I know a place. SH

I've had years to decide where we're dining. Zafferano. I expect you there in no more than half an hour. IA

Belgravia. How predictable. SH

And I assumed Italian would be a little vanilla for you. SH

It was chosen with you in mind. IA

Sherlock scoffed at this; he wasn't vanilla at all! Perhaps rather avoidant of romance and feelings but that certainly didn't make him vanilla! At least, not in his own opinion. In Irene's, on the other hand…

He was already quite aware that the Woman would already have a restaurant in mind (she had had four years of asking him to dinner to decide, after all) and judging by the name of her choice of flowers this restaurant would be in Belgravia; she'd want them to dine in a location which somehow related to where they first met. She had always been rather obsessed with ensuring that Sherlock kept her in mind which she really didn't need to do as he knew he could never bring himself to forget about her, regardless of what information could be stored in her place. With these details considered, he had already taken a cab to Belgravia. Zafferano was only a few minutes' walk from where he stood currently. He took this walk somewhat slowly, giving himself extra time to think over the possibilities of various events which could occur over dinner. There would most likely be some form of physical contact between the two of them, reminiscent of their time spent with one another in Karachi and whilst 'dead'. She'd probably pinch the young waiter's bum and, in return, receive a complimentary glass of wine. He'd definitely say something he probably shouldn't mention but, unlike when they had first known each other, she wouldn't use this information to attempt to bring the nation to its knees; instead, she'd just smile at his carelessness.

As he approached the restaurant, Sherlock noticed Irene smile after presumably having caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. "Miss Adler," he spoke as she stood up from her seat. As ever, he couldn't help opening his mouth slightly as he looked at her, slightly in awe of just how beautiful she was. He could understand why so many men, himself included, had given away important and vitally confidential information away to her.

"Mr Holmes. Or are we on a first name basis now?" She smirked as she saw the impression she had made on the detective. Irene brushed a finger over his dusty blue shirt, the front of which was exposed beneath his coat, "I prefer you in purple."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"We're having dinner. I'm not sure even your blue shirt could dampen my current mood."

Sherlock suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Irene looked perfectly elegant; her long curls were draped over her shoulders, giving her a less 'dominating' appearance than with her usual choice of victory rolls. She wore a cap-sleeved dress with a high neckline which was white but had parts which were comprised solely of black lace. Of course, she had on her signature red-soled black Louboutins and teardrop diamond earrings. Her lips had been painted blood red and her eyes lined in black. Over her arm she held a black coat. Stood next to her, Sherlock felt completely out of place. It was quite surreal, he thought, having her there in front of him after her presence being simply chimerical, only in his mind palace, for what had seemed like forever. He hesitated for a second before speaking, "you look… what time are our reservations?"

Irene looked bewildered by this, "reservations? I thought you would have booked the table."

"You decided where we were going and told me to meet you in half an hour…"

"Yes, but I expected that you'd make the reservations!"

The great detective felt like an utter idiot. It was not often that he went out to eat and so the thought of booking a table had completely slipped his mind. Had he really misunderstood something so obvious? He looked around, considering going in and asking if they'd be able to give them a table without booking, though he knew this was not a possibility in a well-rated Italian restaurant in such a desirable London area.

Unexpectedly, the Woman began to laugh, "you really thought I'd take you for dinner but expect you to book the table? Oh, Mr Holmes," she rolled her eyes at his look of annoyance, "for someone so intelligent you are rather stupid."

Sherlock glared at her for a second. "Shall we?" he asked in an extremely bored tone. He placed a hand on her lower back and guided her into Zafferano, leaning in to whisper to her as they entered the restaurant. "Don't make me change my mind, Miss Adler."

"How can I stop you?" She uttered back, wearing a mischievous look on her face.

"Oh, I don't know… perhaps you could beg for mercy. Twice."

"Never in my life, Mr Holmes."

"Twice." He suppressed a grin as he approached a middle aged gentleman at a small wooden stand by the front entrance. The waiter asked if they had a booking, his accent very proper, and showed them to their table after Irene gave the man Sherlock's surname.

"Paolo shall be serving you today; he'll be with you briefly. Enjoy your meal, Mr and Mrs Holmes." The waiter walked back over to his stand and Sherlock noticed that Irene bore a smug look upon her face.

"Everything OK, Miss Adler?"

"Mrs Holmes, I think you'll find."

"We aren't wearing wedding rings. We weren't holding hands. We -"

"You had your hand on my back whilst whispering in my ear."

"That is not the kind of body language portrayed by a married couple. My hand placed on your lower back suggests a less serious relationship as opposed to holding hands; interlocking fingers would imply a stable, long-term relationship whereas a hand placed simply on your back shows less commitment – it is a 'bond' which could break at any time, much like the relationship. With this in mind, my whispering to you would be assumed – correctly assumed – to be something too inappropriate to say aloud. More often than not, married couples are, publicly, much more romantic and placid whereas less serious couples are more sexual and bold in their behaviour." Sherlock gave a quick smile before picking up a menu for himself. Speaking more slowly this time, he said "shall we have the house white?"

Irene sat opposite him, her smirk gone from her face, "do you remember me telling you I'd have you on the table?"

The smirk found its way onto Sherlock's face, "until I beg for mercy twice. How could I forget?"

She leaned across the table and ran her index finger along one of his sharp cheekbones. "Offer's still open."

Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, however, the aforementioned Paolo had approached them. He was tall and thin with olive skin and was about eighteen years old. He had unruly curly hair which was dark brown, nearing black, in colour. His Italian origins were evident even before they had heard his accent, "hello, Mr and Mrs Holmes. I am called Paolo and I be serving for you today. Is a drink I can get for you?"

"We'll have a bottle of the house white."

Irene looked up at Paolo and gave a warm smile, "yes, thank you darling. Could you also bring us a jug of water, please? I'm bound to get ever so thirsty with all the bread," she had used an extremely soft voice – certainly not her usual tone – in an attempt, Sherlock assumed, to charm the boy.

"Of course, yes, that will be with you in short moments," the young waiter nodded to Sherlock before leaving their company to get their drinks.

"'Darling'? Really?" Sherlock frowned in dismay at the Woman who simply smiled back. "You've never even met the boy and you're using pet names"

"I'm being nice."

"Since when?"

Irene laughed and rested her hands on the table, "so what did you get?"

"The house white. You heard -"

"Deduced, Sherlock. What did you deduce?"

The detective leaned back in his seat, a half smile on his face; the one thing he loved more than showing off was being asked to show off. "It's his father's business, obvious due to the Italian accent – the exact one his father has; they're from Florence – not to mention the fact that he looks virtually identical to the man. He's lived in Florence nearly his whole life, which we can tell from his thick accent and terrible grammar, probably with his mother who separated from his father at a young age and moved to London to open an Italian restaurant. He most likely moved over here at sixteen to work for his father as he aspires to be a chef. He's incredibly comfortable in the environment he's working in, suggesting this is his first job and one he's been doing for, say, three years? Assuming he's as young as he looks, which is nineteen. He's slightly nervous, however, which is unusual for him. The rest of his pad is written in extremely neatly, despite the speed at which he has to write, whereas today the writing is slightly wobbly. Possibly an argument with his father shortly before he had to serve us but more likely because he's serving the most beautiful woman in London. Teenage hormones."

Irene shook her head, wiping the proud look from Sherlock's face, "wrong, Mr Holmes. He's gay."

"Excuse me?"

"We'll leave this area to me. As soon as the young man came over he smiled to me but looked startled when he saw you. Like you already said, his English isn't exactly fantastic so he probably doesn't read John's blog and consequently probably doesn't know who you are. So we can cross off 'oh my God I'm serving Sherlock Holmes' from the list. So why didn't he smile at you?" She paused briefly to hear Sherlock mention that he has a website too, "he's in shock from something else, which would be your appearance. Despite my affection in calling him 'darling' he barely offered a single glance to me. Oh, and not to forget his pupils dilating," she smiled at the memory of Sherlock deducing her feelings for him before he had unlocked her phone, "how did you know about his father?"

"Solved a case for him once."

Irene rolled her eyes, "I was hoping for something more interesting than that. You solve cases for everyone."

Paolo approached the table again, this time with a bottle of wine and a jug of water on a tray. He poured a small amount of wine into Sherlock's glass, allowing the detective to try it prior to having a full glass (Sherlock was unaware of this so Irene tried it for him) before pouring a full glass for them both and placing the jug of water on their table. Hardly looking up from his notepad, he asked "are you ready for ordering your food?"

This time, Sherlock looked at the waiter's expression and thus was able to confirm Irene's deductions. Definitely gay. "Yes, we'll have the gnocchi to start with. Just one plate to share."

Paolo asked if he could get them anything else before Irene smiled and told him "no, that's it for now, thank you." After he'd left, she shot an angry glance at Sherlock.

"What?"

"You're so impolite. He's nervous, at least say 'please' and 'thank you'."

"Are you really telling me off now?"

"Discipline is my area of expertise, in case you'd forgotten."

As the meal went on, Sherlock grew to be more and more comfortable around the Woman – much more like he was whilst they'd both been dead together – and found himself feeling things he didn't really understand. It was undeniable that he'd always been attracted to her, yes, but this was something more than that. He found the feeling to be neither discomforting nor unpleasant, just slightly confusing. There had been points during dinner when he had leaned across to hold her hand and he had noticed himself enjoying the affection they offered one another. When they had finished their meal, he had held her hand as they left the restaurant purely because he had wanted to and he couldn't help but smile every time he heard the sound of her euphonious voice. He was behaving horribly romantically, he thought, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to stop himself.

The two of them had decided to go for a walk through the moonlit streets of Belgravia in order to lengthen their time together. Sherlock had done up his coat buttons so as to hide his blue shirt and Irene was now wearing her coat too; it was rather cold, though he supposed it was March and John had reliably informed him that March was not one of the warmest months. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed Irene looking up at him with a smile on her face. "What?"

"You."

Sherlock wore a puzzled expression as he turned his head to face her, "what about me?" He asked.

Irene stopped walking and stood beneath a streetlight, "you called me 'the most beautiful woman in London' earlier."

"Did I?" He frowned, realising he may have made one more deduction than he had expected (something which kept happening lately). She nodded in reply, an adoring smile on her face. "Well… stop smiling! It's putting me off."

"What're you trying to concentrate on?"

"Not stumbling on my words."

The Woman laughed as she did an impression of him on their first meeting: "pazussenovthakurr… position of the car…"

Sherlock gave a small laugh, recalling the embarrassment he had felt in that moment, "God, I sounded stupid."

"You couldn't sound stupid if you tried."

"Not even disguised as the vicar?"

"Not even disguised as the vicar," she closed the small gap between them, now able to feel Sherlock's warm, heavy breaths on her skin.

"I must have made quite the impression."

"I wish you were still dead," she spoke softly, gently brushing his lips with her fingertips, "it'd make this so much easier."

"This?"

Irene ran her fingers through his dark curls before tiptoeing to kiss him. She felt Sherlock's pulse quicken as she ran her hand down his chest and even felt slightly nervous, herself. She wondered how often he thought of her and their moments like this in between them taking down Moriarty's web. Sherlock was the only person Irene had ever become so intimate and honest with, the only person she had ever dropped her guard in front of. She wondered if he had ever been so intimate with anyone else, if he had ever allowed another woman to kiss him and spend time with him. Of course, the closest he ever got to dropping his guard in front of anyone else was John - that went without saying – but she had always believed there was something special in her and Sherlock's relationship. As she pulled away from him, Irene let out a heavy breath, briefly looking down at his lips before looking up at him.

Sherlock glanced around them, unsure of what to say. It had been over a year since he'd seen her, let alone kissed her, and it had made him quite nervous. He pulled out his phone, looking at the time. "Almost ten o'clock. I'd better get a cab back to Baker Street." He saw Irene nod in reply, seemingly disappointed by this.

It wasn't long before a cab passed them and Sherlock was able to call it over. Before he got in, Irene kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand, "goodbye, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock looked confused by this, "goodbye?"

"Yes. It's what people say when they part from one another."

"Are you not coming?" He couldn't stop the grin from slipping onto his face as he said this, knowing full well that she'd happily accept his invitation. They climbed into the cab together, both of them trying to hide their smiles. "Where are you staying?"

"The Landmark. Why?"

"Landmark hotel," Sherlock called to the driver before turning back to Irene, "we'll need to pick up your things. You can stay with me instead. Deliberately chosen location I assume?"

"Less than half a mile from you, extremely deliberate."

As they entered Irene's suite (one of 'the Landmark Suites'), he saw that she had made herself very much at home here. The wardrobe was completely filled with her clothes and the dressing table had been laid out just as her own in Belgravia had been. Sherlock assumed that she had intended to stay here for at least two months, judging by the way she had set up her room. It was an elegantly designed, spacious suite which took influence from late Victorian fashion with regards to wallpaper and furniture. In contrast to the style of the décor, though, there was a large television in the living room and bedroom. It was rather beautiful and very Irene; Sherlock was unsurprised that she had chosen somewhere like this to stay.

Whilst Irene packed up her things, Sherlock chose to sit on the bed. It was luxuriously comfortable and he was grateful to be able to rest his feet after their long walk beforehand. Upon taking out his phone, he noticed one missed call and three new text messages from Mycroft:

Have tried to call, would be appreciative if you offered me a second out of your busy schedule to call back. M

I always seem to forget how utterly incompetent you are when it comes to human interaction. M

John informs me that you are having dinner. With whom, might I ask? M

He tossed his phone aside rolling his eyes at his brother's concern. He'd call him back tomorrow. Seconds after throwing his phone, however, it began to ring again:

Mycroft Holmes (NB: avoid answering) is calling…

With three texts and a missed call, he knew that his brother wasn't going to stop attacking him anytime soon and so Sherlock decided it'd be best if he actually answered. "Dear brother, to what pleasure do I owe thee?" He spoke, using his most sarcastic tone which he reserved only for Mycroft.

"Dear Lord, you've taken your time. Avoiding me, are we?"

"Unlike you, I have a life beyond 6 o'clock," the detective sneered.

"Since when?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"My original call was to ask you if you've found anything more with regards to Moriarty; I did say I'd be calling every couple of days to check, you know."

"In answer to your original call, no I haven't," Sherlock replied, before asking "and this call?"

"Checking to see if you're still actually alive."

"You think I'm dead purely because I missed a call and didn't reply to a few text messages? You're as bad as Mummy."

From the bathroom, Irene called through to Sherlock, "who are you talking to?"

Mycroft sniggered, "well, goodness, found yourself another Janine? What information are you trying to acquire this time?"

"Hilarious," Sherlock uttered before hanging up on his brother. After jumping off of the bed, he went into the bathroom to help Irene pack up. It was a white marble room, spacious and elegant, and by the bath stood Irene who was collecting her soaps and shampoos. "Need any help?" He asked.

"I think I've got everything from in here now. Who was on the phone?"

"Mycroft. Wanted to know if I'd found anything new on Moriarty."

Irene nodded in understanding before leaving the bathroom to pack her toiletries. "Thank you for having me to stay with you, by the way. I am grateful," she called to Sherlock who still stood in the bathroom.

"It really is my pleasure," he smiled as he walked through to the bedroom.

Sherlock and Irene arrived at his home in Baker Street not long after 11 o'clock. The washing up had been done and left on the draining board, now completely dry, meaning John and Mary had been gone for at least an hour. The curtains were still open, indicating they had left before it got particularly dark, so they hadn't left long after Sherlock; probably just after seven. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed, so they wouldn't be disturbed by her. Mycroft now had no excuse to phone Sherlock as he'd already done so. The two of them had each other just to themselves.

Sherlock carried the suitcase with Irene's clothes in through to his room, unpacking them into his wardrobe after he had done so. The detective had concluded that it would be much too dangerous for her to stay alone in a hotel and so she should stay here, where he could always ensure her safety, for as long as she needed or wanted to. If this had have happened three years ago, despite their time together in Karachi, he would have thought it an altogether absurd idea. He had always been so proud and obsessed with 'winning' their game, even after it had stopped. After their time spent as ghosts, though, he had learnt to embrace a side of him which he had previously pushed out and ignored; his emotions. Irene had taught him so much with regards to being a better person, a good man.

After unpacking Irene's things, Sherlock walked back to the living room to find her sitting on the sofa with a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of her, with Nils Frahm's album Screws playing through the docking station. He took off his suit jacket, throwing it onto his armchair as he passed it, and stepped over to the Woman. "Chablis," he observed as he picked up the wine, "good choice," he poured a glass for them both before sitting beside her.

"I bought it in France just before I came to London. I must admit, though, I had forgotten that it's your favourite."

"I never told you it was my favourite."

Irene smiled, "you used to drink a whole bottle of it to yourself on a Saturday night. And you like to think you're not normal…"

Sherlock laughed and nodded. It was strange to think how much he had changed, perhaps even grown up, in the last three years. Whilst he was still completely ingenious and at times a little heartless, he had learnt how to laugh with people, how to enjoy the company of others, how to fall asleep on the sofa after drinking a little too much wine, how to be someone's friend. The latter was perhaps the most important; John had once described him as a "machine" but now he described him as his "best friend." Unlike so many others, this was a transformation which Sherlock wasn't too conceited for. Irene pulled her legs up onto the sofa and Sherlock put his arm around her, pulling her in as close as possible. He kissed her on the head before sipping his wine. He suddenly realised how much he had missed both being around Irene and having someone in else in Baker Street with him; this was the perfect solution. "How long are you going to stay for?" He uttered quietly, almost imperceptibly, over the music.

The Woman squeezed his free hand, "until you get bored of me."

They both knew full well that the reason they were so good together was because they couldn't possibly become bored of each other; they were both geniuses in their own rights, their minds working in constant competition. "Until you get bored of me" was their equivalent of "forever." Sherlock took another sip of his wine before placing it on the table in front of them, "this is our second bottle of wine this evening. Trying to get me drunk, Miss Adler?"

"The thought never even occurred to me," she smirked, also placing her wine on the table in front. Irene moved to sit on Sherlock and ran her fingers through his hair (she had quite an obsession with this particular feature). Pulling him forwards by his collar, she lightly brushed her lips against his own before kissing him. As she did so, the Woman slowly undid each of his shirt buttons, pulling his shirt off once she had finished. She pulled her lips away from Sherlock's and lightly placed kisses along his cheek, down is neck and along the top of his chest. She could feel the detectives pulse elevate as she kissed him and couldn't help but smile; if only his past-self could see him now, she thought.

Sherlock abruptly pulled himself away from Irene and, leaving his shirt on the floor by the sofa, picked her up. He carried her through to what was now their bedroom and placed her on the bed, leaning over to kiss her while he still stood. "I'll be back in a second, all right?" He whispered, before running through to the bathroom. This room was much cooler than the rest of the house which was ideal as Sherlock desperately needed a moment to cool down. He was getting nervous, a generally unfamiliar emotion to him, and he didn't want to make himself look stupid in front of Irene. It's had been over a year since they'd slept together and the Woman wasn't exactly 'easy to please', so to speak. He splashed his face with water before ruffling his hair and then proceeded to leave the bathroom.

As he stepped into their room he realised that he may be able to relax, after all; after only a few minutes of leaving her, Irene had fallen asleep. Her dress was folded on the floor beside the bed and she was wearing black and navy Stella McCartney underwear which Sherlock had bought for her last birthday they had spent together. In that moment, the Woman looked perfectly breath-taking. Sherlock quietly slipped off his trousers and climbed onto the bed next to her, curling up around her once he had laid down.

AN: Hello all! First off, thank you all for reading; I'm really thrilled that my story has been able to gain your interest and I hope it continues to do so. Regarding references to their time in Karachi and whilst 'dead', I like to think a little more than meets the eye happened between them, something which I'll go into more detail about in later chapters. Just so you can visualise the outfits and settings (replace the spaces with dots):

Irene's dress: images bergdorfgoodman com/ca/1/product_assets/B/2/F/R/M/BGB2FRM_mx jpg

The Landmark Hotel: landmarklondon co uk

Irene's underwear: media harveynichols com/catalog/product/cache/1/image/700x/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/p/4/p470792_navy_2_v1 jpg