A/N: Hi everyone! I'd like to thank nataliet9, pulseelevated, Sumikou27, and Ori for the putting the story in their Favorites (this early in the game! I'm honored), barus, bruderlein, SnowGirl098, LookI'mUpThere, pulseelevated, Sumikou27 and theuniqueartistictype for adding it to their Alerts, and of course floratang, nataliet9, pulseelevated and Ori for reviewing! It's wonderful to wake up to, let me tell you.

3/16/12: Just edited some typos. Move along!

Sherlock walked composedly up the stairs. If his home was being intruded, he might as well deal with it in a dignified manner. He reached the fifth floor and stopped at the top of the flight.

His door, 5A, was slightly open.

Whoever his "sister" was, she had already shown herself inside without the aid of a key.

Allowing himself to gather his thoughts, Sherlock scanned through all of his information. She was female. She supposedly knew him. She had the ability and the audacity to not only break into his room, but also to pick the lock to do so.

Sherlock looked again at his door, heavy-lidded. Of course.

He smoothed his hands over his coat, and walked towards 5A. As he reached for the doorknob, he could already smell it – iris and vanilla and a sharp mix of other scents. It was a fragrance called 24 Faubourg by Hermes. One of the most expensive perfumes in the world. The intruder had put it on right before she entered.

His last doubts fled. Sherlock lifted a hand to fix his hair and straighten his scarf slightly. He might as well look presentable for his guest. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was facing away from him, gazing out the window. Her hair was up in a neat, modest bun, and she was wrapped in a stylish gray tweed coat. She'd dug her hands into her pockets, unaccustomed to the frigidity of the unheated room. Her black pumps had made imprints into the ratty carpet of the apartment with every step she made.

On either side of her was a large leather traveling suitcase. Judging by her appearance she'd traveled a long, tiring distance, but by car.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," she answered, slyly retaliating with her lack of formality. Miss Adler turned her head and smiled. Her face was free of makeup save for her deep red lips. Her eyes glowed blue and devilish. Whatever weight and color she'd lost back in Karachi, she'd gained back gracefully. There was a natural blush to her cheeks. She glowed with life in all the ways Sherlock did not.

She was beautiful, as always. She was unwelcome, as always.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock, flatly.

"I'm admiring the view." She turned to look back out the window and crossed her arms, sighing. She was wearing black leather gloves. "It's oddly stunning for a city bay."

Sherlock stepped into the apartment and held the door open for her. "Please leave."

Irene turned around and raised an eyebrow. "So soon? But I've just arrived. What kind of hospitality is this to show to your 'sister'?"

Sherlock didn't move an inch. "Please. Leave."

Instead, the Woman took a seat in the sole chair of the apartment, all the while keeping her sweet smile on. "Wouldn't you like to know how I found you?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze to her, slightly less harsh. It was true. He was incredibly curious about how she'd found him here. His brain was aching for a challenge, an exercise. Slowly he closed the door, let go of the doorknob, and faced her completely, still in his coat and scarf.

"Alright, Miss Adler," he said, still guarded. "Let me guess."

"Oh, no, no, no, not yet," the Woman lifted a slender finger and wagged it as if she were playing a role in her work. "I won't hear any of your theories. I won't tell you if you're right or wrong. That will have to wait." Sherlock felt suddenly irritated, but he kept his expression stoic. The pair stood their places for a moment, simply staring at the other calmly.

In honesty, Sherlock wasn't all that calm within. His mind was racing, searching for explanations, trying to answer his question of how she'd managed to track him down. It was brilliant to think again. He felt obligated to thank Irene Adler for giving that back to him.

"Answer for me this, at least," he finally said to break the icy silence. "Why?"

Irene smiled a little wider. He could tell she'd been waiting for that word. She crossed her legs and allowed a luxurious view of half her right thigh. She took the leather glove of her left hand by its index finger and pulled it off, nice and slow. He could tell that she could tell that he'd been very bored, and had decided to put on a small show for him to watch. He watched without expression, unimpressed.

"I'm dead, and you're dead," Irene replied as she slipped off the glove on her right hand. "I supposed we could have our own little… support system."

"I don't need a 'support system'," hissed Sherlock. "Let alone a support system that may very well reveal my whereabouts to my enemies."

Irene was inspecting his pile of shirts under his desk, seemingly paying his scathing remarks no mind. "What a poor selection. Perhaps I'll buy you a few more this afternoon."

"Did you track where Mycroft was sending through the post office?" Sherlock suddenly had to ask. "Did you find that he was sending money to Montpellier, figured out that it was me living here, and tracked down the address?"

"Oh, Sherlock," sighed Irene. She was still ignoring his every word. "I never was able to thank you for saving me, back in Karachi."

"No, of course not," Sherlock scowled, his hard drive rolling back to the memory of that night. "I told you to run, and you did. I took care of the mess behind you. I'd planned it so we would never have to cross paths again. You would have been safe."

"You did a fantastic job." Irene gestured to herself grandly, showing that, yes, she was very much alive and safe. "And I thank you for that. The only bit I didn't like about your plan was the 'never have to cross paths again' portion. Why not, Sherlock? You're not thinking of saving me first, then suddenly abandoning me? Won't you let me stay here with you, if only for a little while?"

He knew she would avoid all of his questions. She was dodging them like a quick cat would a broom. That was so naturally and infuriatingly her. He whirled around and opened the door. "If you're staying here, then I'm leaving."

"Sherlock-" he heard her voice start, but he'd gone through the door before he could listen to any more of it. He threw his hands into his pockets stomped off towards the stairs, readying himself to take a walk – a very, very long walk – whatever was long enough to make her grow tired of waiting and leave him in peace.

As he left his doorway, he caught again that faint scent of iris and vanilla. She'd put on that scent just for me, he scoffed in his head. It was an odd thought, though, and he paused for a short moment just to think it again, in a softer way. She'd put on that scent just for me.

His hand in his pocket fumbled for his old, stained scarf and pulled it out. He stared at the blood marked on it, and remembered that day.

Sherlock had lost everything. Maybe, in this part of the world so far away from the friends and comforts he knew, he would allow himself at least a little something from his past? Even if that little something was a Woman whose supposed love for him actually made her a tiny bit dangerous?

Standing in the middle of the dim, musty hallway, Sherlock suddenly wondered if her "sentiment" for him was still the same.

Some indescribable force propelled him back towards 5A. He pulled open the door – in his rush to leave he luckily hadn't locked it closed – stopped once more in his tracks, and stared.

Miss Irene Adler had opened one of her expensive-looking suitcases and was now neatly laying her clothes beside Sherlock's own stacks of tops and pants. She was on her knees, and had kicked off her heels for a more comfortable position. She didn't seem to notice his re-entrance.

"What," asked Sherlock, sharply. "…do you think you are doing?"

She turned to face him once again and blinked, eyes wide and bright. "Why, I'm moving in. I won't be a burden. Don't worry. I brought money with me to help you with rent, and plenty of it. I promise to stay out of the way when you need me to, and to keep you company when you're lonely, but judging from what's happened so far this visit you won't feel that way very much."

"Irene-" Sherlock caught himself. "Miss Adler, you cannot stay with me."

"Sherlock," Irene retaliated, her gaze suddenly icy. "Yes I can."

He couldn't restrain himself. Sherlock matched over to her, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to face up at him. "What makes you think that?" he snarled. "What makes you think you can disturb me here?"

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, pulling her arm roughly out of his grasp. "You've no need to suspect me of anything. Moriarty's people do not know I'm alive, I can assure you. I no longer work for them." Something made her hesitate. The glow in her eyes dimmed. "I'm… on the run again. I'm sorry, darling. I've ruined everything you've done for me in Karachi."

Sherlock's hand dropped from its position. It dangled as he stared at her, bewildered. She continued, "I stayed away from England for a number of months, but then I missed it too much. I moved back in when I thought it was safe, under a new name. I suppose I wasn't careful enough. They found out I was still alive and they're after me again… I like this spot you've chosen. They're likely to search the rural areas, the countryside for hideaways, but you found a nice quiet place in a city. How smart of you, Sherlock."

She was trying to distract him through flattery. Obviously it wasn't working. He narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I'll help you?"

Irene looked to the floor for a moment, and looked back up at him. Some unidentifiable emotion wavered behind her wide eyes. She had a knack for being unreadable when she needed to be. "Well, you did last time, didn't you?"

Sherlock lingered over her for a long, long time, and then stepped away and sat on his bed, staring at the wall. "Two weeks. That's all I'll permit you. You have two weeks to arrange for another place to hide. After that, you leave."

That glowing smile returned to Irene's face. She got to her feet, bent over and planted a quick kiss in Sherlock's cheek. He jerked away slightly, having no more charity to give her an appropriate response to such an action.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said sweetly. She dipped her feet back into her black pumps. "You look so weak and pale and terrible. I'll go out and buy something, and then we can have dinner." She smirked with triumph when his eyes darted up to her, suspicious. "Real dinner. Don't be so excited, love."

The next several hours were strange and horrible. Irene returned much later, in the evening, with some take-out from a "nice Italian restaurant two streets away": a plate of pasta Bolognese that he ate only a forkful of. She made him some tea with one of the expensive brands she'd stashed away from her last time in England, though she kept quiet about when exactly that was. They smelled of London and of home. Sherlock couldn't help but finish his own, but he made sure to do it slowly so as to not give her the pride of seeing him crumble just for a cup of tea.

He allowed her to take her shower first. When she stepped out, she had her wet, tangled hair down and a silky black bathrobe that wasn't very well-tied, though he figured that was intentional. He paid her little mind and went in to take his own shower. It still smelled of her shampoo. Sherlock turned the water to its hottest and let his physical and mental exhaustion wash away.

When he came out in his blue pajamas, she was already lying in the narrow, one-person bed, her arm propped up to let her head rest on a hand, her silk robe practically dripping from her legs and shoulders.

"Do you intend for me to sleep on the floor?" he asked coldly.

Irene laughed sultrily. She moved to one side of the bed and patted the tiny space beside her. He didn't move, and Irene rolled her eyes. "I won't do anything to you, darling. Come, we both need a comfortable bed tonight. Come here."

It was true. Without the warm blanket that the modest little bed provided him, Sherlock would spend the entire night shivering on the rough carpet. Slowly he walked to the bed, lifted the soft white blanket and settled in, facing the wall. There was so little space for the two of them that he could almost feel Irene's face in his hair, her soft breath finding its way through and tickling his skin.

"Good night, Miss Adler," he said flatly, closing his eyes.

"Good night, Sherlock."

For a long time, Sherlock said nothing, and he spent the next hour pretending to be asleep.

For the entirety of that hour, he could feel Irene Adler's fingers resting on his back, stroking, touching lightly and tentatively.

After that, she finally gave up, and he heard her roll her body to face the other wall.

He suddenly felt cold, and alone.