authors. Nine black leather notebooks, each filled in his feverish cursive hand, lay scattered at the foot of the plain bed. Ice frosted on the window pane overlooking the rooftops of the old Victorian houses behind his own. The man's seductively analytical gaze found the face of the young woman whose body was tangled in his own. Her soft lips, which still held a tint of the lipstick she had worn the night before, were parted slightly in sleep. The man knew that if he were to raise a hand to his own they would come away with a trace of that familiar crimson. Her eyelids fluttered in dream, the man found this endearing, which came as a surprise even to him. Even more startling was the faint smile that played on the edge of his lips as he swept a stray lock of dark hair from her brow. He had known her for such little time yet he had already grown accustomed to all her mannerisms and the almost undetectable movement of her body and features. She was sleeping so soundly that it would pain him to disturb her in that state. The man carefully separated his body from hers, removing his own hand where it had been pressed against her smooth warm back, untangling their legs and arms from each other, drawing the sheets around her shoulders to cover her bare skin. The man dressed quietly, his curly dark hair was untamed and rough, his clothing from last night crumpled hopelessly on the floor. He slipped out through the crack by the heavy wooden door.

The girl woke to find the man gone and distant sounds of pans being clattered outside the door. Cold light filtered through the clouded glass, dousing the room in early morning haze. The creamy walls and smooth, worn wooden floorboards reflected the bedroom in a dreamlike state. She slid to the edge of the bed, gathering the sheets around her slender form. Draped over the back of the cracked red leather armchair were her clothes. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, save for the bed and a bookcase crammed with old books and a few yellowed animal skulls. A dusty photo frame hung precariously on the cracked wall displayed an illustration of a black dog with a demonic expression, all slavering teeth and blazing eyes, she shivered. Unable to find an item of clothing of her own that was acceptably warm, the girl hastily wriggled into the creased white shirt the man had abandoned on the carpet. She breathed his cologne, the scent of which still clung to her skin, and suppressed a little smile. She padded with bare feet to the door, and peered around the frame...

John Watson climbed the creaking staircase, his light, quick footfalls stirring century's old dust between the cracks in the boards. He'd passed his landlady Mrs Hudson by the door; she had given him a startled but no less curious smile, as he darted past her with a short hello and a boyish grin. John whistled a tune spiritedly, as he bounded up the last steps to the apartment he shared with the world's only consulting detective. John stopped short of the kitchen, where he found his flatmate engaged in and act so shocking that he found himself unable to proceed into the room.

Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to his friend; he appeared to be making breakfast. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he was humming to himself as he mixed a pan of eggs over the heat of the stove. John's brow furrowed, Sherlock never cooked, ever. In all the time he had lived here Sherlock had not so much as made toast. "Hello John." He said loudly, "Sleep well at Sarah's?"

"Very." John replied, feigning to be oblivious to his friend's teasing. "And yourself?" he returned. "Oh, very well indeed" Sherlock replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips. John was used to Sherlock's general comment of 'sleeping is dull' but this answer caught him off guard. To Sherlock, the average routine of a normal human being seemed almost alien to him, he was only truly entertained when there was a good mystery, something to be deduced, to chase and unravel. He was like a cat with a yarn, though there is an eventual end to every case, the anticipation of tugging at that single thread of chance seemed crucial to his being and very sanity. Anxious to discover the cause of his friend's peculiar behaviour, John addressed Sherlock from across the room where his feet were still securely rooted to the ground. "You never make breakfast" he said cautiously. There was silence as Sherlock continued on his culinary expedition. "Sherlock?" then,

"Hrm?" as the detective acknowledged his existence.

"I said you never make breakfast" John persevered.

"That's a statement not a question; if you desire a response from me then you should have asked me why I was making breakfast on this fine day."

"Sherlock it's pissing down with rain."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." Sherlock piled the steaming eggs onto a plate. It was then that John caught a slight movement in corner of his eye.

Irene Adler dragged her fingers through her mess of tangled hair, teasing out the knots as she approached. The smell of eggs wafted invitingly through the crack in the door, and the measured tones of two people in conversation found her ears. She said nothing, but prised the ancient door open. She saw Sherlock leaning casually against the counter, a plate of eggs in his hand, he looked faintly amused. Irene struggled to pull her eyes away from his tousled hair, his hands, something about that patch of skin where his clean white shirt was unbuttoned at the top made her feel slightly giddy. A phrase she had read in a book once came to her then, 'there was a gravity in his manner', and it seemed perfectly fitting to describe how his presence in the room was all consuming. He turned to her, his deep blue eyes resting on her face, then on his shirt, which, as she was well aware, hung off her like a coat on a hat stand. Sherlock made no effort to suppress his smile, "John this is Irene Adler, Irene this is John Watson." He gestured to each of them in turn. Irene looked expectantly at John Watson, who had the uncanny expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights. His eyes were wide and startled, and his jaw hung loosely on his face. "Hi" she said brightly. This seemed to snap him out of his stupor. "Hi, sorry, how are you?" he spoke and moved all at once, and shook her hand carefully, like he was afraid it might break off in his. "Fine, thanks" she replied, looking up in time to see John give Sherlock a questioning look and a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock Holmes heard the door to his room scrape the floor. Irene looked bemused; she had an indescribable glow about her. She was dressed in his shirt he had discarded earlier, and looked painfully beautiful in the early morning light. Sherlock couldn't help the smile that he could feel spreading across his face. John, on the other hand looked like someone had just slapped him. John gave him a surprised but understanding look as he shook her hand. After the awkward introduction, and a long silence, "Right, well, it was lovely to meet you but I'm afraid I must be off." John said with a warm smile, "Where to?" Sherlock asked, puzzled,

"We need more groceries," John replied, then he shifted a little, "Uh, can I borrow your card?" he ventured sheepishly. Sherlock set down the plate he had been holding, strode to the table and picked up his wallet, thumbing out a shiny plastic credit card, which he flicked into John's outstretched palm. John nodded his thanks and crossed the room to the door. Irene and Sherlock turned to each other shyly. Sherlock closed the distance between them and took her in his arms, crushing her body against his. They stumbled into the bedroom; Sherlock pulled her onto the bed, kissing her passionately. Outside, just as John took hold of the tarnished door knob there was a loud and impatient rapping on the wood of the door coming from the hall. He cautiously opened the door, which was flung violently out of his hands as Inspector Lestrade burst into the tiny flat. "Sherlock what the hell happened?" He demanded, then "-sorry John" as he noticed him stumble dazedly into the hall and down the stairs to the street. "I've been calling your mobile for an hour." He called into the deathly silence. "Sherlock?" he said, unsure if he had just made a fool of himself by talking to an apparently empty flat.

The couple flinched as the door banged, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as Lestrade's furious voice bellowed through the walls. He rolled off the bed and stood looking down apologetically at Irene who propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him questioningly. "I am so sorry." He murmured, kneeling down next to the bed. "I'll make it up to you I promise." Then he walked purposefully to the door and opened it wide and Irene caught sight of Lestrade silhouetted against one of the far windows. "Yes?" he said a little breathlessly, uncomfortably aware that his hair was ruffled and his shirt had become untucked. Lestrade appeared not to pick up on this, and proceeded to tell him that he was needed on a case the other side of London two hours ago. "Aaaah," Sherlock said slowly, "well then I'll be along soon, just give me ten minutes." But Lestrade hadn't heard him; Sherlock followed his eyes to the door where Irene, hurriedly dressed in jeans and blouse had frozen in his gaze. Lestrade moved mechanically, his head turning very slowly towards Sherlock. "On second thoughts, let's go now, I'll get my coat." Sherlock rushed. Lestrade's mouth gaped a little, and he looked as though he may speak, which, Sherlock acknowledged, would be a disastrous occurrence. Irene watched as Sherlock shrugged on the dark woollen coat that billowed around him dramatically as he swung it over his shoulders. Lestrade seemed currently incapable of competent thought, so Sherlock placed his hand on his back and steered him out the door. Before he followed, he glanced back and winked at Irene, shutting the door behind him.

As Sherlock closed the front door of 221B Baker Street, the rain had relented and the sun pushed against the heavy band of cloud that smothered its brilliance. Lestrade turned to him; he was trying valiantly to fight back the grin that took his face like a fast flowing stream over a haggard rock. Sherlock gave him a withering look "Don't." He said firmly.

"That was unexpected."

"Leave it."

Lestrade smirked. Sherlock looked less than amused. At that moment, John appeared from around the corner, minus the shopping. "Hello John." Lestrade greeted him cheerily.

"Where are the groceries?" Sherlock asked as he approached.

"Store was closed." John offered, shrugging. He shot a sly glance at Sherlock, Lestrade following his gaze with equal amusement. A small chuckle escaped John involuntarily. "So when exactly-" He began bravely, but was cut off by Sherlock's steely glare. He snatched his credit card from John's outstretched hand and stormed off down the street, refusing to be the target of their childish games. Lestrade caught up with him as John turned the corner into Baker Street. "It's surprising how you can go off some people." Sherlock said loudly as Lestrade trotted up and fell into step at his side. "Sherlock don't be like that. It was just a bit of a shock that's all." He explained. "You know we never thought of you as the relationship type." He continued precariously, like navigating a minefield, he related. Sherlock said nothing, but kept striding forwards with his long slender form dwarfing Lestrade as he fought to keep up. "Well it seems odd that this should come as a surprise to you, Lestrade, as I seldom live up to people's expectations." Sherlock muttered at last.

"She must be special then, this girl." Lestrade pursued, "I've never known you to let someone come so close to you before." There was silence. "Sherlock, if you don't talk to me I'll just carry on."

"How is it possibly in any way your business?" Sherlock retorted indignantly.

"Sherlock, you should know that I consider you my friend. In other words, I'm one of the few people who tolerate you. Please tell me, I'm just curious." There was a speculative pause.

"Her name is Irene Adler. She is one of the most brilliantly dangerous people I have ever had the misfortune to know." He said in all in one breath.

"Oh." Lestrade said, shaping the word with a small circle of his lips. Sherlock gulped a breath, he seemed to be deep in thought, but his mouth betrayed the faintest flicker of a smile. Lestrade smiled too, because it was clear that Sherlock finally had someone in his life that made him truly happy, and maybe, just maybe, someone he could even love. Was he capable of such emotions? He wondered. The sky had grown darker, but the rain held back still. "Good for you." He concluded.

"Indeed."