Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot.
John thought he had seen the last of Irene Adler.
After that afternoon of returning home to find the dominatrix snuggled up in Sherlock's bed, he realized he had had enough of her. He never wanted to see her again. But when he later found out about her demise in Karachi, he couldn't help feeling some form of sadness. It was mostly for Sherlock, who had seemed to develop feelings for the woman, in his own unusual way.
Sherlock seemed to have looked right through John's lie, but they never talked about her again.
John had thought she was out of his life, but once a liar, always a liar, and there she was—standing in the middle of Sherlock's bedroom and looking rather striking in black.
He froze and raised a hand, gripping the doorframe. He slowly shook his head. "No."
She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. "I haven't said anything."
"You don't need to," John said, roughly swallowing. "Get out. Now. There's nothing for you here."
Irene cocked an eyebrow. "Isn't there?" she asked, her voice dripping with temptation.
"That's right," he answered, nodding frantically. John bowed his head and shut his eyes.
"I saw the papers."
"Then you know what happened!" John raised his head, tossing her a look. "You know what happened, and there's nothing here. You shouldn't even be here, or am I blessed to have your ghost grace my presence, as well?"
Irene stayed silent. She pursed her red lips and carefully walked over to the army doctor, reaching out and touching his shaking shoulders. Her fingers curled against the folds of his jumper. "I'm not dead."
John turned his head, studying her. He roughly swallowed. "That's what he tells me, too."
She gave him a soft smile and ran her fingers down his arm. "Let's have a drink."
Manicured fingers wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle and leaned over, pouring the rich liquid into the waiting glass in John's hand. She watched him carefully and drew back when it was half-full. The doctor looked down and moved the glass, the contents swishing. She filled her own.
"How are you here? Why aren't you dead?"
She took a long drink before looking at John. Giving him a smile, she ran a finger around the brim. "Somebody wanted me alive."
"Well, thank God for that," he muttered, shaking his head and raising the glass to his lips, sipping at the wine.
Irene tilted her head. "You don't seem pleased."
John smirked and laughed. "I don't like being lied to." She dropped her gaze and tossed back her wine. "Do I get to know who this 'somebody' is?"
She glanced at him as she reached for the bottle. "A superhero." She smiled and refilled her glass. "With the dark cape and the moonlight in the background." She tapped the top of the bottle against the brim of her glass before setting it back down. Irene leaned against an arm of the couch and pulled a leg to her chest. "With the wind blowing and the sweet smell of victory in the air." Winking, she sipped.
John laughed again and leaned back, too. "Very descriptive. Thank you."
They drank in silence.
He's sad. I think he misses you.
When John woke up the next morning, he carefully walked down the stairs and entered the sitting room. The wine and glasses were still on the coffee table.
"I made eggs."
He furrowed his brow and turned his head towards the kitchen. Irene stood there, setting a plate on the table. Her wet hair lay against her shoulders. A bath robe clung to her figure. The sight was all too familiar. He stood near his chair and blinked.
Irene raised an eyebrow and stared at him. "I made eggs," she repeated, as if that was the problem.
John nodded and shuffled into the kitchen, reaching out and pulling the plate towards him. "Oh, um, well." He studied the food and glanced at her. She spun around and dug in a drawer. She turned back around and held out a fork. John stared at the utensil and awkwardly grabbed it. He dropped his gaze down to the food and swallowed, nodding. "Thanks."
Irene crossed her arms over her chest and walked down the hall. "No problem."
Once the breakfast was finished and the plate and fork pushed into the sink, John followed Irene's path. Sherlock's bedroom door was cracked, making him stop in his tracks. He stayed frozen and waited. He imagined Sherlock waltzing out, head held high. He'd give John a look as he'd walk past and toss back a "you coming?" before leaving the flat.
But he didn't come out. Nobody did.
John sniffed and walked towards the bedroom, carefully pushing open the door. He poked his head in and looked around. The bed was unmade, and clothes lay on the floor. He narrowed his eyes and shoved the rest of the door open with his shoulder, walking into the room. He bent over and picked up the clothing, running his fingers against the fabric. They were Irene's clothing from the day before. He furrowed his brow and looked around the room, no sign of the woman anywhere.
"Right," he breathed out.
He folded the clothes and set them on the dresser. He walked over and made up the bed.
He screams while he sleeps, did you know?
Irene sat in the armchair, legs crossed as she typed away on her phone. A thud came from upstairs, making her raise her head and stare at the ceiling. She furrowed her brow and slowly looked back down at her phone. She scanned the screen before pressing down on a few buttons.
"No, no!"
She paused again. Irene tilted her head and gripped her mobile as she slipped out of the chair. She quietly padded out of the room and towards the stairs. She walked up, the shouting increasing in volume.
"Sherlock, don't!"
She stopped in front of John's bedroom and leaned in, pressing her ear to the wood.
"Oh, Sherlock…"
Looking down, she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and slowly turned it. The knob stuck, and the lock clicked. Irene bit her lip and drew her hand back. She glanced at the door before shaking her head and stepping away. She was silent for a few seconds, hoping to hear an indication that John was still asleep. When a snore sounded, she turned and went back downstairs.
She returned to the armchair and pulled her legs to her chest. She stared at the empty chair across from her and bit her lip.
"Why do you keep your door locked?"
Lifting his head from his breakfast, John blinked several times before furrowing his brow. "My door?"
Irene stared at him from across the table. "Yes."
He looked down at his food and stabbed at his egg. "An intruder might barge in." He shoved some into his mouth. "Never know what could happen."
Irene pursed her lips and looked down. "Right."
After her rescue in Karachi, Sherlock whisked Irene away in a car. Nobody spoke, their heavy breathing the only sounds in the vehicle. Irene's hair was a sweaty, tangled mess, and Sherlock's eyes were fixated on a single point in the road.
She looked over at him and roughly swallowed. "Let's have dinner."
Sherlock gave her a wild smile and laughed.
They had dinner later that night. To the stale smell of the hotel's sheets, to the sweet baritone in her ear, everything was brilliant.
She woke up in wonderful pain and alone. She searched the hotel room and could only find a single scrap of paper on the bathroom counter.
Goodbye, Ms. Adler.
Irene arrived back in London three weeks after The Fall. She was greeted with newspapers proclaiming the news of the fake genius' suicide.
She paused outside of a shop and stared at the newspaper rack next to the door. She froze at the headline, eyes wide. Fear flashed through her mind for a second. Soon, she smiled and shook her head. No, he was too clever. There must have been something behind all this. He wouldn't have just went up and left.
And she was right.
Irene was checking into a hotel (under the alias of Cheryl Lock) when a voice whispered in her ear.
"Ms. Adler, I presume."
She wasn't surprised when she turned around and saw Sherlock Holmes standing behind her. She smiled. "Hello again."
Sherlock straightened up and handed some money and his ID to the woman behind the counter. "Put that under Hudson instead."
"You look absolutely ridiculous."
"Well, I can't just walk about London just so anymore, can I?"
Sherlock had cut his hair short, smoothed it back, and colored it brown. He was wearing an oversized jumper and jeans, worn Converse shoes poking out from under the hem.
Irene shook her head. "Absolutely ridiculous."
He narrowed his eyes. "Says the woman going under Cheryl Lock now."
She moved to sit down on the bed, crossing her legs as she sat on the edge. "Need I mention anything about your choice, John?"
Sherlock's fingers tapped against his legs. "That's different," he said softly.
"It always is," she replied, studying him. "How did you do it?"
He moved and stood in front of her, eyes flickering about. He smirked. "Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
So, Sherlock told her.
Irene gripped Sherlock's shoulders and dug her nails into the pale flesh. "What do you need from me?"
Sherlock's fingers slid up her sides and caressed her ribcage. "A favor."
She rolled and fell onto her back. "Name it."
He sat up and grabbed her waist. "John."
She raised her arms and stretched. "What about him?"
He dipped down and kissed the spot underneath her navel. "Watch over him."
She shut her eyes and pressed her cheek against the sheets. "Just watch?"
He reached out and hooked an arm around her middle. "Keep him company."
She sucked in a breath and nodded. "Okay."
He's angry.
John returned to the flat that evening after a long day from work. He hung his coat on the rack and dragged himself up the stairs, rubbing his hands together. All he wanted to do was have a nice cuppa, sit on the couch, and watch bad telly.
However, Irene Adler had other plans.
She sat in Sherlock's armchair, legs draped over the arm. She held a pillow to her chest as she watched the television.
John stared at her, shaking his head. "What?"
She blinked and turned to look at him. "I haven't said anything."
He sighed and flexed his fingers. "Of course not." He bowed his head and went into the kitchen.
John walked through the sitting room, tossing a look at Irene, who was flipping through a book. He narrowed his eyes. "Don't you have anywhere else to stay?"
"No." She glanced at him, and John swore he saw a flash of a smile.
"You think this is funny, don't you? Staying here and fluttering about." Irene looked up again, furrowing her brow. John waved a hand. "Don't look at me like that."
"I thought you would like the company." She went back to her book.
"Not your company. I would rather have bloody Jim Moriar—" He paused and shut his eyes, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "No, just. Ignore that."
"That can be arranged."
John dropped his hand and looked at her with wide eyes. "Don't fucking tell me he's al—"
"—no, no." Irene lowered her book and shook her head. "Grab some wine. Let's have a drink and chat."
"I don't want to have a drink with you," he spit out, scrubbing a hand through his hair and walking into the kitchen. He went into a cabinet and grabbed two glasses. As he walked back into the room, he grabbed the wine bottle.
Irene smiled and held out her hand. "Good boy."
He comes from a family of drinkers.
John turned his head and scanned the book in Irene's hands. He furrowed his brow, raising a hand to rub his eyes. "Can you read in German, too?"
She smiled. "Yes."
"Oh, God," he breathed out, shaking his head. He smacked his lips and reached out, grabbing the wine bottle. "I need something stronger."
"I only enjoy wine."
He snorted. "Of course." He straightened up and filled his glass to the brim. He glanced at Irene and set the bottle down. "I don't usually drink," he softly said. "Only with… friends. Never really alone." Irene placed a finger on a line and turned her head, staring at John. He roughly swallowed and looked down. "Not really my thing. More of—nevermind." He raised his glass. "Forget it."
"Your sister's thing?" Irene finished, tilting her head. "Or perhaps your father's?" John's eyes widened and lowered his wine. She smiled again. "Alcoholism seems to run in families. Possibly your father watched his father, his father to his father, and so on." Adjusting the book, she sank down in the chair. "The occasional aunt, too."
John watched her, jaw locked and fist clenched. He stared at the floor and narrowed his eyes. "I think you should leave."
Glancing at him, Irene shut her book and set it on the arm of the chair. She stood up and smoothed out her dress. "Goodnight, Doctor Watson." She turned and started towards the door, arms swaying at her sides.
John bit his lip and shook his head. He rubbed his neck and sighed. "No, wait. Come back." She paused and slowly spun on her heels. She faced him and crossed her arms over her chest. "H-How. How did you know all that?" he asked quietly.
Irene studied him before stretching out her arm. "Hand me your phone."
He likes to keep himself busy.
"Are you doing something?"
Irene turned away from the bookshelf and raised an eyebrow. "Not particularly." She stared at John, who was stationed in the doorway. He had a small box to his chest, hands clasped across the front to obscure the picture on the surface. "Why?"
He looked down and shrugged. "I found this puzzle, and I was wondering. Well." He glanced at Irene, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "You know."
She walked towards him and reached out, taking the box from his hands. She stared at the cover, at the snow-covered bridge and couples skating on a frozen lake. "Sure."
It's sad.
After a stressful day at work, John dragged himself into the flat and sat down in his armchair, laptop in front. He carefully typed, as if he was being scrutinized. Several minutes of silence followed his pecking, and, soon, soft music flowed from the laptop's speakers. John leaned back and shut his eyes, taking a deep breath.
Sherlock's bedroom door opened, then, and exited Irene. She walked down the hall, eyes wide. She stopped by the kitchen table and stared at him.
John opened his eyes and looked ahead, spying the woman, a simple blue dress clinging to her figure. He pressed his lips together.
"Bad day?"
He looked down and kept quiet. Irene pursed her lips and entered the room. She stood in front of John and laid a hand on the laptop. "Do you dance?"
Roughly swallowing, he half-shrugged and nodded. "Sure. Yeah."
She grabbed the device and swung it around, setting it on the opposite chair. She stretched out her arm.
John glanced at her before slowly standing up, slipping his hand into hers. Irene softly smiled as she backed up, going to the center of the room. The music increased in volume as she placed her other hand on John's shoulder, his hand gripping her waist.
And they danced.
John spun them around and stepped closer. Irene curled her fingers into the thick jumper and pinched the fabric. She leaned in and studied him. "Who taught you how to dance, Doctor Watson?" she whispered.
He weakly smiled and laughed, tightening his hold on her waist. "Irene Adler," he began, slipping a hand into her hair. His fingers twisted around the brunette locks. "What are you doing here?"
She lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek. "What are you doing here?" she repeated, lowering her hand and cupping his neck. "There is nothing here for you. Every time you return, you only sink deeper. The only one you're hurting is yourself."
John narrowed his eyes and curled his fingers. "You know why I'm still here," he muttered. "I'm not the only one who cared about him."
"I know," she said.
The music stopped, but they kept turning.
When are you coming back?
"Let's have a drink."
John lowered the newspaper from his face. Irene stared at him from across the room, curled on the couch with a pillow in her arms, the navy blue bathrobe wrapped around tight. She looked fragile. He pursed his lips and raised the paper. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Have you had your fill?" She set the pillow down and slipped off the sofa. She walked over and pushed the newspaper down, raising an eyebrow.
He squinted and tilted his head. "Can I ask you a question?"
Irene furrowed her brow and pulled her hand back. "Well, I suppose—"
"—thanks. I'm just curious as to how long you're going to be hanging around. It's been about, I don't know, three weeks, a month, since you popped on the front step." He roughly folded the paper, setting it on the side table. He propped his head up, fully staring at Irene now. "How does this work?"
She shifted her weight onto her other leg. "You haven't been complaining before."
"I'm not complaining. I'm genuinely curious. Every time I try and talk to you about it, you side-step the conversation and turn it back on me."
Irene looked down at the floor.
"No answer?"
"I'm repaying someone," she said, lifting her head and staring at John.
He drummed his fingertips against his cheek. "Is it the same someone who wanted you alive? The superhero with the dark cape and the moonlight?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
They stared at one another, each testing the other. John narrowed his eyes and bit his cheek. Irene held her head high, the corner of her mouth quirking. Soon, he huffed out a breath and pushed himself up. "I need some air. I'm going out." He marched over to the door, grabbing his coat from the hanger.
Irene kept silent as John hurried out of the flat.
Surely it doesn't take this long to take down a criminal web.
"Oh."
John froze in the middle of the hall, staring into Sherlock's room. Irene stood in front of the mirror, a brush running through her hair. She hummed.
He looked down at the freshly cleaned clothing in his arms and curled his fingers against them.
"Oh."
He's such a flirt.
The front door slammed shut and footsteps marched up the stairs. Irene turned her head and lowered her phone, staring at the doorway and anticipating the doctor's return.
John stopped at the landing and stared at Irene, rolling his shoulders. "Evening." He flexed his fingers.
She studied him and glanced back at her phone, pressing a few buttons. "Tense?"
"Nope." He strode across the room, slipping his coat off his shoulders and draping it over the nearby armchair. "Let's have a drink." He grabbed the wine bottle and wiped the neck with his sleeve. He turned to her. "Grab the glasses." He smiled.
Irene wrapped her legs around John's waist and dug her heels into his back. "Oh, Doctor Watson," she breathed out, shutting her eyes.
He raised a hand and pressed a finger to her red lips. "Don't talk," he muttered, running his fingertips against the backs of her thighs. She nodded and wrapped an arm around John's neck, pulling him close. Her fingers slid through his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.
John nestled in between her legs and pressed his lips to her neck. "You're amazing," he muttered. "Fantastic. Bloody brilliant."
Her lips pursed against his ear. "I know," she sighed.
Don't you dare. SH
The first lights of the morning peeked in through the window. John turned over in bed, on his back, and rubbed at his eyes. He blinked a couple times as he lowered his hands, setting them on his chest. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning his head, noticing Irene watching. The covers were pulled up to her chin, and her hair was a dark, wavy mess against the pillow. John slowly smiled and chuckled. He looked back up at the ceiling.
"I haven't said anything."
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. "You don't have to."
Too late.
John set a plate in front of Irene. He pushed a glass of wine beside it. "Don't get too excited. It's nothing special." He turned away and started preparing his own dinner.
She chewed on her lip and glanced at him. "I have to go."
"What for?" He looked over his shoulder just as Irene slipped her phone away. "Did something come up?"
"Yes, exactly." She grabbed the glass and took a drink from it. Licking her lips, she set it down and slid out of her chair.
John watched as she gathered her things. He looked at a spot on the floor and nodded. "Who texted you?"
Irene gave him a small smile and walked over, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."
"Has something happened?" he asked, giving her a look as she passed him. She paused by the doorway and turned to him. "Do I need to worry? I don't want to lose somebody else," he added, waving a hand.
Scanning him, she gave one shake of her head. "No need," she replied, and then left.
You're no longer required. SH
It was nearing eleven when John dragged himself upstairs. He slipped off his jumper and slung it over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. He immediately froze and gripped the doorframe.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, looking thin and spent in black. He lifted his head and raised his eyebrows, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He rolled his shoulders once, inviting John in.
He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "Where the hell have you been?"
So, Sherlock told him.
It's been a pleasure.
"You're absolutely insane," John breathed out, shutting his eyes. "Absolutely, completely, irrevocably insane." He laughed and shook his head, raising up and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I've missed you so much."
Sherlock slipped his fingers around John's throat and laughed against his lips. "I know."