Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any characters associated with the great Consulting Detective, that honour remains with the genius that is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N – I recently bought the DVD set of Sherlock (BBC) and quite un-shamefully developed a crush on the modern day Sherlock Homes (Benedict Cumberbatch), so I thought I would take the time to write this fic about his relationship with The Woman, Irene Adler and about him solving cases with the Army Doctor, John Watson.
Hope you enjoy it.

The Return Of Sherlock Homes

Chapter One – Wiping Away Irene's Tears

She sat at her Kitchen counter, as she had on many mornings with a mug of coffee and a slice of toast in front of her. And like normal, she had today's newspaper resting on the granite surface. There was one thing that wasn't normal; the text of the newspaper was becoming difficult to read as the tears from The Woman landed and obscured the writing on the paper.

Now she knew what his text had meant. He was saying goodbye. For good. It shouldn't kill her to know this, but it did. It broke her heart. The article in question that Irene Adler was crying over, stated that the only person to ever get through her tough façade and touch her heart, had committed suicide just two days before.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" She asked the paper, with a tremor of emotion in her voice, knowing full well that the paper didn't have the power to and would never answer her. But saving her from asking the inanimate object the question that was in her heart again, there was a slight and quiet knock at the door.

Irene didn't feel up to having visitors and planned to use Sherlock's death as an excuse, and with the way that she looked; with her tearful red eyes and forlorn expression, she knew they would not be able to deny her this moment to grieve for the loss of her great detective.

Slowly she pushed away from the counter and slipped down from her stool, shaking slightly with lamentation. She contemplated wiping away the tears in her eyes while walking to get the door, but changed her mind knowing that more would only fall in their place.

Irene took a shaky breathe and grasped the door handle, pulling it down and opening the door. She kept her eyes on the ground, trying to gather the courage to look up and see her visitor.

The visitor, when he saw Irene, immediately felt guilty knowing he was responsible for her distress.

"Irene?"

She knew that voice.

She'd dreamt about that voice

But the owner of that voice had just committed suicide, so how could he be here at her door right now? Irene raised her head and sobbed out loud. It was him. Her Sherlock. Alive. Not knowing what else to, she grabbed him and wrapped her arms around him.

"The newspaper…. It…" said Irene, trying so hard not to cry now that she had the man who saved her life, back in her life.

"I faked it." He said, melting into the hug, which was something Sherlock Holmes would never normally do. And Irene knew that. She broke away from the hug slightly, to look into his face. His hair was messy and his lightening blue eyes were dull and sad. He raised his hand and wiped away the tear tracks on Irene's face.

Without a seconds hesitation, Irene pulled Sherlock inside and away from the cold, shutting the door behind them and locking it tightly. After putting the chain across the door, Irene turned to look at Sherlock.

"How did you do it? The newspaper said that you jumped off the roof of St. Barts."

"I did. But I had no choice." Sherlock said, taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them up on the hook.
"What do you mean, you had no choice?" Irene asked, turning away and lifting the kettle to the tap and filling it with water.

"Moriarty. He had John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…. And you at gun point." As Sherlock said this, Irene, with the kettle boiling silently behind her, spun around at the mention that she had been at gun point. "I had to jump, otherwise he would have fired."

"Did you mean to die?"

"No. I only meant for it to seem like I had died." Sherlock began. "Ball under the arm to make it appear that I didn't have a pulse to convince John. And a DNA switch from autopsy that Molly and I had agreed on before hand."

Irene turned back around to face the counter. She pulled a mug from the tree and made Sherlock his customary coffee with two sugars. He took it gratefully, warming his hands. Irene grabbed her own coffee and led Sherlock to the living area where they sat closely on the loveseat.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I was hoping maybe, I would be able to stay with you. I don't really have another place to go to and I can't leave the country until the media dies down." Irene nodded, even if she wanted to, she could never turn away Sherlock Holmes. He smiled appreciatively.

"What do you have with you?"

"What you see on my person is all I have with me. Everything I own is at Baker Street."

"Okay, then we'll order you some clothes and personal affects from the internet." Irene paused. "Who else knows that you're alive? Apart from Molly and myself."

"No-one. To everyone by the three of us, Sherlock Holmes is dead." Irene nodded and thought quietly to herself for a moment, aware that Sherlock was watching her face intently.

"Right, well, go have a shower and relax, then get some sleep. I'll wash and dry the clothes you have on you ready for when you wake up. And I'll make us some food… no arguments, you're eating."

"Irene, I…"

"Hey, you saved my life. At least let me try and make yours a little more comfortable 'in death'." Sherlock sighed and nodded reluctantly. He put down his mug, which was now empty and stood from the loveseat. Feeling the need to be close to him, Irene also stood. Sherlock turned to her, before disappearing to the en-suite bathroom to do as he was told and take a shower.

"Thank you, Irene." He said, kissing her forehead and withdrawing from the room. Irene sighed and said,

"You're welcome." Just as the door closed behind him.

As soon as Irene heard the shower start, presuming Sherlock was safely in the bathroom, she went to the bedroom to collect his clothing to be washed. She shuddered as she threw them in the washing machine, noting that his shirt was blood-stained from the fake head wound that would have resulted from the impact on the concrete surface when he landed after jumping.

"If his shirt is bloody, then his scarf will be too." Irene said, and upon walking to the coat hanger, taking the garment for closer inspection, she saw that his scarf was worse than his shirt. His coat, surprisingly didn't have any blood on it what so-ever. She placed the scarf into the barrel of the machine with the rest of his clothes, added fabric softener and 'Vanish' and placed it on a spin cycle.

Sherlock stood in the shower and relaxed under the hot spray of water. His muscles were tense from the stress of having to be 'dead', so he focused on relaxing each one and felt a sense of peace. He knew that going to Irene had been the right thing to do, since Karachi, he'd had a hard time getting her out of his head. She intrigued him and he refused to admit that it was anything else other than that.

Ever since he saved her life that day, she'd been officially dead to the world and now that he was also officially dead, he needed Irene's help to get through this. They could be 'dead' together.

If Irene's memories of Sherlock were correct, she wouldn't have long before he was out of the shower. So opening a browser on her laptop and typing in the search bar in record time, she was hunting for something she knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to live without.

A violin.