Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes wouldn't admit it. His face wouldn't reveal it, nor would his actions. He knew that there was not the slightest of change on his readable features that would allow anyone to see. However the fact refused to waver as it kept immerging in his thoughts, his dreams, and his nightmares. It ate away at his core, as a crow slowly eats from a corpse, oh so painstakingly slow.

He had lost trace of where his thoughts were coming from; if they were logical, commingled with emotion, or some combination of the two. On one hand, Moriarty was very capable of lying. In fact, it amused him quite a lot. He also enjoyed torture, stabbing one with a fish hook proved so with no question. Perhaps he had taken Irene from him to be used later, or to plague with assortments of terrors in revenge for making some of his missions go askew. No corpse was seen, which normally translated to his logical mind that there was no evidence proving or disproving the fact. Besides, cold, unblinking eyes would give himself a far greater reaction, if that was all Moriarty was trying to get.

The blood on the handkerchief was real, and so was the Parisian perfume. Killing Irene could prove quite useful to The Professor, for it would be a potential double-agent or spy out of his way. She knew too much, her affections towards Holmes made her incapable of preforming tasks that only she could conjure. Therefore, there wasn't a reason not to finish her off.

Hoping, though, was his greatest fear. If the fact that Irene was dead, probablydead, mostly likely passed on, perhaps alive—if it tore at him so much and he let himself actually believe she still had breath within her lungs…

Then the possibilities haunted him too. What if she was living, even as he was staring blankly at the newspaper he held in front of him? Waiting, waiting for someone to find her, and then never appearing. The woman could be anywhere, at the mercy of Moriarty's men, locked away without food or drink, somewhere, relying on him; He that was sitting, contemplating her existence. He, who refused to believe she was alive, though knew that there was a possibility. He who knew that she could be out there, but wasn't brave enough to leave his flat to search for her. And she could be relying on him.

Where would I search? Though he knew he was fully capable of tracking down Moran and finding out from him. Or, though it would be more difficult, he could easily go and look for clues since he wasn't preoccupied at the moment.

No case seemed to grab his attention, nothing. They were all the same: loss, death, crime which would lead to punishment. None of this bothered him, gruesome bodies he would inspect in a case, their crying families... Watson would call him heartless, which wasn't accurate at all. He didn't express his feelings as one normally would, only internally. The idea eternal loss of someone never struck him so hard, though, until now. She was was she?

Shut up.

Standing up abruptly, sending the chair to the ground. He threw the newspaper aside. What interest he had in it to start with escaped him. When it flittered in the air instead of hitting the floor with the loud noise he had hoped for, he plucked it from where it hung. Chest heaving slightly, he crumpled it within his calloused hands and tossed it into the fire keeping the biting knife of winter away. The way the flames enveloped and then devoured the paper was satisfying.

The game was over, Watson was safe, he was more or less alive as well, but the scars didn't heal. His shoulder always pained him and slowed him down. He wouldn't be able to fight like he did, nor go on just as he had before. Irene left the same mark.

"Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson hollered from outside the door.

Each time she banged on the door when he didn't respond was like a hammer fall to the secluded world of his mind. At first only cracks appeared, until piece by piece each shard fell and cracked. He was pulled back to what was real, reality was coming into focus. His annoyance with his landlady was steadily growing.

And then he saw the photograph, Irene's sepia eyes staring back at him in her smug expression. The detective knew, however, those orbs that would stare at him with such radiance, were icy blue. He didn't remember putting the portrait in its proper position though. The last time, he believed, was when the woman herself placed it there.

He took a step towards it with the intention of putting it down. Perhaps he shouldn't touch it, for then she wouldn't be the last person to put her fingerprints on the frame. But he couldn't have it looking at him anymore could he? It was irrational to waste his time on her any longer. She was gone, and mourning for ages would help nothing. She wouldn't want him to.

Something inside of him stirred. His hand froze, hovering above the photograph of Irene Adler, Ms. Adler, the woman.

Would he ever rest until he had solid proof of the question he dared not search the answer? It was also quite obvious that pushing the thought away was futile, for it had failed so many times. Putting down her portrait did nothing. Facts proved things such as revealing that Lord Blackwood to be nothing more than a man with many a helpful tool at his disposal. Facts would give him the answer, like they had so many times before.

His shoulder feeling slightly better than earlier that day, he sighed, and left the picture as it was.

I'm trying to restrict my habbit of starting stories while I'm already working on other projects, but I couldn't help it. This has turned into a continuation of this previous one-shot. Reviews are motivation to update quicker *wink, wink*