This has been in my drafts for years, and I thought, to hell with it, i'm gonna post it as it is. Originally it was 100% platonic but then... well, this happened. I blame Jude Law in Anna Karenina.

Yeah, probably no one's gonna read this one, but it's one of my favorite things I've ever written so here, i'm posting it anyways.

Act I

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I had seen her but once in my life, through the veil of lacy curtains and artificial smoke. Then Holmes' plans went awry —a novelty in itself— and just as suddenly as we were driven into her path, she had fled ours.

I had caught, of course, glimpses of her photograph, in the rare occasions when Holmes' broods rescued it from its dusty tomb, locked inside one of the drawers of his desk.

In these instances, he'd sit by the fireplace holding the portrait in a manner that prevented any passers-by (meaning me) from properly examining the object of his attention, and really, by the constant lack of expression on his face, he could have fooled the world into thinking he was looking at a painting of the most boring landscape in England.

I knew better, and he knew he wasn't fooling me. Still, I let him keep this pretense; it gave him his privacy in a way, privacy that he would never ask for, as in his mind the concept of needing privacy denoted a sentimentality he was not willing to recognize in himself.

He gave himself away so stupidly sometimes, though. For all the indifference shown to the photograph, Holmes guarded it zealously, as if the sight of it was meant for his eyes only. He kept it locked up for this reason, and I believe also because if it were to sit proudly on top of his desk, it would cause an unnecessary distraction.

I could hardly say I had her face memorized, and if I were to describe her I'd surely fail, for the mental image her name evoked was hazy, faded by the effects of time, blurred as if seen through a distorted glass.

And yet, I had not the slightest doubt it was her, standing in my medical practice, with her lovely face covered in little cuts and bruises, holding her left hand awkwardly in front of her and asking me in the most casual manner to take care of her injuries.

Shocked as I was (she had ran away to the continent, after all, never to set foot in England again), I allowed instinct to take over and politely asked her to sit down while I readied my equipment. She complied and I was quick to start the examination of her hand. Two broken fingers, sprained wrist. I was working up the courage to ask what (most likely who) had caused this damage, while cursing Holmes for choosing today to leave London.

While pondering on that, I also came to the realization that we had never officially met, and though she had seen through Holmes' disguise, she had no reason to know who I was, nor that I was in any way associated with him.

For whatever reason she was in London, and for whatever reason she was injured, she had been looking for a Doctor to tend to her, and most likely somebody she knew recommended my services. She could not possibly know I was the man that once threw a smoke rocket into her house in order to make her believe there was a fire.

After repeating that to myself a couple of times more, I felt my anxiety settle and finally found myself able to speak.

"Madame, if it is not overstepping, may I ask how you obtained these injuries?"

"Well, Doctor Watson, as you may recall from my letter to your friend, male costume is nothing new to me, and neither is the trouble it occasionally gets me in," she replied cryptically, then seeming to remember herself, she extended her good hand to me. "How rude of me to skip a proper introduction, but that's Americans for you. Nice to finally meet you, Doctor Watson. I hope you hold no resentment for past actions of mine that may have caused you and your friend inconveniences."

Ah, but she had followed us back to Baker Street that night, had she not?

"Enchanted," I said as politely as I could, wondering for a moment what to do with the offered hand, set in front of me at a strange angle that made it unclear whether she expected me to kiss it or shake it. Clearly, it was a test, did I see an ordinary woman? or had Holmes, and therefore I, learned our lesson and viewed her as our equal?

The answer was clear to me, so I took her hand and shook it firmly, as if she were a man. It was obviously the right thing to do, as her pleased smile revealed.

"Now, Miss Adler," I ventured, purposefully mistaking her name to find out whether she was still married, and dutifully she corrected me.

"Mrs. Norton"

"I beg your pardon. Mrs. Norton, I'm afraid I need you to be more specific, how did you come to have these injuries?"

She was silent, and I could see the wheels turning inside her head, as she was surely thinking up a good enough excuse. Hopefully Holmes would be back in time to see her and find out the truth.

"I will spare you the excuses, Doctor, if you do me a little favor."

I was unaccustomed to women being this outspoken, hell, even most men I knew weren't this straight-forward! (except, of course, the very man to whom I owed having met this woman).

"Well, that depends on the favor, although surely you must understand that if I don't agree I will still know whatever you have told me is a lie."

She smiled like the proverbial cat who got the mouse, making me feel cheated even though she was the one to blow her bluff.

"Consider it a wager that you'll agree."

"What is this favor you speak of?" I said urgently, and to my shame somewhat ungentlemanly, but since we were being so straight-forward and her request for a handshake declared she would not accept any condescension from me, it seemed being as direct as her was the right course of action.

"I would very much appreciate it if you did not mention this to your..." Her hesitation made me nervous, for it seemed she was holding back from making an assumption I was not unfamiliar with. "Your colleague," at last she said, with a diplomacy that reminded me how versatile she could be. "I'm convinced our dear Mr. Holmes is an objective man who can accept his defeat gracefully, however -and I'm sure you can understand my position- I would not put it past him to... retaliate."

"I assure you my friend would never inconvenience you like that," was my tight reply.

"Oh, I believe you, I truly do. But my being in London is a bit of a confidential matter, and I would rather keep it that way."

"Confidential to whom?"

"Ah, nothing escapes you, does it?" her eyes gleamed, in a somewhat mischievous manner that made me uncomfortable beyond reason. I returned my attention to her wounded hand, deciding to disregard her comment. "It is my husband who doesn't know of this little escapade," she continued after a while, in a businesslike voice that betrayed her lack of desire to elaborate. "I had a few matters to attend to, loose ends I had no time to tie, what with my rushed departure and all."

I half-chuckled, half-grunted at that, looking back up to find a smug look on her face. For some reason, her constant gloating did not annoy me as much as it should have; there was something truly lovely about her, a kind of elegance so innate not even rudeness could damper its charm, a casual air of conceit in her posture that spoke of confidence so great it feared no assault, a winner so deserving that her success could never be held against her.

"My friend has no way of contacting your husband, nor motivation to give you away to him, so I don't see how it would affect your plans if I were to mention your presence in London to him." I began bandaging her hand then. "In fact, I rather think he'd enjoy having a word with you. He holds for you nothing but the greatest admiration, I believe."

"Does he, now?" her voice reflected amusement but her eyes went dark, pensive, lost in some very interesting detail of the wallpaper in front of her. She seemed — dare I say it? — melancholic, and although I barely knew her (and what I did know of her wasn't entirely pleasing), I felt the strangest pang of sympathy, even though I had not the scarcest idea what was making her grieve so.

"The Woman, he calls you, as if to him there is no other." I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. God, if Holmes ever finds out about this...

But it was almost worth it, to see the stunned, breathless look on her face. She stared at me with eyes like moons, round and luminous, irises a pale gray and pupils tiny —she was facing the window, the full force of the morning's white light giving her skin an ethereal glow, and in that moment she looked like the ghost of some long-mourned lover.

Whose lover, mine or his, to this day I'm not sure.

It was truly quite a thing for a mortal to behold. I will go to hell for it, but when she seemed to start recovering I scrambled to keep her in that state.

"He rejected the King's payment, and asked only to keep your photograph."

The color she had begun to regain flushed right out of her face. Her breath quickened, and I pressed my fingers to the inside of the wrist I was still holding, counting the galloping beats of her heart with morbid fascination.

"He keeps it locked up, can't bear to look at it for too long, lest he-"

"Stop." Her eyes were closed, teeth pressing hard on her lower lip.

When she released it, it was red as blood. Her eyes opened to reveal baby blue irises and dilated pupils.

Not the ghost anymore, but the lover. Panting, restless, intoxicated. Burning.

She smiled at me with those burning eyes, though her mouth remained half-opened, fighting for air that consumed halfway to her lungs. I knew because I felt it too.

"Oh, Doctor Watson..." she breathed in her low voice, sending an explosion of shivers through me. "I am ever in your debt."

She removed her hand from my hold (I was not done with the bandaging, but she didn't seem interested and I had not the strength to protest) and used the uninjured one to pat my cheek.

Then she was gone, and for the next hour I struggled to remember the exact shade of yellow of my Mary's hair.

Holmes came home long after nightfall, pulling impatiently at his fake beard while talking excitedly about one of the cleverest robberies he'd seen in a long time.

"Such a shame the guard tried to take on the culprit, Watson. He might've seen their face instead of being beaten to a pulp."

She never did tell me how she sprained her wrist.