John had a lot of things on his mind on January 13th. He had effectively been avoiding taxis after his first adventure with his new flat-mate Sherlock Holmes. Occasionally he rode in them when Sherlock was with him, mostly because he didn't want to look like a complete wimp, but on the whole John had avoided cabs for the last several months. But Sherlock didn't shop. For anything. Ever. So he had spent the better part of the morning riding the tube to various parts of London picking up an equally assorted array of groceries. He was currently carrying, among other things, formaldehyde, eggs, toothpaste, bullets and a vast quantity of milk. God only knew what Sherlock had been doing with the last six containers that had been bought in the last week, maybe just pouring it down the drain, but John was getting awfully tiered of waking up to dry breakfast cereal because a certain flat-mate had used/drank/poured out all of it. Plus for the last week or so John had been more or less living at Sarah's because it was utterly impossible to get any sleep with Sherlock sawing away at his very out of tune violin day and night. Moreover he had chosen that day not to mind the gap between the tube and station platform and had ended up with a twisted ankle and a full container of spilt milk which he had only just managed not to cry over.

If he lived with any normal person, he would be able to sit in a large cushy armchair and perhaps watch some nice trash television or take a hot bath. But John has no such delusions. He lives with Sherlock Holmes. And he seriously doubts that Sherlock has stopped playing terrible violin music long enough to even notice John had left.

No, John had no fantasies of a comfortable homecoming, but he did expect to get in the door.

Instead a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties (who John couldn't help noticing was very attractive) was pacing in front of the door to the flat he shared with the consulting detective. She was dressed almost entirely in a light shade of blue that made her pale skin and dark hair stand out. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a bright shade of red lipstick that would have looked garish on anyone else. It only made her look a little bit like Snow White… or a Vampire.

"Um…" John began, trying unsuccessfully to start a conversation, "Er… can I, uh… help… you?" He had a feeling this was not the way to initiate a conversation with such a beautiful young lady, but the damage was already done.

She looked around quickly, as if surprised to find him speaking to her.

"Oh no, of course not." She said dismissively with a wave of a blue-gloved hand.

Six months ago, John might have been insulted by being so dismissed, but living with Sherlock had gotten him accustomed to a host of strange things, being dismissed as one would by the queen being among them. So he dug his key out of his pocket and started towards the door.

"You don't live here."

John started and turned back towards the woman with an incredulous expression.

"221b Bakers street. You don't live here. Sherlock Holmes lives here."

John sighed and turned back towards the door to open it. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes does live here, but so do I. If you have a case I bet he'd really appreciate it. Hell, I'd really appreciate it. He's getting on my nerves."

"Wait," she said, laughter flickering through her words, "Are you try to tell me that you," She had to pause to restrain a laugh, "Live with Sherlock?"

John could put up with a lot of things, he really could, but the gay joke was getting very old very fast. He turned around again and stared her in the eyes, or more accurately, the sunglasses.

"Yes. I live upstairs and he lives downstairs. We share the rent."

She reached up with one finger and lowered her sunglasses with one sky-blue finger revealing a pair of startling green eyes. "You're John Watson?"

"Uh… yes?"

Her eyebrows shot out of sight into her chestnut colored bangs and she flashed the smile of someone who smiles easily and often. "You're not sure whether you're John Watson or not?"

"Of course I'm sure…"

"You're a saint."

"…But I still have no idea who you are."

"Ah yes, of course." She flashed her blindingly white teeth again and offered forward her right hand as if she expected him to kiss it. "I'm Irene Adler."

John awkwardly shifted all of the groceries to one arm and gingerly shook the extended hand. "John Watson."

"Yes, I know. I do believe we just went over that."

"Oh, well… um." John mumbled as a hot flush crept up his neck.

"Don't be embarrassed." Ms. Adler said finally removing her Gucci sunglasses and placing them in her matching sky-blue bag. "As I said a moment ago, anyone who can put up with sharing a flat with Sherlock is a saint."

John felt his blush deepening. "I'm no saint."

Irene studied him for a moment. "Mycroft said you were modest, but you ought to know it. I wouldn't put up with him for a week, let alone six months."

"Well, I'm… you know… broke. I need the help with the rent."

"Yes, yes," She said impatiently, "And Sherlock needs someone to tell him to not leave body parts in the sink and to remind him to eat something every once in a while. But after six months with Seῆor Sociopath, Mycroft would pay for your lodging anywhere you wanted for the rest of your life and you damn well know it. No, no Mr. Watson. What you need has nothing to do with your obvious financial problems. What you need is the adventure you miss from Afghanistan. And what I need is for you to let me in. - Do you want some help with those groceries?"

"How could you possibly know about all that?"

"Well, your outfit says it all, but most of that was from your blog, actually. Are you sure you don't want me to take some of those?"

John tightened his hold on the groceries a bit possessively as they seemed to be the only things still making sense.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, "I'm still just trying to understand who you are."

She smiled again, almost like she was laughing at him. "I'm sorry, that was rather rude of me, wasn't it? As I said, I'm Irene Adler. I work for Mycroft on occasion, but only when he has interesting enough targets. I was in Sherlock's year at boarding school but I went to the girls school down the road and dated Mycroft once or twice. As a result I got to know Sherlock rather well. If he was a normal person you might consider me his friend, but he doesn't really have those now does he? Except for you of course… but you're useful to him too. I suppose you might lump us in the same category…" She trailed off, scrutinizing him with her disconcerting green eyes.

They just stood there staring at each other for quite a while until a woman, whose standard poodle was watering a near-by fire hydrant, started giving them very odd looks.

"I'm sorry. I'm being rude. Would you like to come in?"

She smiled slightly, not exposing any teeth this time. It was somehow far more entrancing than her large grins, more mysterious…

"I told you," she began as she started pulling off her blue-swade gloves, "You need Sherlock for his adventure, and I need you for your key to the flat."

He must have looked as shocked as he felt because she continued by way of explanation, "I could probably pick the lock, but that takes time and people tend to notice when you try to overtly break an entering in broad daylight."

"You could have rang."

"Tried that. He must not have heard… probably playing the violin. Beethoven, am I right?"

"Oh, is that what it's supposed to be? It just sounded like off-key screeching to me."

"Oh dear, it hasn't gotten that bad has it? It is only the twelfth."

"Actually, it's the thirteenth, but I don't see what the date has to do with anything."

"What?"

The poodle with the abnormally large bladder an its owner turned in response to the high decimal just issued from 221b's doorstep. John had to wonder if his hair had turned white from the sound.

"Oh God I'm late," she started rambling and taking the grocery bags from John quickly, "Do open the door. Please?"

John couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do more. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't single. On the contrary he had a very nice girlfriend who had allowed him to sleep on her couch for the last week and he certainly wasn't going to throw all that away on some friend of Sherlock's, no matter how attractive she was. Fortunately, John's search for a non-lame pick-up line was interrupted by the most beautiful violin music issuing from upstairs.

"Handel's violin sonata in G minor." Irene murmured as she shoved the shopping bags back into John's arms.

"What?" John queried, half-distracted as he tried to save a doomed can of beans currently falling out of the brown paper grocery bag.

"Hey Doofus!" Irene called up the stairs.

The Violin sonata came to a sudden, screeching halt.